The first time you kissed me it was a surprise, I wasn’t ready.
It was a sneak attack, funny ‘cause they say the girl ‘always knows.’
I think we’re lucky we didn’t chip a tooth.

The unexpected slowed me - ‘ok, that happened,’ I thought.
Because I’d wondered, before - ‘does he like me like THAT?’
Then suddenly you came into sharp focus, your lips, your eyes,
your goofy smile. It changed things, for us - like Jesus’s birth
changed time - there was before kiss (bk) and after kiss (ak).

We somehow kludged our way into love - the old-fashioned way
without navigation software, dating sites, hookup apps or breadcrumbs.
Like our foremothers and fathers or Columbus - we bumbled into a New World.

Take my advice, I’m not using it.

So
hot
cute
smart
cuddly
Dances
attentive
seductive
accessible
Sy­mpatico
intoxicating
mesmerizing
college bound
straightforward
smart as a whip
eager to please
always on time
100% truthful
pleasurable
enthralling
incredible
*******
funniest
gen­tle
sweet
****
soft
fun

(These are some Senryu poems about bestfriends.)

My best friends and I
can talk to each other with
****** expressions

Friends can face-slap
insult each other - we know
each other so well.

We can spend a whole
day, at the park, just sitting
on the swings chatting.

Ever looked at your
bestfriend and thought, “We should be
standup comedians.”

I shaved my legs this morning. “Alexa, put dinosaur Band-Aids on my shopping list.”

Once you get in the college routine, time speeds up
One minute you’re young and carefree
the next you’re young and free-time free.

MIT guys

A group of MIT students were visiting Yale for some event. Sophie, Anna and I were in the residential dining hall. I’d finished eating and I was trying to read, when this group of MIT guys swauntered in.

My impression of MIT guys is that they’re short and they flirt a lot. They’re all over the place, like they’re manic or on holiday and they think they’re going to pick up girls. (on a Tuesday night)

One guy said, “I’m new to the area, could you help me with directions to your house?”

Another came up with, “I’ve just become religious, ‘cause you’re the answer to my prayers.”

“What are you up to tonight?” This short stranger asks, leaning rudely on our table and acting like he’s lookin’ to get inside-the-ride.

“I’ve gotta read two chapters before tomorrow,” I said, somewhat annoyed with these dinkheads. They finally decided (realized) we’re boring and moved on to other female diners.

standing in line

Americans seem to love lines. I hate standing in lines. People don’t line up for things in Paris. There aren’t “bus lines.” The person who guessed right and is closest to where the bus door stops and opens, or the quickest person or the most ruthless person will be first on the bus. There aren’t any lines at cinemas or the boulangerie (bakery) or even at the Apple store - Apple tried to impose American style order - but #forgetaboutit.

possible mistakes

“I want a blonde boyfriend,” Leong said out of the random last night,
”and dye my hair blonde.” Leong’s from Macau, China. Her glossy, cornsilk hair is a sumptuous curtain of raven black.

“Noo,” Anna and Lisa said, almost in unison.
“I’d trade you,” I said, freely offering my baby blonde rat's-nest.

“There’s an individual,” Leong began, “I see when leaving chemistry class, who has the most beautiful head of frosted blonde tips. Let me just show you,” she says, pulling up her phone.

“You got a picture?” Sunny asked - she loves stalking.
“No!” Leong snorted, insultedly, “Investigative research on Instagram.”

“Is this a potential mate?” Sophie asked.
”I think it’s a suiter,” Leong said, slyly smiling, to laughs all around.

“Woah, Let me see em!” Lisa said, reaching for the phone.
“Gimmie!” Anna demands too.

“Should I project it?” Leong asks, waving her phone around to protect it.
“Hells, yes!” Sophie practically shouts.

“So, it’s the frosted tips that get you?” Sunny says, “Ooo, PSA, if you’re a man looking for a beautiful Chinese lover..”

Our 55” TV becomes Leong’s Insta feed and the pic pops up.

There’s a second of silence. “I think it’s a girl,” Lisa said, squinting and tilting her head.

We all study the pic. Is this the right person? I wonder.

“You may be a Lesbian,” Sunny whispers, before the room descends into chaos.

