I am a student in Paris, a med-school freshman, one of the crowd.
This week is all introductions, orientation functions and instructions.
“Settle in, get your books, parking passes and find your classes.”
I got my ID - I’m a Vip in the bourgeoisie - does that look like me?

Freshmen join a ‘buddy program’ so things seem less hostile
I met my buddy last week, she’s the consummate boss - effortlessly busy.
She’s got my folder (oh my), full of check-lists. I’ve yet to see her smile.
She’s a third year, from Chamonix, a town in the jagged Alps, near Italy.

If you want me, right after classes, I’ll be at Les Deux Parisiens,
a shaded coffee shop across from school that feels like a garden.
They have everything - from coffee to pizza and martinis - it’s awesome.
For 17€ : try the ‘La Campione,’ pizza with beef and chorizo (sausage)

I am a student in the misty rain, stepping carefully on cobblestones
- they pool water geometrically - I’m heading home (6 Av.) walking alone.
Nothing’s still, classes end at noon - it’s the city, sidewalk’s are full, Ubers uber, mopeds mope, bikers bike, people scatter, umbrellaless commuters.

I haven’t made any new friends yet - I’m not worried - I’m just beginning.
.
.
Songs for this:
Day Tripper by MonaLisa Twins
Café Europa by Quadro Nuevo
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone [E]
Robinson Crusoe by Art of Noise

The labouring art of poetry
is in true sense, senseless.

It corrupts judgment, strains credit
and prostitutes' self-esteem.

**** the unhappy day you start it.
.
.
A song for this:
This Place Hotel (a.k.a. Heartbreak Hotel) by The Jacksons

Quick break-up Senryus.
Pick one to quickly, cut that
relationship cord:

I'm sorry, What'd you say?
I can't hear you (confused look)
- we’re breaking up.

You’re the guy that
every girl at our school wants
- it's their lucky day.

It's time that we took
our relationship to the
previous level.

I still cherish the
initial misconceptions
I had about you.
.
.
Songs for this:
Love on the Rocks by Lizzie Mintz
Lovefool by The Cardigans
Nothing Can Stop Us by Saint Etienne
Forever by X-Cetra

None of the guys
ever asked me out
they teased me
or just froze me out

I wasn’t stuck up
I was shy
I came from China
that is why

I didn’t know the styles and trends
or even where I should begin
there wasn’t much that I could say
I never talked much anyway..

so I sat there
and read

I was an incredibly
epic fail

To all the guys
who called me names
that tagged my locker
and tried to shame me

I wasn’t snooty
I was shy
I’d just come from China
that’s the why

I didn’t know the styles and trends
that let a new girl fit in
I’d never even used the Internet
I was as lost-in sauce as a girl gets..

so I sat there
and read

Which eventually
got me into Yale.
.
.
Songs for this:
*Conversation by X-Cetra
Simply Couldn't Care by Tracey Thorn
Human Behaviour by Björk

The day was long and greedily waited,
in near unspoken secret - like a thing
delightfully and enchantingly wicked.

We are reunited - simpatico - my love, lover and I.
We ravish each other and lavish each other
with flattery, endearments and entire pleasure.

We live sweet centuries in those tight hours.

Happiness changes the tenor of things.
Rains of feeling combine in torrents,
like the tinkling notes of a harp make symphony.

Our minutest nerves are instruments of joy.

Mornings start with exquisite excitement and
the dense reel and stagger of intoxication -
because we’re drunk with the fullness of life.

Leaves on trees called chestnut, linden and hazel, stir
gently in the breeze - those faint shoos and rustles, times
nature’s fractal design - blare, in effect, like terrific trumpets.

At night, as we walk together under cooling summer skies,
the stars in the far-flung firmaments, seem to huddle together
and whisper, like sisters, of life and the mysteries of earthy love.

We are the dust of those constellations - are we but spies?
.
.
Songs for this:
Thank You My Angel by Over the Rhine
Perfect Day by Povo
Goodbye Sunday by Everything But the Girl

Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.

We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘penised privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.

She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.

Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.

I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.

Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.

I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.

My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan

I hadn’t thought about it much.
Uptime.
But uptime is important
and not just with lovers.
.
.
A song for this:
golden hour by JVKE

I should’ve had a hedonistic summer, a roundup of long, sun-kissed days and even longer, undulant, kissing nights.

There are no riviera pics this year - set against the blow-out backdrop of Saint Tropez or Heraclee - with their sunlit-deliriums, cracked plaster beach bars, aromatic trailing Jasmine, lavender, umbrella pines and baking Socca.

No nights of dense, optimistic nihilism on neon-painted open-air dancefloors, or gritty, underground raves, in dark, brick-clad, light-strobed basements.

And no timeless, sun-drenched, beachside early mornings, with their moments of stillness, beauty and reprieve.

Summer feels can’t be vicarious - you have to get out there and get *****, hmm, sandy anyway. Are there ethical implications to basking under a climate-crisis sun? Maybe, but if so, do we care?

Let’s wax poetic..

Summertime often sees us jetting off to different places.

If I could travel anywhere
let it be outer-space
not floating in darkness,
for years and years
let’s find a better way.

I’ve traveled to the moon
- on a little friction -
that isn’t even science fiction.

I’ve traveled simply by turning pages.
It didn’t take fuel and it didn’t take ages.

That was travel at the speed of thought,
but better yet, let’s travel at the speed of sight
- that’s faster than light.
.
.
Songs for this:
Relationships by HAIM
Summer Sun by Koop
Summer Girl (Bonus Track) by HAIM

Suddenly, the 502s were back
those unexpected disconnects
that make posting whack
and my nerves a wreck

Like blank spots in time
that made me backtrack
unable to use rhymes
I felt trapped and  highjacked

Did the server choke on a bone?
Was 5G stalling me, wordless and postponed?
Did the firewall collapse, did DNS lapse?
Was it my laptop, was it my phone?

People watched me, on the metro,
as I frowned and moaned at my useless iPhone.
The issues seemed flagrant, I was becoming impatient
Was I some kind of nut? I was showing emotion.
We don’t DO that in Paris - have public implosions.

Did it happen to you?
Or was I one of a few.
What were the chances
that it only happened to poets in France?
.
.
Song for this:
Alone Again (Naturally) by Gilbert O'Sullivan
La Vie en Rose by Allison Adams Tucker

The last three weeks have been a seemingly endless series of welcome parties, get-togethers, receptions, meet-and-greets and cocktail parties - every kind of cheesy or ostentatious soirée my Grandmère can throw together, she’s dragged me to. It’s hard to match her energy.

“You have to meet people,” she insists, “and they have to meet YOU.”
“And why?” I asked, eloquently, but there’s no use resisting - she’s tireless.

The Prime Minister of France - met him. The mayor of Paris, met him, the CEOs of Paribas, L’Oréal, TotalEnergies, AXA, met them, the ministers of the economy, interior and foreign affairs - met ‘em. The US ambassador to France, met him.

In the play “My Fair Lady,” Eliza, meeting people frantically at the races, repeats “How do you do,” over and over and over to great comedic effect. That’s how I feel at these parties, “Enchanté, enchanté, enchanté, enchanté, enchanté.” I say, turning in circles. I’ve met Emmanuel Macron before, but I’m sure I’ll be seeing him again soon. I haven’t met his wife though - I’d love to ask her about that slap.. hhmm.

