My last Thursday class is over - my class-week is over.

Looking back at the science building we’d just left,
the hallway looked dark, like the throat of an animal,
the people snaked out like a tongue, the archway
seemed like a mouth - I shivered and looked away.

Lisa laughed, and my senses returned to reality.

The clouds on high, hung like fresh linens on a line
being dried by the sun in its Egyptian-blue heaven.

The air smelled rich, clean and ionized and ever
the inventive stylist, it periodically rearranged my hair.

Leaves rustled, sounding like a buzz of conversation,
as they rushed from place to place, as if late to class.

The breeze was working hard, in jerky flourishes,
like the strokes of an indecisive artist.

The afternoon seemed as bright and brash as a shout    
as if it wanted, no demanded, our emotional attention
and I gave it, smilingly, ready for the weekend.

My Astrologer, ‘*** and Love’ horoscope, for Halloween, is grim and on-trend for me.
(Libra) “Get ready to take some chill-time - give yourself the space to recover. People pleasing is out, boundaries are in!” Yeah, I’m like Texas, I have unsecure boundaries.

Sure, I KNOW horoscopes are horoscopes but while other signs get unicorns & puppies:
Aries: “Use your deepest desires to please yourself, step into your power.”
Gemini: “Your curious and bubbly nature shines, shoot your shot for that special someone!”
Cancer: “Be at home in your feels, your needs & emotional expressions are valued, go deeper.”

I’m getting “**** it up buttercup,” thanks universe - what did I ever do to you?

We’ve been scanning the teen magazine fall looks, “We’re living in a bold era, a time of expression!” They declare, which means dramatic-metallic eyeliners, goth grunge, bold reds and Beyoncé’s “Renaissance silvers.” Luckily, Yale’s pretty low fashion environment, because seasonal changes are a lot to keep up with.

I love Autumn, with its colorful leaves, pumpkin lattes and colder nights, but coming from the south (in ‘21), I had no idea how badly heated air could dry out my skin and hair (freshie year, my thumb literally started to crack, like a plastic Barbie). In the spirit of fall fashion and maintenance, my entire crew made an Ulta store run this morning for hair masks, detox tonics and skin moisturizers - we’re ready, bring on the cold.

The best smelling places on earth are Ulta and Yankee Candle stores. In my religion, heaven smells like Starbucks in the morning, Chick-fil-A around noon and Ulta stores as the sun goes down and things turn dreamy and romantic.

I'm in line at a store, and I'm bored,
Typing on my phone, restless and alone.

I’ve got light-blue nails, like the sky or your eyes.
I like them, it’s my favorite color - don’t know why.

I’m buying flavors for my coffee, nutmeg and pumpkin spice.
I like having coffee in the morning, when it’s cold, they’ll taste nice.

There’s a really old lady at the check-out, she’s moving very slowly.
She’s paying with cash and coin, from a pouch, counting carefully.

She’s frail and reminds me of my Grandmère, with her white hair,
her sturdy shoes, I want to pick her up and hug her - but laissez-faire.

When my turn came, I waved my Apple watch over the pay terminal
- it’s fast and contactless - like the whole modern world.

Does anyone hug old ladies anymore?

In numerology twelve has special meanings - they’re twelve days of Christmas, twelve months in a year, and Taylor Swift’s had twelve number-one albums. All we care about at Yale, are the twelve days until Thanksgiving break. This semester has seemed as long as waiting in line at the DMV, or holding one's breath under water.

My roommates and I are like family, heck, we spent last summer together. The combinatorics of eight girls bonding as tightly as we have are redorkulous. We’re not Disney-family, of course, at times there seem to be too many noisy, unruly, competitive and occasionally combative kids in the car and university life has its unforgiving undercurrents too.

Success can seem fleeting, to students at the top levels academically - as fleeting as the last quiz - and in this environment, where every paper is expected to be unique and brilliant, the stresses are multiplied. We’ve been told, since we were six, how important grades are, we’ve slaved tirelessly to master our numbers and letters and we’re continuously and rigorously evaluated, as we ascend our various academic ladders.

All the while, ticking and bomb-like, is the knowledge that there are only ‘X’ number of seats in med-schools, law-colleges and associates hired on wall street. The result is, we can be wounded, deeply, by a red pencil mark or the most casual, conversational inflection of a professor.

We’re told that there are general subjects to avoid - like money and religion - I’d add grades to that list. While there’s nothing like the euphoria and pride that comes from being effective, the truth is, universities are elaborate competitions where winners, losers and future opportunities turn, to a large degree, on grades.

I’m in my dorm-room, hunched over my laptop like a miser counting her gold. I’m going over my grade spreadsheet and giggling, quietly, with delight. Lisa comes up behind me, like a ninja, “What are you giggling about?” she asks, leaning over my shoulder to see my laptop.

I jumped, guiltily, like a teenager caught surfing ****, and pressed the screen-lock button, in mindless reflex. “JeeSUS!” I gasped, turning towards her in laughing irritation, “don’t DO that!”
“Oh,” she said, “you HAVE to show me now,” moving in even closer.