The other day Lisa, Anna and I overheard a nonversation that took me back in time to high school. We were at Ascot for day three (ladies' day), to see the fashion, the silly hats, the horse races (called stakes & cups) and maybe even gawk at some famous people.

Anna, Lisa and I were sitting at our table in the Windsor Enclosure - a flat area right by the racetrack. The other five girls in our clique (Leong, Sunny, Kim, Bili, and Sophy) had stepped away to be ready for the royals arrival at 2pm sharp.  

Everyone was well dressed, men in waistcoat and tie, and we women in formal daywear. The table closest to us was populated with another squad of college age teens. We tend to be garrulous but that other mixed coterie (16 guys and girls) weren’t friendly at all. They were insular and sharp eyed - they projected an air of smirking pride - a bunch of edinas.

Suddenly this one girl at the next table just comes-at another girl verbally. There seemed nothing the target girl could do except hold her head up, put on her best debate-smile and weather it out.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been exposed to it, but the exclusionary voice of the rich, consists of acrid, inactively-terse asides delivered with casual, drive-by cruelty. The most insufferable rich think (know) that they’re better than you - like you know you’re better than a cabbage or a dog and they are merciless, their hearts are made of hard, black-card plastic.

When used on pretenders, interlopers or social mountain climbers - the cold and mesmerizing bluntness can have a deep psychological effect. The response is usually passive intimidation but it can also induce violence.

This attitude (I think of it as “the voice”), is learned by example, and mastered early. I heard an eight year old girl turn it on a sales clerk once. Her mom apologized and reined in the little princess - but where do you think she learned it from?  

Anna looked at me, her eyebrows drawn down in alarm, Lisa said “Wowzer.” I just shook my head and shrugged - it wasn’t our business, we certainly didn’t know those knobs or what kicked it off - but we noted who the mean girl was - Anna even took her pic. They were Cree-P.

Our little group was soon reunited. We briefly gossiped about our rude, socially-obsessed neighbors but the incident was soon forgotten. Our champagne and strawberries arrived moments before Princess Anne and her daughter, Zara Tindall, rode by (20 feet away) in the Lead Carriage.

Now THERE are some REAL, world-class snobs. I hate that whole-*** upper-class attitude. That’s one reason to choose Yale over Harvard - fewer snobs.

The heavenly stars are on fire
I’m told.
You have to take some things on faith.

But where’s the smoke?
.
.
Songs for this:
Man in finance (G6 Trust Fund) by ******* a couch, Billen Ted
Bored by Laufey

We’re on October break, which is a 6-day weekend. For the last two weeks, everyone’s been making plans.
“What do you think of Cancún?” Sunny’d asked me.
“The only people going to Mexico are on the cheap or trapped in a trunk.” I’d answered.

After two weeks of weighing every conceivable terrestrial destination, amenities and available attractions, we (there’s six of us suitemates - Sunny, Lisa, Leong, Anna, Sophy and I) settled on good old Manhattan, where you’ll find us in adjoining-suites atop the Plaza hotel (thanks, Grandmère).

Things went CrA-CrA (crazy with a capital K) right off the bat. Sunny, as it turns out, KNOWS people here, and we decided to ‘walk on the wild side’ for one or two nights and check out a few fem-facing clubs. Now I know how sensitive we all are about pronouns, and what-not, but I’m going to try to simplify for a broad audience. These are lesbian clubs.

One thing I like about Music is sharing it with friends. Communities have always formed around art in whatever form. There are book clubs, film societies, Trekkies, Swifties and apparently, wild-*** lesbian dance clubs.

On our first night in Manhattan, the sun had barely set when Sunny said, “Ok then, let’s go!” And off we went to a “Femmquerade Ball”. I think that’s a combo of ‘feminine, queer and masquerade.’ She’d told us beforehand what to wear, “Take sweatshirts, those will come off - it gets hot in there - otherwise t-shirts, jeans and ballet flats - no purses.”

You know, I thought punk music was dead, ideating its death somewhere in the 90s. I was wrong, it’s ALIVE.
You know, when everyone’s feelin’ it, when two hundred people are rocking as one, club-life is transcendent. The club vibe was interesting too, there was a safety and freedom to it. You're in a crowded club, somehow without the limitations of the banal male gaze, with its sexist expectations. I don’t know how else to describe it.