At these events she’s made sure that I’ve met anyone who’s anyone at Université Paris Cité. Is that surprising? No, because that’s how crazy-lady operates. “You meet everyone, eye-to-eye,” she lectures, “you have to get out of your bubble, and experience the world as interesting,”

That’s her favorite saying these days. “I don’t HAVE a bubble,” I replied, defensively, but she’s left the room - she’s never still. She seems to know we’re on the clock, that once med-school starts, (in September) I’m going to be all about that.

It’s Monday morning. I’ve been at the Shangri-La hotel pool, where we have full privileges, and I’m coated, like a potato, head to foot, with SPF 50 sunscreen - when who shows up?
Peter (my bf). “You’re early!” I say, not at all displeased, but I’m SO conscious of my tacky skin and chemical smell that I face-palm him as he comes in for a snog.
EEuuww. I can’t make-out with a guy when I’m all greased up.
“5 minutes,” I assured him, heading for the shower.
“I’ll join you,” he offered.
“Well, ok,” I chuckle.
.
.
Songs for this:
Better Days by NEIKED, Mae Muller & Polo G
This Girl by Kungs & Cookin' On 3 Burners
Cake By The Ocean by DNCE  [E]

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks in Paris settling in. My every appliance, gadget and charger have been bricked by the weird, French electricity, which bobs when it should weave or something - but you still can’t stick a fork in the sockets.

I’ve also been meandering the right bank* arrondissements for fashions. Students at Université Paris Cité, in the everyday, dress more chicly and elegantly than Yalies or nerdy Harvard ‘barneys.’

I’ve noticed a lot of Asian, selfie-taking tourists in Paris. They come in like waves of invaders as the river-cruises dock. Now, anyone that’s known me for some time, will tell you that my friends and I’ve been taking selfies for decades.

Just not in the middle of the street or with total strangers trying to relax on crisp, cool, early summer morning, while sipping an espresso hangover cure. Was COVID deadly? Well, it certainly killed off the last etiquettes that separated us from the animals.

I’m not anti-tourist - nope -  I just moved back here myself - but these smiling, terribly polite, middle-aged people, think nothing of stopping someone abruptly in the street to ask directions, in a foreign language - as if they’re at Tokyo-Disneyland where the locals are cast members simulating real life.

Would you expect anyone on a busy, work-a-day Manhattan street to happily stop and converse? Not a chance. Women would recoil like snakes and the men would dodge like O.J Simpson or shoulder you to the ground. Still, they call Parisians rude.

I am becoming more serpentine and evasive as I shop, as-if I were a spy in occupied territory. Charles and I form a one-man phalanx, with me following in his wake, like a dolphin trailing along a great ship.

They may need to put up signage, like, “Look (at the locals) but don’t touch,” but in what language?

Let’s wax free-versely… freever-ishly?

It’s a pleasure to walk the banks
of the dark, reflective Saine again.
and watch the warm, evenings for
the first cool stirrings of fall.

Once you’ve visited Paris, it stays with you.
Nothing’s simple here, not the moonlight,
the serene european atmosphere or
the better-than-you sense of right and wrong.

I’m young in a very old city.
I like dessert crawls, and “rock’n’roll clubs.”
Hemingway wrote, that
‘‘You receive in return what you bring to Paris.’

That’s probably not an exact quote.
but I think that’s where they got “What happens in Vegas.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Come to Me by Koop
Leena by Caravan Palace
Right Now by The Creatures

I’ve met a couple of second-year med students.
I thought I was organized but apparently, I’ve just scratched the surface.
Everyone uses Google calendar “GCal” - for EVERYTHING,
and I’ve seen it, their days are packed - bye-bye ‘free time.’

Want to grab lunch, hang-out or even hook-up with someone?
Check their GCal and send them an invite.

(poem time!)..

GCal flex 💻✨

I got the word 💬 At first 🎬 I was lowkey sus 🤨
could it be thus ⁉️ but they offered proof 💯

GCal 💻 runs 🏃🏼‍♀️‍➡️the superiority complex 🏫
everyone keeps-it-g 💻✨connectedly 👭

AI puts our schedule 📆🕰️ in GCal 💻 form,
so right away ⛗ 🏁, we’re ½ 🌓 way home 🏠

The typical school day = 12 hrs 📅
Save your brain, let GCal 💻✨be 🐝 the boss 🧠➡️💤

Sleep 😴, snacks 🍕, 5-mi walk 🚶♀️— got it on lock 🔒
No wingin’ it 🚫, just colored blocks ⬛️ all on the clock 🕒

So, freshie AV 👩🎓 will get a ping 📱— “Come chill?” 🛋️
I’ll click yes ✔️, cause it’s just the drill 🔬

“Share lunch?” 🍽️ Invite sent ✉️
Netflix and chill 🍿? Event alert! 🚨

Invite a romantic move 💌 “Hook up?” 11:30 PM 🪛🌙
You never ♾️ know, he 💁‍♂️/she 💁‍♀️ might accept 🔩 ☔

Maybe GCal  💻 love is 💔 or lit 🔥, but dating’s doomed 💀,
in the calculus of m-school scheduling 🗓️🙅♀️, so just move 🚛 on

In med-school ​​📚, we’re like a team 🖇️, we need to be tight 🗜️,
we’re all 👥 on the clock ⏰, and nothing 🫙 can be left to chance 🎲.
.
.
Songs for this:
Closer (feat. Halsey) by The Chainsmokers
I Ain't Worried by OneRepublic
Levitating (feat. DaBaby) by Dua Lipa
Calendar by Paris Combo

How distant do you feel from our ideal life,
and how hard are you willing to go, to get there?
You’ve got to pull a big swing sometimes, to get there, you know?
You’ll flourish in the aftermath.
What I’m carrying is joy.

Notes for an American student in Paris..

Be less intense
tone it down
pullback.

Enough scrappiness, hustle,
and intensity on repeat.

Sure, honesty is sanity,
but give them a better version
some ‘church girl’ energy, maybe.
win ‘em with winsome

Don’t welcome them, immediately, into your tense, inner world.
.
.
Songs for this:
Oh Honey! (I Love You) by Peach Tree Rascals
Nothing Breaks Like a Heart (feat. Miley Cyrus) by Mark Ronson
Tear Off Your Own Head (It's A Doll Revolution) by The Bangles

(a throwback poem from High school)

I'm the most popular girl in my homeroom.
Of course, that's my own bedroom -
cause we're on COVID lockdown, zoom.

My bedroom is the math class, which doubles as the gym,
it triples as the theater - you should see the shows I'm in.

They're only in my mirror, so my cats get free admission.
My sudden popularity's due, to a matter of attrition.

If I play my cards right, I can probably be prom queen
I'll hold the ceremony in the garden, so the travesty goes unseen.

It’s a little complicated - what isn’t? But my plans have changed (again).
Under some pressure - but not really - I was able to switch schools.
From Johns Hopkins university to the Université Paris Cité.
No doubt, the Hopkins acceptance helped.
It’s like when you have a boyfriend - how the other boys suddenly find you more attractive?

There was a comment someone made here, SbySW, I think - he said,
“No more early jogs in Baltimore,” (as in danger-city) and that was a tumbler for me - I started checking and, yeah, Baltimore is very.. Baltimore-ish. Then my little mind started grinding.

‘If I’m already switching schools and since Peter (my bf) is still ‘stuck’ in Geneva.. Isn’t Paris closer?
TRIGGER WARNING  
So, here’s where the 'nepo baby' magic happens.
I called my Grandmère. ring.ring
“Umm, I’m thinking the Université Paris Cité might be better than Baltimore.. Is that CrAzY?”
After a moment's silence, Grandmère said,
“Can you forward me your Hopkins acceptance letter?”