I unlocked the display with a sigh and my fingerprint. She scooped up my laptop - not waiting for permission or explanations. Her eyes swept the spreadsheet like a bitcoin miner and after a second, she asked, “You made this?”

“Yeah,” I said, with pride, adding, “‘Melon’ helped,” (lest I lie and take all the credit). Melon’s an ex-roommate of my bf who’s got several PhDs in math (One in ‘computational mathematics’, a second in ‘mathematical modeling’ and he’s working on a third in ‘decision sciences').
“Clean,” she said, scrolling it up and down and chewing on her bottom lip. “Why were you hiding it?” She asked, handing the computer back.
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “grades can be radioactive.”
She nodded, understanding and asked, “Can I get a copy?”
“Sure,” I said, saving it and forwarding a copy to her. The little Mac made a ‘whoop’ sound.

Roommates should share everything.

It was 29° (f) degrees this morning with a waning gibbous (¾) moon. Still, as we started our run, it was dark enough that the world was rendered in black and white. Lisa was a sepia print of herself while Charles was a large, quiet shadow, a dark visual noise pattern.

We usually jog from our dorm, down to and along New Haven Harbor and back. Lisa and I love the ocean. The wind was in our faces this morning and there were no sparkling moon refractions in our direction, which made the water musou and colorless.

I’ve gotten my outfit down to a science, leggings under shorts, four long sleeve, dry-wicking spandex tops (layering is important), a power-wool-earflap-beanie, thermal neck gaiter and quantum, icebreaker gloves (with touch-screen compatibility) - you gotta dress warmly but be able to shed layers as needed.

I listen to audiobooks while we run. Right now I’m on book 5 of the ‘The Expanse’ series. I don’t have time to read anything fun these days, so I listen to science-fiction/fantasy while I workout. I love the new AirPod Pro feature that automatically turns the sound down if anyone talks.

I wear a fitbit charge around my right ankle and my Apple watch as well - they both track my run - the fitbit is more accurate but my watch sends my workout stats to my siblings - we’re uhh, sort of competitive.

At first, as we came up on the harbor, it was impossible to see the intersection of the two dark oceans - the great terrestrial and the greater galactic - but as we turned for home, there was an atmospheric scatter of blue at the edge of the horizon, heralding the sunrise on our retreating backs.

musou = one of the darkest shades of black

Thrice about the cauldron go
and answer me, if it be known.

Untie the words and give them form,
dissect the ingredients of ******’s charm.

A new tradition has traction gained,
a tradition of alienated masculine pain.

Where insults demand their due in blood,
in schools, stores and quiet neighborhoods.

Lisa and I had been watching some boys strut about, as they played soccer, in their little shorts, in the freezing cold. It’s an old animal story.

The game ended, or it was intermission and about twenty guys came streaming into the cafeteria, their cleats sounding like a hundred keyboards clacking all at once.

They were laughing, joking and pushing each other around with rowdy, coiled, unexpended kinetic energy. They were scoping-out the area too, almost subconsciously, like their bronze man ancestors surveying the grassy savannas for threat.

As they strolled in, Lisa and I exchanged looks. Eye-contact can be its own form of complicated language. “Welcome to the monkey-house” we thought, rolling our eyes.

I recognized one of the guys, from a shared chemistry class. He’s tall, slim and lanky, with chin length blonde hair tucked behind his ears and a bit of ****** stubble. Ethan, Adam? I couldn’t remember.

“One’s coming over,” Lisa said, turning a little away and sipping her coffee.
“Morning!” he said, with his winning smile. “What'd you think of that test?” He said, putting one hand in his pocket like a model and making the most disarming eye contact.
“Hard,” I said, with a shrug, Lisa was giving him an appraising look from behind her blonde curtain of hair.
“Aww, come on,” he said, with an aw-shucks grin that looked like something from a Brad Pitt movie. When was the last time I saw Peter - my hypothalamus seemed to ask me with an electric tingle.

There’s something rickety and flexible about resolutions, they melt, like ice cream in the right heat - like the warmth of a look, or the thermal rush of a provocative thought. Impure thoughts are like excited molecules, they bubble, and mine were suddenly on the edge of boiling. I hadn’t expected it, I didn’t trust it, but I liked it. I reached out for my coffee and looked down as I felt myself blush.

Our conversation had lasted long enough to draw the curious attention of a couple of the other guys who came to jostle and crowd Ethan-Adam’s game. “Woah!” one of them said, looking at Lisa. “When you walk in a building, do the sprinklers go off?” The other newbie laughed. Lisa waved the complement away, unsmiling, like an annoying and meaningless buzz.

“All right, all right,” Ethan-Adam said, with a grimacing grin, turning and corralling the other two guys away from the table with outstretched arms. “See ya,” he said, looking back over his shoulder with a “sorry about that,” nod.

“Who was THAT?” Lisa asked, almost admiringly.
“I’m not sure,” I said, trying to remember the rollcall, “Ethan.. Adam.. one of those.”