I don’t think music has to have a message to earn its place as art. Folk romance music’s ok, jazz has its reach, opera is still happening and of course there’s regular dance music - cause sometimes, you’ve just gotta jiggle it.

That being said, there’s a saying that “Punk is truth” and that comes from its rawness and authenticity.
Punk has a ‘low barrier of entry’, as the academics say. It’s a game anyone can play. Punk isn’t autotuned, the bands use second-hand guitars, there are no synthesizers, the speaker stacks were shared, the vocalists lacked training, and I’d guess that none of the players were burdened with unpaid Juilliard tuition.

Punk’s always been outsider art, a scream along, you can’t go wrong, fire and every punk song is a garage invitation to joyously rage. As we drove to the club, Sunny had said, “Think of punk as dance music without inhibitions. It's straightforward and unapologetically for the people who can’t bother to keep to the dance steps and aren’t above getting in each other’s precious space.” Every word of that was true.

Punk lyrics are about the problems and issues of real-world people. It’s a roll call, a manifesto, implicit and explicit in stylish screaming. I’ve always called it scream-0. The point being, that while the rest of the world is restrained, heteronormative and reduced to a corporate gray backdrop, there’s still room for comradery, agency, outrage, pumpkin-Jello-shots (@ $16 each) and a bit of winking fun.

We DID have fun but I’ve been hoarse all day today. As we’d climbed into the car, last night, for the ride back to the Plaza, Mr. & Mrs Charles pointedly removed ear plugs from their ears - the kind they give to airport workers who work around jet engines all day. Charles laughed and said something, but I couldn’t hear him.
My ears were still ringing.
.
.
Songs for this
Rebel Girl by Bikini ****
Hash Pipe by Weezer

Draw a stick figure
future - diminished
and virus ransomed.

Paint the landscape
with the sweltering glare
of global warming.

Come share this
with me - let kisses heal and
soft whispers inflame.

Some locks need two keys
to open; some heavens can
be reached by mortals.

I’m in the library, at school, trying to write an article for the school paper (and I'm not even ON the school paper). I’m on a forty-five minute deadline to complete a story someone else did poorly - on the edge of my vision I see someone step up to my table - a boy, I can tell, without looking up, from his school uniform. I’m hoping whoever it is will go away.. 44 minutes.
“Uhh-umm,” I hear.
My eyes flicker up and I ID “Everett Priestly” - one of God’s less ambitious efforts.
After a moment.
“Uhh-umm,” he does again.
“Parsley,” I say, without looking up.
“Priestly,” he answers with a sigh, "wanna play HOUSE?" he says conspiratorially, with a smirk.
"We were 7," I say, liberally applying syrupy boredom.

I’ve kind of known Everett Priestly forever - he lives two doors away from us - then my family became ex-patriots until three years ago. His family is rich, he’s handsome and I believe someone once told him he was charming. He fancies himself a lady killer but I’m willing to bet that he kills them with a combination of daddy’s money and poor driving.

“I’m awfully busy - on deadline Mr. Priestly - please send me a text,” I say, again, without looking up.
“I don’t have your number,” he says, patiently. “Would you like to go to Sandra’s party with a group of us Friday night?”
“OOOO! Let’s keep it that way,” I smile - this is too easy - 42 minutes.
“It’ll be FUN,” he says, with a smile in his voice - Oh, God, he’s trying charm.
“Everett,” I stop writing, look up and lean back. “You ask me out every two months. If you’ve made a bet with someone - like we’re living a teen movie - I’ll payoff the bet for ya if you just give it a rest, OK?”
He really IS good looking - but kissing him would be the apoco-LIPS.
“Why do you always say no??,” he asks, with a helpless 1/6th shrug and his GIGAWATT smile.
41 minutes.
“See you in January,” I say, as I slide my laptop closer in, give it my obvious, full attention and hopefully, start back to writing.
“Come to Thanksgiving!,” he says, as inspiration strikes.
“January would be MLK day,” I remind him. “Everett, PLEASE - deadline,” I plead (not looking up).
Everett, makes a snarky sound, turns around and slowly moves away - like a man headed for jail - he really SHOULD try out for the drama department, I decide. 40 minutes.

When Everett turned 16, his daddy gave him some kind of expensive foreign sports car - a really, really, really expensive sports car. Six hours later Everett guns this formula-one race-car out of a gas station, loses control, and totals it. The girl with him had to get stitches over her right eye.