And thirty minutes later (9pm Paris time, mind you), I got a call from Université Paris Cité admissions. I’m in. The program starts September 1st.
Then François, one of my Grandmère’s corporate minions called and said:
"Johns Hopkins appreciated the quick notice.
The movers will be there, for you and Charles @ 9am tomorrow morning.
Your flight (to Paris) leaves @ 9:22pm tomorrow night..
Your TSA PreChecks, and Global Entry passes are complete.
I mailed you your flight passes and "Imagine'R" (unlimited Paris travel) cards. A car will be waiting when you arrive.”
François doesn't mess around.

I looked at my watch, it was 2:45 in the afternoon.
****, I need to tell Charles we're moving to Paris tomorrow.

Yes, I exist in a charmed circle - if you discount the contentiousness of the choice - my Mom’s now mad at me and my sister’s not too happy 
- I’m totes charmed.
Of course, the Hopkins acceptance (and the full-ride scholarship I declined) will now pass on to another lucky student.

Sometimes what you want
is lurking in the shadows
just out of reach - do you dare disclose it -
risk exposing it, when some might oppose it?

The bible says “Ask and you shall receive.”
In real life, that may require more than belief,
if your secret wishes, you are to achieve.
.
.
Songs for this:
Give Paris One More Chance by Jonathan Richman & The Modern Lovers
The Paris Match (feat. Tracey Thorn) by The Style Council
Nostalgie Du Voyage by Tape Five

This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped, which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.

I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.

I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.

I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem

Here at our rooftop, collegiate, ‘resort of the mind,’
an early heatwave has struck - we’ve been advised.
Like we needed it. It’s 94°f and climbing - we’re not insensitive.
We’re aware that the sun is bright and the air is crisp and hot.
It was Friday morning, until the sun pointed to noon.

Nothing’s going to stop the summer swelter except thunder storms - which are on their way - we’ve been advised.
A seasonable tempest is being piped-up from the sea.
Like we needed it. We can see the far horizon’s shadowed billows and curtains of rain - we feel the changing wind.

But we have every reason to be cheery, forewarned as we are,
here at the pool, in the still needed shade, armed with margaritas.
The weather may change, the season alter, but we will, unaltered, remain.

We seem to have captured a moment of buz. People are swinging-by, dropping-in, bringing drinks and party snacks then lurking by the pool.

Fridays are 'sui generis'—magical—because they play tricks with time. Dreary weekday landscapes seem to transform, as the old week wanes and ‘the pert and nimble spirit of mirth awakens.’
(A purposeful Shakespeare misquote).
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Heatwave by Bronski Beat
Heat wave - Bing Crosby

Nicotine is making a comeback
analog cigarettes are making a comeback
so many students are nicotine positive.

Every girl has Zyn by her drink at the bar
which used to be seen as a BRO-y vibe.
I’m not taking a view, I’m unbothered by it.

because

I’m hooked as well - I might as well admit it.
I’m into placebos these days and and I’m abjectly
rendered dumb by their unspeakable pleasures.

I went to an acapella concert last night and ***!
I was mollywhopped (knocked out).
.
.
Acapella songs for this:
They - The Harvard-Radcliffe Veritones
Finesse (Remix) by The SoCal VoCals
Viva La Vida by Buffalo Chips
24k Magic by Acasola
.
....
Trump has everyone quivering
he cornholed those cowards at CBS
but you know who ain’t backing down?
South Park. I LOVE those guys.
Trigger warning. This is EXPLICIT and hilarious.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Afetnw70S04
...

When I’m not tapped into a music stream.

I like quiet
no - let’s be exact,
I like silence
ear plugs in - deafening quiet
or better yet, noise cancelled anti-sound
That’s relatively new technology
My mom mentioned new studies suggest it may rewire things
gray matter wise, you know, behind the eyes
like the patterns sound forms in sand.

But if you’re going to scramble my mind
your going to have to wait in line behind
bland 21-year-old issues like:
sleep deprivation
hormonal fluctuations
romantic fog
case study competitions
business model design games (REALGAME)
deductive logic puzzles
irritability and mood swings
mental bandwidth anxiety
cognitive confusion
information overload
assignment stress
premenstrual syndrome
compulsive coping mechanisms
career anxiety
****** frustration
multitasking shifts (schedule)
canon events (existential dilemmas)
culture shock (new environment)
feeling “scrambled”
family pressures

So, yeah. let’s fn Jettison headphone worries - MOM - shall we??!
.
.
Right Now by The Creatures
A Girl In Trouble (Is a Temporary Thing) by Romeo Void
Your Turn to Run by Malaria!

(In answer to Mister Truth's poem:
"https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5117352/my-poetic-slice-for-anais-is-she-really-a-true-lover-of-the-tasty­-italian-triangle/"  because he mused me.)

I'm not just going to analyze pizza,
Or simply strategize about pizza.
I'll romanticize, evangelize and tantalize with pizza.
Because, honestly, I actually fantasize about pizza.

Papa Johns, Pizza Hut, Dominoes
Euuw, please, none of those

Garlic Crust? That’s a must.
Parmesan? Bring it on.
Anchovies? None for me.

What about cheese in the crust?
The whole idea leaves me nonplussed.

Ham and pineapple - that's just satire.

I say, “spare garlic and spoil the vampire.”
If that makes me hard to kiss - tight juju - I embrace my bliss.

Sausage or pepperoni, That's your question?
Put 'em together! That's my suggestion.

A simple cheese pizza has a timeless cachet,
but sometimes I take my pizza all the way.

And yes, I’ll still respect them the next day.
What? You put it in the microwave?
“Ok, you - be on your way!”

ring ring What, you’ve got pizza leftovers?
Ooo, baby, unlock the door, I’ll be right over!
.
.
matters of the heart by lovlaine
Overthinking IT by WILLOW

I have a confession to make. I’m a trust fund baby
and a member of the educated Elite.

In my defense, I'm a newcomer in both categories.
I got my trust fund at 18 and graduated Yale University this year.

I was a double major, at university, in biochemistry and celibacy,
until as a sophomore, I met this tall, handsome, awkward, disheveled, physicist in a coffee shop and knavishly schemed my way into his life.
(He insists that he knavishly schemed his way into my life.)

Let’s get poetic-ish..

I said,
“Let’s start a flirtationship
abstract, immaterial and fun.
We have a little chemistry - an interesting.. tension.
Could we just have an involvement and not read into it?
Something  friction free, hands free, germ free, and guilt free?
Let's get a pizza, don't worry, I'm paying."

Of course, that was a lie.
I had designs, I wanted him in the utmost
and honestly, when do I not get what I want?

"I was by far the knavishist." I admitted.
"Then you don't know knavishEST.," he responded, shaking his head 'no'.
.
.
songs for this:
Honeypie by JAWNY
Really Saying Something by Bananarama & Fun Boy Three
Hanging On the Telephone by Blondie

The quicksilver moon’s not secure in her orbit.
I’ve heard that she’s slyly slipping away,
One and a half inches yearly
so a little bit every day.

I, for one, want her to stay.
‘Oh meritorious silver sister, you have no dark side,
and I’ve grown used to your capricious light,
Why do you only hover at night?”

I think of her as my own
though she wears no ring
like that showy trollop Saturn
Our moon has a higher engagement pattern.

She’s a spectacle for moon-inspired dances
and a cupid for nocturnal animalistic romances.
Have you noticed that sometimes she’s dark
and sometimes she’s bright?

What turns her on?
What turns her off?
That’s always the question with ladies,
isn’t it?
.
.
Songs for this:
Dancing In The Moonlight (feat. NEIMY) by Jubël
Fly Me to the Moon (feat. Izzie Naylor) Shoby
Moonlight Becomes You by Jeff Haislip

We’re frantically typing to finish our assignments
and end our Friday night homework confinement.
Chella wants to go to a frat-house soirée
I went to a few of those, back in the day.

No more frat parties, I once emphatically said.
I make rules for myself, usually based on emotion
but once I calm down, rules are made to be broken,
and, it’s good, I suppose, to stay in touch with the kids

Chella does this a lot, finds a hot trendy spot,
and drags me along, enthusiastically or not.
She’ll attempt, and fail, to do a Keg stand.
That’s ok, we’re not athletes, I understand.

We’re just having fun with it, hitting a beat good,
fugitives from the rough passage to adulthood
We feel like old ladies now - it's hilarious.
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Mini playlist for this:
Pon de Replay by Rihanna
Little Things x Gypsy Woman (L BEATS MASHUP) by Jorja Smith
Can't Feel My Face by The Weeknd
Summertime by DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince
More Than A Woman (SG's Paradise Edit) by Bee Gees & SG Lewis

The home where Chella grew up, in the ghetto of Liberty City Florida, had beige carpets so old that pieces of the tuft and twirl would come out of the backing under-foot.
The  apartment window shades were white floral plastic rectangles cut from an old shower curtain.
She shared a bedroom with two younger siblings and the overhead lights were naked light bulbs.

she grew up in the a noisome ghetto of Liberty City Florida
she never knew her dad
she won’t talk about her mom
she hated the flaw of things
nothing worked, not the dishwasher
or the air conditioner they couldn't afford to run.
There was no wi-fi for the no computer
Her mother worked two or sometimes three part-time jobs
They added rice to hamburger-helper to stretch it.
Maybe you got a pair of shoes for Christmas and chicken, not turkey.
They were poor, used clothes poor, food assistance poor, third world poor.
She got a used bike once, for Christmas. It was stolen.
At 14, she babysat for months to get a Rihanna mini-backpack.
It was stolen.
But they lived 2.5 miles from the beach.
It was a 53 minute walk. She couldn't afford the bus.
She knew not to hitchhike.
She kept a knife in her right front jeans pocket.
She studied at school or at the beach
She practically lived at the beach
Her wardrobe was a one-piece swimsuit under cut-off jean-shorts and flip flops.
What friends she had were at the beach.

A wino, who couldn't really talk, looked out for her at the beach because she once gave him a dollar.
One night he pulled a knife on a **** who was bothering her. The police came and took his knife.
“I’m SO sorry,” she told him, “I’ll get you another one,” but he mumbled in his incomprehensible way, and waving the idea off, he shuffled over to a garbage can, and leaned it up to reveal eight other knives under it.

We were looking at some of our high school pictures together and we realized that my designer, high-school freshman prom-dress that I bought with my allowance ($6,000, on sale, with no fitting) cost more than her mom’s car.
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A mini playlist for this:
Baxter (These Are My Friends) by Fred again.. & Baxter Dury
Runaway by Slick Rick
Redemption Song by Mitchell Brunings
Breakout by Swing Out Sister
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Our cast:
Chella - A tall, lithe black girl, from Liberty City (Miami) Florida with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs’ from Yale University who is currently a Harvard Master's candidate.  She had it rough growing up - she was buying skin-care at Trader Joes! I'm showing her some things.
Your author, a simple trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia with a Bachelor of Science in Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry from Yale, currently a Harvard Master's candidate.

My master’s degree's a senior’s cruise - most of the other students are thirty and even forty-somethings. Good for them, for making the (75K) investment, it’s hard, and they all look very serious. I am too, of course.

It’s busy and constant - but it’s business analysis - it's not hard, like chemistry (see retrosynthetic analysis) and I’m lucky, I’m fresh off uni - used to working problem-sets and reading a couple of hundred pages a night.

That said, last week was wearying. I look forward to Fridays (like everyone), as the light at the end of the tunnel. Then my Grandmère FaceTimed me asking if I could go through an ‘investor deck’ and give her advice. “Look at it and give it to me.. unsweetened,” she said
(“Regarde-le et donne-le-moi... non sucré”).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘maybe I can tell van Gogh how to paint or Taylor Swift how to influence as well.

Surely, asking someone to do something late on a Friday afternoon is a minute refinement of cruelty, but I couldn’t say 'no'. That didn’t mean I was happy - I’m very jealous of my time. It’s too easy to toss the sauce on my routines.

I took an hour and looked it over, then gave her a poetic answer,
“It’s an options fog, masquerading as opportunity.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said. I know that old bird, she’s nuanced. Was that a test? There was a smile in her voice.
Part of me longed to say, “Sometimes, like on a Friday night, one head’s better than two,” but I didn’t - because what night would be good for a surprise assignment?

Two hours later, Chella and I had some students over for cocktails. Four of them (2 guys 2 girls) were Japanese. Their English wasn’t great, but we had fun. They brought a bottle of nihonshu (sake), that stuff is like water - seriously.

So I made them martinis. Their eyes bugged out with their first sips, but first martini sips always taste like gasoline. It’s the second martini that starts to taste like mother’s-milk. Before long, they were smashed and then they started singing.

That was when the real fun started. They had karaoke songs on their phones. We sang, we danced. They taught us some songs and we did the same.

“At this point in our lives,” Chella said, “It’s important to bop so hard,” everyone cheered. What a slay - she was so real, so feral for that.
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Songs for this:
Something Every Day (Little Wizard Mix) by Swing Out Sister
Yoru ni kakeru by YOASOBI
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Our cast:
Chella - A tall, lithe black girl, from Liberty City (Miami) Florida with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs’ from Yale and currently a Harvard Master's candidate.  She had it rough growing up - she was buying skin-care at Trader Joes! I'm showing her some things.
Your author, a simple trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia with a Bachelor of Science in Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry from Yale, currently a Harvard Master's candidate.
Grandmère, my very French Grandmother. Tiny, frail looking and privately very funny - but don’t underestimate her or ever try and bull$hit her - she's a Mogul.

(a series of micro vignettes)

Chella and I are reading our analysis assignments together because that’s how we link and build.
We read out loud too, because how else can you judge the flow?
When my phone, lying on the table, jiggled. The caller ID read, “Tommy’s girlfriend.”
Chella gave me a little look. “I never change anyone’s ID,” I confessed. “Neither do I.” Cellia agreed.
“She broke up with him years ago..”

I feel sorry for panhandlers, I don’t see them often but I saw one yesterday. Who carries cash any more (Noone)?
Along the same line, Chella and I are wired, it-girls - we’re noise cancelled. Were you talkin’ to us?
We’re hard to engage, not because we’ve got attitude - we just can’t hear you. It’s irritating when I have to tap-out of some stream to hear people.
Even if it’s the waiter from the bistro downstairs delivering their exemplary frozen-strawberry-smoothies and burgers.