His friends call him “EV” - they say it with a kind of a southern accent - that I can’t decide is fake or not, which gives it a hint of - “Elvis” - had a replacement car within 48 hours. He wrecked THAT one in less than six weeks - and his date got a concussion in the roll-over.

If he wants me to get in a car with him, he’s gonna to have to taser me.

Christmas has been trending and
I chose to play into the parasocial violence,
with no salt or brakes physically and emotionally,
- the holidays - lush and fresh, just hit different.

When I see the lights, the smiles, and get my hugs
I want to cry and throw up from joy at the same time.
The holidays make me believe in love. I don’t care.

Attraction is a small and fragile thing.
We started with stolen glances,
in crowded halls, across a coffee shop.
I was glancing (I hoped he was glancing).

It was hard, we lived in a rushed way.
We were on schedules, we had routines.
I had doubts about having a boyfriend
but they fell away, like leaves fall off trees.

I’d been warned, "don’t saddle trouble."

But finally, feeling that we were
deserving of love’s rich value,
we came together,
as marble-hearted sinners
with the serpent's contempt
for God’s stable order.

We’re shape-shifting, my roommates and I. Transitioning mentally from freshmen and sophomores (nobodies) into juniors (somebodies). We’ve been around, we’re not the new kids anymore. We’re being seen and appreciated. It’s a mindbang.

There was a coolike girl, Kathleen, who was a senior when I was a freshman. I had a mad, mad envy-crush on her. She was everything I wanted to be when I was scared and unsure about things. Kathleen was perfect., an example of success that, like a fulcrum, lifted our confidence.

When she was around, I’d watch her, discreetly. She had this unconscious habit of touching her chin, with her index finger, when she was thinking. I swear, I found myself copying her, until Leong saw me do it once and said “Kathleen!” I was embarrassed. You can’t get away with anything around here.

Kathleen graduated last year. I saw her once, in her graduation gown, from afar. I got emotional. Part of me wanted to rush over, give her a huge, congratulatory hug and tell her what a role model she’d been for me - even though we’d never even talked, but I was afraid she’d think I was a stalker.

The Professor settles in and says, “Let’s go around the circle and introduce ourselves”

We listen to resume after resume of unbridled accomplishment. Then he points to me.

“Hi, I’m Anais, I’m a freshman, from Georgia, and I have mad skills. I can ***** about anything or feign complete indifference. I can give the impression of depth or play the ditz. I can pick the slowest line every time and I’m so good at sleeping I can do it with my eyes closed.” I finish and give the professor a head tilted “anything else?” look.

“Uhh,” he gives me an amused look, “thank you Anais. Next.”

I lost my love, It’s just that simple.
I don’t know what else to say.

I miss his smile, his eyes, his hands.
He has a high libido and certain demands.

I went to my priest, he seemed kind of grim,
“God has a lot on his plate now - stop bothering him.”

I called the police, they sounded bored but wanted a description.
I said “He’s real good lookin’, and he tastes like chicken.”

I lost my love, but no one understands.
I have a high libido and certain demands.

The ***, I thought. Pirates drink ***, I decided, because then the world rocks like a boat. My foot was tingling, like it was asleep, but I was just sitting on it, which seemed funny.

I managed to free my foot and the whole world seemed more comfortable.
Then a spider was on my face!
I swatted at it, but it was just my hair, which I managed, with dizzying effort, to tuck behind my ear.

Everett, slid off the couch, in front of me, like an alligator off a sand bank. I hadn’t noticed him before. He worked his way over next to me, on all fours, like a lazy, wobbly panther.

“Everett,” I said, as if to establish the fact that that blurry shape was indeed Everett.
“ANN-Ais,” he replied, and chuckled like we’d exchanged punchlines. He was next to me now.
“You’re very,” he said, as if struggling for the next word, “PRetty,” he said, petting my arm like a cat.

Then, still on all fours, he lifted one hand and touched a finger to my right breast, as if it were a sleeping thing he was trying to wake. I watched him, detachedly. He looked distorted, like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. His backside slumped down, like a lion that was full and ready to nap, and he rebalanced himself on his left elbow and licking his lips reached over again.