Later, after the pool, we showered. As I was toweling my hair, I studied myself in the mirror.
“My skin is SO ******* up,” I moaned, “I need a ‘rescue spa’ ******.. Let’s go to New York (city)—I’m taking you there.”
“There’s a ‘Forever Young Spa’ on Beacon street.. about a mile from here,” Cellia offered.
“Ever been there?” I asked.
“No, but the ad says they have an AI-powered massage robot. I’m curious.”
“Ooo! Call ‘em up, see if it does happy-endings.” I laughed.
“We could get a home unit.” Cellia updogged.
“I think we’d need the industrial version,” I added, “that’s the sell.”
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A little playlist for this:
Nothing Can Stop Us by Saint Etienne
Goodbye by The Sundays

Our cast:
Chella, A tall, lithe black girl, from Liberty City (Miami) Florida. She's a Harvard Master's candidate with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs’ from Yale. She had it rough growing up - she was buying skin-care at Trader Joes! I'm showing her some things.
Your author, a simple trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia and a Harvard Master's candidate with a Bachelor of Science in Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry from Yale.

Say you love me
like I love you
often and always
a million times
embrace me
consume me
burn me with kisses

If you go deaf
I will stop listening
If you go blind
I will stop looking
If you die
I will stop living
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Songs for this:
From The Start by Good Kid
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox
Lover Girl by Laufey
In a Manner of Speaking (feat. Camille) by Nouvelle Vague

(This is not scary, short fiction and probably not fit for click-farming.)

Sometimes I’m serious, a girl can be serious. I have to write a lot of analysis papers in school (yeah, some people still waste their time and money like that). I’m leveraging that effort here. This is part* of an academic paper I’m writing on the world economy in crisis (this part covers world inflation and China/Taiwan). It’s a draft in progress and, in the spirit of brevity (my target ~1000 words) and avoiding the verbose, I’ve simplified the narratives and removed graphs, diagrams and footnotes. Here we go:

Have you noticed that the world seems less stable and that your spending power has eroded since 2009 and especially since covid? You aren’t wrong.

The Fed balance sheet had never been over a trillion dollars before 2009. However, from 2009 (the banking collapse) to 2022 (COVID) the Fed moved our balance sheet from sub-1 trillion to 9 trillion - pushing about 50% dollar inflation on the world. We ourselves experienced 8% inflation.

Everything in the world is priced in dollars. If you look at cross-world currency settlements, you might think, ‘well,  there's the dollar and the euro, the pound, the dirham and all these other currencies’ but there’s really not. There's only the dollar and the other currencies back-solve for how they pay for things in their own countries. That's the way the world works. So when we push 50% inflation (in dollar terms) to the world it affects everyone. Marginal currencies on the bottom of the financial structure collapsed. That would be Turkey, Iran (Iran controls Iraq now), Pakistan, Lebanon, and many many other currencies throughout the third world that hyper-inflated (became worthless).  

So when people say, “can we all just all calm down and go back to business as usual?” There is no easy way to go back to 2% world growth and stability. Inflation is an insidious, destabilizing force. Even China’s economy is in deep, deep trouble - they’re in the midst of a real estate crisis, a banking crisis, a youth unemployment crisis, a trade surplus decline (because of their threat to invade Taiwan), a debt to GDP crisis (much worse than ours) and now, Trump is threatening tariffs that could bring their net income to zero.

China has said many many times - too many times to doubt it - that they will attack and absorb Taiwan by 2027 - period.
Why would they do that? Aren’t our economies too linked? Knowing we will have to retaliate? We don't know what President XI Jinping’s calculus is. The CCP doesn't see the world the same way we do and, like Putin, we may not be dealing with someone rational. It’s like when Putin moved his blood banks, tankers, air force and army to the edge of Ukraine - some said it was just ‘saber rattling.’ No, when the blood banks and tankers are moved - you’re a ‘GO’ - it’s just a matter of time.

Neville Chamberlain, the British Prime Minister now vilified for appeasing ******, wasn’t an idiot. He could not get his head around why ****** would plunge the world into war. They had lived through WWI and where was the profit in it - what reasonable reason was there for a world war in 1938? Let’s not make that mistake. Let’s take a moment and think it through.

Why is China obsessed with unifying with Taiwan? (1) History,  the Chinese, who lost the revolution that brought the CCP to power fled to Taiwan (2) The democratic government in Taiwan is four times as successful as communist counterpart. Their GDP is higher, their worker productivity is four times higher, they enjoy a higher standard of living, (3) they are a success story that demonstrates what China could be if it weren't hamstrung with the communist party. (4) they want to deny us the tech, (5) Their culture and world view is different. In China there are no human rights and no truly private property. There is only what’s good for (Chinese Communist Party) CCP power - the CCP is everything.

Why protect Taiwan? Taiwan Semi is the chip manufacturer for the world. They are the only maker of 2mn chips - the most vital, powerful component for the AI and quantum computing races. The country that wins those races will control information for the next century. The loss of that capacity is an absolute, existential threat to the security of the United States. The fact that the US failed to keep current in this area is a major *****-up decades in the making.

Messages of deterrence are flying. One reason we bombed Iran - where we had to drop munitions, with precision down three tiny shafts, covered by a mountain, from whatever heights - and we did it - was a message of deterrence partially aimed at China. Proof that America still has the best and most lethal military in the world - and we aren't afraid to use it. The US admiral who commands our indo-pacific forces recently said - publicly - that “if China thinks they're going to either blockade or engage in some kinetic conflict with Taiwan, we will turn the Taiwan strait into a hellscape.” Even a limited naval engagement with China, in the Taiwan strait, could cost thousands of American casualties (think Korean War people).

What kind of leverage does China have VS the us? Recently:
China has stopped supplying the US with rare earth magnets - those are critical to making EV vehicles run.
China is denying America processed synthetic graphite - a critical component in every single EV battery.
China is withholding the lasers used in fiber-optic communications from the US (they are the single world manufacturer).
Those are single points of failure for US technologies and we must ‘Manhattan Project’ our capacity for their replacement.

Why did the Trump administration remove subsidies for EV vehicles? First, it plays to his base but secondly, removing the subsidies slows demand until we can fill those gaps ourselves. Part of the ‘Big Beautiful Bill’ earmarks billions to start addressing the failure points mentioned above.

What non-military leverage do we have VS the Chinese?
We hold the upper hand. China imports 13 million barrels of oil every day,  9 Bs of natural gas every day, 40% of their food every single day.and they need access to the American dollar system to acquire those goods. They are a closed capital account - no one will accept Yuan as payment. That is a single point of failure for them.

Conclusions: We should let the CCP know - make it very clear - that if they attack Taiwan, the first thing we’ll do is take them out of the dollar system. Pushing that button would be easy - but it will hurt us too in the short run. It may be a better deterrent than those US carrier strike forces - which are still an option if it comes to that.
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Songs for this:
Canary In a Coalmine by The Police
Invisible Sun by The Police

I had a dream.
I don’t remember most dreams.

I was cleaning the floors of heaven.
It seemed a mixed blessing,
I was in heaven, after all
but I was cleaning the floors.

It was a part time job,
I knew that intuitively.
I don’t mind house cleaning, heaven cleaning.
It’s calm work, kind of Zen.
Are we supposed to think of religions in heaven?

At first I scrubbed on my hands and knees.
The floors are soft in heaven, like golden gym mats.
Then I thought of it, and suddenly I had a swiffer-wet mop,
just like that - and the pad never wore out.

After a while, I had an iPod, and AirPods too.
Then a daiquiri - a banana daiquiri with a pastel rainbow umbrella.
They make rapturous daiquiris in the hereafter - they never run out.
‘Heavenly,’ I thought, snorting out a dizzy laugh.
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Songs for this:
The River of Dreams Billy Joel
If the Lord Wasn't Walking By My Side by Elvis Presley

I love a long holiday and as a general rule
you’ll find me out by a turquoise pool
cause it’s hot outside and I’m nobody's fool.

Closing my eyes I lazily daydream
listening to my favorite musical streams
umbrella shaded from harsh sunbeams.

I’ve put away polemic school assignments
for leisure and tastier desultory refinements
like buffalo wings, pizza and ***** martinis
and the barely there cool of a string bikini.
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Songs for this:
Digging your scene by Ivy
The Big Sky (Special Single Mix) by Kate Bush
Can't Be Like This Forever by The Moving Stills

Harvard’s a black hole, info wise.
So, let’s see.. what’s going on? What’s in the news?
Anything? Anything?

Hot take..
Not to be spicy and negative,
but sometimes i’m too much myself.
Too comfortable, open and vocal.
I can be opinionated.
Who knows who’s listening?
It could be anyone.
“That’s not red, it’s carmine,” I blirt.
There’s a rise and rush of feelings around the table.
FAQs drop, I get treated.
“God, get up and get at me,” I replied, with an unnerving poise.
People love a scene.

Happy 4th of July to Yankees everywhere!
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Only a Fool Would Say That by Ivy
Lovely Day by Elizabeth Mitchell
L'Anamour by Ivy
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slang:
FAQ = told the facts
Treated = attacked

What’s wrong with me? I’ve been asking myself this all week.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I weigh questions coldly and logically. Then it hit to me.. it’s summer, silly, and I'm in classes!

A typical summer would find me tanned, sunburned, greased and unkempt, like a happy, sandy, beach hobo, my hair would be either braided or left fly-about to tangle into cotton candy wads.

My bf Peter’s learned to like fine restaurants (You’re welcome). I’d have never left the beach on my own.
“They can bring us anything,” I’d argue, looking up pitiably from my shaded, Tropitone lounge chair.

Around sundown, Peter would have to catch me, slippery oiled and brown, to comb me out and scrub me before dinner.
“Get dressed!” he’d encourage, picking out a dress suitable for dining or casino wear - “I made us a reservation.”

I’d come out of the hotel en-suite in one of their fluffy, Versace, terry towels but invariably, before I was even dry,  Peter would shake his head, growl and say, “Com-mere,” holding his arms out a little, palms up
(he’s never been very verbose), and smirking a little, I would, because his expression reminded me of Christmas.
“What about our reservation?” I’d chuckle.

This was, of course, a volunteer situation, where it was up to us all to do our best.
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Songs for thus:
Girls On the Beach by Carter Cathcart
Wouldn't It Be Nice by Papa Doo Run Run
Please Let Me Wonder by Carter Cathcart

Charles and my predawn jog was a sweat-athon and as the sun rose, a heat-dome brightness tattooed crisp shadows in every corner. Any lingering coolness was burned off - evaporated.

It was 94°f, 3 hours later, when I walked to campus - why don’t we use  parasols anymore? Drag on, radiant afternoon heat, please.
That was 100 proof sarcasm, in case you couldn’t tell.

Hot days seem to drag-on slowly, like waiting for a microwave or a droning, liturgy. It wasn’t in the forecast but I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear, “Today’s forecast is slow, really slow.”

Let’s start an Internet theory that the atmosphere is thinning or we’re just ants under a magnifying glass.

The finally setting sun left a blood red line under the falling blue dark, like a **** of wound in the skin of young-night.

Once my nightly obligations are done (classes, homework, reading), the silence can seem oppressive. I’m used to the never ending hustle, boiling drama and noise of seven suitemates - so there’s that.

On now empty nights, I’m tortured by the high-beating pulse of youth, and I pace my empty apartment, like someone restlessly waiting for their venti-mocha-latte at a Starbucks.

Can anyone suffer like a young woman left all alone?
Why, oh whomever, must I sip from this deep, bitter, undrinkably salty sea of solitude?

In this, my prime season, why do I only manage to exist?
My needs are in a shameful state of decay.
.
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Cruel Summer by Bananarama
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox [E]
All That I Need by Ebony Loren, Matthew Ifield & Sebastian Kamae

Have you ever seen a pair of Nine West Folowe Pumps in Red Blooms Floral - or ever held a feathery pair? They offer the pure pleasure of perfection.

You can see them popping up lately, in streetwear silhouette, matched with Dolce & Gabbana’s floral-print leggings, making a duet of blooms—petal upon petal, like a garden in motion, or paired with the new, high-waisted barrel leg jeans, lending a flash of elegance, a bright flourish against dull denim.

They’re visions, wrought as if by the hand of Michelangelo, who once from marble freed David’s pose, or da Vinci, whose brush summoned the Mona Lisa’s secret smile.

In form, they’re d’Orsay cut, sporting curves as deliberate as the Sistine vaults arch. The stiletto heels rise with the ambition of a cathedral’s spire - neither too proud nor too meek, but balanced, like the symmetry of a butterfly’s painted wings.

Upon their surface, blood red blooms unfurl - petals as vivid as spring’s first flush - each blossom a testament to an artist’s hand, in riots of color and romance that dance with the same spirit as a flowerbed at dawn.

No flaws mar their making: the stitchings are true, the fits precise—as if tailored by the muses themselves. Each pair offers its own unique foliations, bespeaking the freedom of a craftsman’s careful art.

Lastly, of course, they’re marvels of harmonious function, lightly cradling and lifting each step - comfort and glamour aren’t adversaries here, but partners in making each step a sonnet and each stride an artist's brushstroke.

Now, maybe you aren’t into fashion - perhaps you’re a male - oh, poor you, I’m sorry, but maybe, just maybe, in times of chaos, you long for the pleasure of inexpensive perfection.
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Songs for this:
Glamour Girl by Louie Austen
This is what falling in love feels like by JVKE

On the far edge of the world there are
fanatics of many minds and religions.
They have uninteresting histories,
jejune existences, and distorted ideas of nature.

Some are belligerent, felony-friendly foreigners.
I’ve never given them a single thought,
because they're nothing to me.

They’re insignificant—living curiosities
and I grant them no more sympathy
than I would a flock of wild birds.

Of course, I’d never wish to harm wild birds
unless they had the wherewithal to attack me,
in inimitable, Hitchcock style.
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Songs for this:
Kashmir by  by Toni Jevicky
broken people by narcissists cookbook
Bring Me to Silence (Audiotree Live) by Fievel Is Glauque

go to bed  •think bemusingly of you
loop (cond) { tomorrow }
I rise in the morning (5am),
jog an 8K  •thinking of you, wash up
drink some flavored, black coffee
watch the morning sun balloon
eat toast while reading a set amount
write my unique and uninteresting analysis
work on half a dozen, odd assignments
walk .8 miles to campus  •thinking of you
team up, with some older, uninteresting guys
interview a focus group, present dataset interpretations
walk .8 miles back to my flat  •thinking of you
eat while reading a set amount
go to bed  •think bemusingly of you
loop (cond) { tomorrow }
I rise in the morning (5am)…
.
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Songs for this:
Falling Down a Well by Jack J
Overtime (pt 1) by Mk.gee  [E]

We’ll hitchhike to mars
on a rocket not a car,
so say your au revoirs.

We’ll steer towards Polaris, the north star
right through the center of the milky-way-bar.
See, the universe is dark and chocolatey.

Stars that glitter like multi-faceted gems,
are just shiny, yellow, peanut M&Ms,
take a handful, if you’d like, they’re free.

We’ll dodge the silhouetted moon,
which is made of enough coconut macaroon,
to make a French confectioner swoon.

As we go streaking, like a comet’s tail,
drag a finger through Saturn’s rings as well,
those are made of marshmallow.

We’ll  pass nebulae made of cotton-kandi,
and here’s a fact Einstein would have found handy,
the speed of light doesn’t apply to candy.
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Ramble on by Toni Jevicky

We all have inner and outer lives.
They’re messy, hopelessly intertwined, and more
than mere mannequins to hang our word-art upon.

I’m supported, in my unwritten life, by a structure
of moods, both affine and counter-expressive. I’m,
in turns, a tightly wound vagabond, an over-busy,
fretful, unhappy liar (for what I will not share) and
a happy, truthful mess (for what I may overshare).

My outer-life is largely academic, and turned with
complete absorption to task, I plow thru the
needed assignments, like a caffeine fueled machine,

You might rightly call outer-me boring. I get it, for
nothing much happens beyond study and life’s
usual maintenances.

But my inner-life is full of action, if desires,
dreams, and internally ranting against the injustices of youthful separations can be rightly called actions.

Of my boyfriend, the world contains not one parallel.
He overshadows the few others I’ve ever known.
His masculine elements turn me all the way up,

He knows my petty vanities and most of my weaknesses. If he doesn’t know my every phase of feeling, or every desire of my love starved soul, it’s because our love is peripatetic.

Most of the year, we’re a long distance, digital, practical nothingness, A near autofictional anticipation. We are separated by a sea and more. If I may simply put it, I have a fine young body that is going to waste.

When I complained to my older sister, a surgeon who long delayed her own personal life for her career, she shruggingly and unsympathetically said, “You only have to suffer a few more years.”  
“Oh, mon Dieu!” I replied.
.
.
positions by Ariana Grande [E]
34+35 (Remix) by [feat. Doja Cat & Megan Thee Stallion] [E]

I can be obsessive. For instance, last night I needed a command hook.
My mind couldn’t focus on “Principles of Biostatistics,” as fascinating as that book is, because I needed this $3 command hook to hang my keys by the door.

There’s a table by the door, I could easily put my keys there, but no. That’s where books go (am I too picky?). What’s funny is, I’d just been reading about ‘bias mitigation,' ya know, science is everywhere.

Still, I searched the boxes that I hadn’t unpacked
I looked around them too, did one fall in a crack?
Did I have one to begin with? I couldn’t keep track.

I texted Charles (across the hall), “do you have a command hook?”
“A what?” he replied. So I texted his wife, who went to look.
When she didn’t have one, I went back to my book.

The chapter was about ‘probability distributions as tools for managing uncertainty.’ How topical, here I was, uncertain about when I’d get that command hook. Never mind an indifferent God, science is obviously listening.

It was nearly midnight. I wondered, how late Door-Dash delivered?
Would they bring my hook or were there other services I should consider?
What about Amazon, Target or WalMart—could one of those be a winner?

In the end I had to do without—I gave up at 1am.
The miracle of capitalism had failed me—****.

I could study with the hook off my mind. So, I set an Alexa reminder,
an alarm on my watch and alerts on my iPhone and MacBook finder,
then I wrote a pink post-it note, and put that on my epidemiology binder.

I have a standing, pre-dawn jog with Charles, and an idea forming.
If we passed an open convenience store, I could buy one in the morning!
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.
Songs for this:
I Want You by Bob Dylan
I need you by Jon Batiste

The day’s hours were worn down and a sudden sunset, that resembled a master’s painted glimpse of Valhalla was upon us, its majesty of deepest blue, blood red and black.

From our tenth-floor skew, the river looked, for all, like a wrinkled sea expecting a storm. Boats moved to tie up before the dark body of windswept clouds arrived trailing a wall of downpour and flickering, electric thunder.

Our study group had run over, as they tend to do. Most of the members urgently moved to pack up (they’d be campus bound). An unpropitious rumble and fierce flare of light revealed that mild twilight had swiftly faded to a darkest stormy night.

My pinched-pleated curtains thrashed before this tempest for the almanacs, feigning a life they do not possess, like twin ghosts stirred to wrath.

“We can order in,” I offered, waving a menu from the downstairs bistro, as I closed my French, glass doors. “Why not eat here and wait it out?” I shrugged, “My treat,” I offered, “and I have wine.”

A pleasant embracement of relief and consent followed. What held more power, I wondered, the society, natures coerce or the gratis fare?

Later. as we parted, a young man paltered, repaying me with a quick hug and cheeky kiss. The valueless touch, was itself rewarded with a small grimace of a smile, but the sin did not overset the mood.
.
.
Songs for this:
Riders on the storm by the doors
Stormy by Classics IV

I just came from the cafeteria. In a shocking twist,
I have to actually meet people, I mean, can you imagine?
And we have group projects, my least favorite thing,
except perhaps, having a gym class.

The cafeteria was so crowded—didn’t I see you there?

Everyone there seemed to be wearing vintage Urban Outfitters.
I felt left out, but no one openly pointed at me.

Next, I expect to see bubblegum patch vests, skate-fit jeans and leopard-appliqué flats.

Between us, I’ve gotten old, and lost what little fashion game I had.
Now I’m modulated, that is, I’m over over-indulgence.

When I pictured myself in college, ***, what, a half a decade ago?
I imagined myself in a Lime Fizz Dress from Modcloth.
THAT never happened—which is all for the good.

School and by extension - school work - is definitely happening.
It’s not all studying while drinking back-to-back espressos at sunrise.

This week’s assignments due are: a ‘reflective assignment’ on qualitative research methods, a policy memo, a case analysis, and a group presentation. Argh.

So if you don’t hear from me—I haven’t been deported—I’m just oppressed.
.
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Songs for this:
This is Why by Paramore
Lauren by Men I Trust
Margaret by Pomegranate tea [E]

We move through the night,
though the streets seem empty,
we look left and right,
electric vehicles are stealthy.

As we exercise stepwise, sunrise happens.
and black night fades its cover.
Like phoresy, painted, pieces of heaven,
the day opens with primary colors—
reds that delight, oranges that tease
and peacocking yellows that leaven.

As the counterfeit rainbow enchants and rouses,
streetlights waver and douse,
lights flicker on in houses,
and the earth blossoms active in borrowed hues.

Morning twinkles with its particular, angular light,
as we enter the still still lobby.
They’ve already set out the coffee!
With a sip, I feel the morning's started right.
.
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Songs for this:
Day Tripper by MonaLisa Twins
Our Day Will Come by Amy Winehouse

"Have you ever tried choking?" He asked nonchalantly.
“No,” she said. with a wrinkled nose of disapproval

“Want to try it?” His approach couldn't hide his excitement
“Ok,” she said, absent-mindedly running her index finger over his lips.

“you  can  choke  me,” she added slowly,
“if I can stab you repeatedly
with the 7 inch stainless steel
nail-file I keep under my pillow.”
.
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Songs for this:
Me and the Devil by Soap&Skin
Better By Myself by Hey Violet

I’m new to ‘self-directed study,’ it’s a construction I’ve never known. It’s kind of a faustian bargain that resembles another self-paced activity—treading water. The program’s like an immersive plunge in deep, choppy, informational seas.

On the other hand, instead of dark, crowded auditorium classes, we’ve been studying, on sunny mornings, out by the pool, where there’s a summer-camp-like vibe.

When I say 'we', I mean Chella and I, we’re a two-girl study group. I’ve only known her for 13 days but we have a lot in recent-common. She was in my Yale graduation class (last month) but our paths never really crossed at Yale.

She’s a tall, lithesome, black girl from Miami Florida. Not the sandy beach Miami, where palm trees sway, bikini clad models strut and flamingo-pink art-deco bars face the ocean. No, she’s from the Liberty City ghetto—and she has stories.

She say’s that getting her Yale acceptance was a sea change. People were incredulous, as if aliens had landed or everyone in her high school had won the lottery, There’s a sad but steely resignation in her voice when she says she’s never going back there, "Evah."

So, it’s 86°f here in Boston, MA, and we’re out studying by the pool. There isn’t a cloud or bird in the sky and the sun looks—well, honestly, we’re not looking at the sun—we’re college graduates—we’re in the shade. I was afraid the pool would be summer-time crowded but we’ve been the only one’s here all week. We plunge into the pool and then read.

As Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks finished playing on my Bose Soundbar, Chella professed, “I literally LOVE that song.”
“I’ve loved that song since 8th grade,” I agreed.
“I don’t think my musical taste will ever be better than it was in 8th grade.” Chella confided.
“8th grade’s when everyone’s up on trends,” I said, thinking back.

We read for a while. The only thing tainting our near resort-core experience, is the flood of material we must cover.

“I want to be jolly,”  I declared to the universe,“I’m holding that today.”
“You keep yourself so grounded,” Chella said, “like you refuse to delight in anything!”
“That’s not true!” I gasped.
“Yes, it is!,“ she updogged, if anything goes wrong, you’re just done.”
“NOoo!” I laughed. “Ok, two things, if two things go wrong,” she amended.
“That’s fair.” I admitted, “I’m a two chance girl.”  
“That’s fair,” she agreed, then she added, “I’m going to switch the vibe up.”
‘SIREN by Shygirl’ began banging as we went back to our reading.
‘Self directed study’ has it’s advantages.
.
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Songs for this:
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone
Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks
SIREN by Shygirl

(Maddy’s Music challenge:
“Write a poem based on three words from a song.”
Song: 'Words of love' by the Beatles 1964)

I’m the harshest critic,
the truest of nonbelievers,
when words of love are used.
Soapy words will not deliver
so please stop trying to be smooth.

Don’t compare me to a summer’s day!
I know that’s from some Broadway play.

Waste not flattery’s rose
praise not my grace,
at least not to my face,
you’re better off praising my clothes.

Forgo sweetness, promise nothing
then you may be onto something
say it, straight up, I won’t faint
trust me, sir, I am no saint.
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A song for this:
Words of love by the Beatles

Ok, there’s no jailbreak.
Make room for my innocent alter ego,
because there’s nothing to rebel against.

There are zero classes in my nascent,
year-long, Harvard master’s degree.
They call it ‘self directed study’
and like rockets have stages,
I’ll have ‘self paced modules.’

Am I suddenly at Oxford University?
They’re quite famous for that (no formal classes).
Or am I suddenly grown up and trusted?
I obviously don’t have it all figured out yet,
so I’ll just trust the process.

When I started that other school
(that shall not be named), my advisor
handed me a computer printout - a list
with something like 40 courses on it.
I thought, “Oh, my God,” but one by one,
year over year, I checked-off those courses
and voila! They handed me a diploma.
It was a process.

I understand, if you’re disappointed about the jailbreak, but there’ll
be coffee breaks, lunch breaks, study breaks, bathroom breaks
and more than a few self-directed dance breaks. So stick around.

“You know,” my therapist said, so very seriously, a few years ago,
“you keep laughing.”
.
.
I've Got the World on a String by Robin McKelle
****** Soul Picnic by Ledisi & Billy Childs

Like Harry Potter, the sorting hat (my mom)
has placed me in a ******, crimson colored school.
It’s disorienting, as I go about, the logos are wack.

Poor little rich girl
no beachside lovers
this interminable, scorching summer.

I’m swept up by scholastic spirit.
Can you hear it? Cause it’s deafening me,
on this cool, dry, Boston orientation day.

As we finished our morning 8k jog,
the sunrise blossomed, painting hot lava clouds
with hues of yellow, orange and pink.

We’re traipsing unfamiliar paths,
it’s not what we’re used to, the roads are uneven
and the architecture’s all boxy and wrong.
.
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Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
Better After All by Jonatha Brooke
Now At Last by *****

Can you make a friend— like a craft project?
I know, I hear this parental voice, “just be yourself.”

All of my classes this semester will be in one building, but I’m a control freak, I wanted to walk my schedule, go class to class, like I will on my first day. I have a locker too—this is so high school—but I wanted to find it, try the combination and plan what I’ll carry. I have questions too, like how’s the wi-fi, are there charging outlets, and where can I get coffee?

Orientation is Tuesday—but who can wait until Tuesday? Classes start Wednesday.  I’d never sleep this weekend with so many questions. I’m already having dreams where I’m lost, late and embarrassed.

So there I was, this morning, dressed for class with my green messenger bag—doing it—schedule in hand. I went into a small auditorium with cushioned, crimson, theater seating—where my first class will be—and there’s this other girl, dressed for class, schedule in hand.

We were like twins, except she’s tall and black and I’m not. Right off she commanded me, handing me her phone, no preamble, no “How do you do,” to “Take my picture.”
Of course, I obeyed, I’m not from outer space. I burst 50 quick frames, as she slightly varied her pose and she did likewise for me.

Her name is Chella and she graduated from Yale last week too, with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs.’ I think I saw her on campus once or twice but our paths had never directly crossed.
“But IS "Global Affairs" a science degree?” I asked skeptically.
“Probably not,” she answered, “but some of us can live with ambiguity.”
Her first direct, commanding phrase limns her personality perfectly.
Yeah, we hit it right off.
.
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Songs for this:
Cruel To Be Kind by Letters to Cleo
Perfect Day by Povo
Are You Trying to Be Funny? by Everything But the Girl

I’ve moved out (of school),
I’m moving in (to school).
My joke is that I’m having a ‘moving experience.’

Graduating college (3 days ago) was a dream come true
I’m starting a master’s degree in 7 days.
You have to admire the efficiency.

Do I have your permission to bear my soul?
I might have imposter syndrome.
I’m a harsh critic—of everything—but mostly me.

I’m over the romance and pressure of school.
I’m starting the romance and pressure of school.
Don’t worry, this isn’t hapless, sad girl literature.

Or a diary—it’s a portrayal of my inner life.
.
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A song for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Messy by Lola Young [E]

Our caps flew like confetti.
Thank god I customized mine.
I'll keep it as a memento of all-nighters,
friendships formed in the academic trenches,
dismissive professors and group-project-tortures.

This isn’t another ‘drunk girl’ holiday, despite obvious similarities.
Our parents, sisters, brothers, and grandmothers are here.

We came in doe-eyed, holding overpriced planners,
and enough provisions for two year Mars missions.
We hoped to discover friends, decent Wi-Fi signals
and perhaps our adult selves.

Now we're holding diplomas, those future-proofing talismans.
Mine’s in molecular biophysics and biochemistry.
Which is wry, because when I was in high school,
my sister accused me of not knowing how to boil water.

I've been asked "What’s next?" a thousand times in the last month.
I have plans—but I was dying to shrug and say, “that’s tomorrow’s problem,” like I’ve spent major duckets, degree wise, but remain the ditzy blonde.
The standard graduate answer, I’ve heard, is "I dunno."
(though honestly, it’s a great answer).

Congratulations, all of you graduating overachievers out there—everywhere.
Go forth, be fabulous and find that next big dream.
Can you believe we actually did this?
Argh! I gotta go, someone wants another picture.
.
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Songs for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Summer Wind by Robert Mosci
Tomorrow by Wings