I gently, preemptively, pushed his reaching hand away, “Stop thAT,” I said, “yourrrrrr drrUNK.”
“YOU’RE, are TOO!” He said, in sloppy accusation, which made me laugh and then him too.

“Leave me alone,” I managed to say, pretty clearly. Prompting Everett to frown and give me a jerky, dismissive wave as he, the proud panther, began to look for other prey.

I looked around and saw my purse, on the table next to the chair that was holding me up. The strap was just within reach so I yanked on it and my purse thumped roughly onto the carpet next to me. My glass, which was next to it, threatened to tip over but settled itself upright.

I fished out my phone, while fighting a curtain of my hair that had decided to attack me when I reached for my purse. “Hey, Siri,” I slurred, “callllll CHarles.”
It rang once. “Yep,” he said.
“Come get me pleaZ,” I said, trying to get my hair and tongue separated.

Two minutes later Charles was there. He held out his hand, which I managed to take while somehow shouldering my purse. He pulled me to an unsteady stance, shook his head and scooped me, effortlessly, into a cradle carry. “Do you have everything?” He asked.

I nodded and said, “Thank you for inviting me, EVVVV!” While waving wildly as we left.
Once outside, he said, “14-year old's do NOT drink!” With a real edge in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” I said, in a tone of tired melancholia. I couldn’t help resting my face on his warm chest as he carried me to our house just next door to Everett’s.
“You’re GROUNDED for a MONTH.” He said in a growl.
Somehow, I managed to make it upstairs and into bed without encountering my parents.

In the morning, while I was busy feeling like death, Charles told my parents, “She’s grounded for a month.” I was. They didn’t ask why, and he didn’t offer to say.

I love Charles.

I’m huddled in a corner -
I’d move but I’m paralyzed
by invisible patterns of heavy air
and magnitudes of decision.

I know I must motivate
this unconvincing vision of myself
to struggle with the immaterial forces
and perform the pointless activities of life.

(3 Senryus)

No - don’t kiss me
unless you're planning to
start a new habit.

Don't borrow kisses
unless you can return them
with real interest.

Remember boy-O
it's all fun and games 'til
someone falls in love.

Arrggh!!
**** phone alarm.
I gulp haste.
I open my school app - like an eyelid.
Invade my sanctuary, virtual tyranny.
Where's my focus?!
looking around for my coffee cup
I feel like a bobble-head.

J D Vance has such smoky, smoldering eyes, doesn’t he?
The way those baby blues coruscate, as if from the darkness.
Are those shadows natural? No, it’s eyeliner, of course, but on
a 40-year-old man it’s called guyliner.

Any teenage girl will tell you the kohl pencil is the gateway makeup tool for self-definition, if not exactly self-improvement.

As an ex-teenage girl, I can picture the hours senator Vance spent,
hunched over his laptop watching make-up tutorials on TikTok or
Instagram, analyzing eyeliner techniques in overwhelming detail.

TikTok clips are today’s replacement for the Teen Vogue magazine
product pages of back-in-the-day. I recall watching these videos,
at 14 and devolving into a fog of envy and inadequacy.

JD began wearing guyliner in 2016, so he probably watched those
at age 33 and by now, he’s certain to have upped his game by having them permanently, cosmetically tattooed on.

Of course, Trump himself has never been one to shy away from makeup.
His weird, orange, glazed-ham look comes from his preferred spray-on concealer, ‘Bronx Colors,’ a cruelty-free makeup manufacturer in Switzerland.

If this all sounds too judgy, I’d like to say, “JD, I’ve felt your clearly adolescent girl pain, and I get your desire to represent a softer and more romantic republican political aesthetic.”

And let’s not forget that Kamala’s been known to wear makeup herself.

Here are before and after JD Vance eyeliner pics - you decide: daweb.us/jdVance.png
.
.
Songs for this:
It's All Over Now, Baby Blue by Falco
Gonna Get Along without you now by She and Him

It’s 8am on an overcast Wednesday morning, Leong and I are about halfway through a round of frisbee golf. Half of the holes on this course wind through dense, hilly woods, but as we climbed a hill toward the 9th hole we left the woods, with its green forest canopy, for the open fairway.

That’s when the first, fat, high-velocity raindrops hit us. They made a tiny popping sound and left small, dark, bullet-hole water-stains on our quick-drying activewear. I wasn’t thinking about the weather, at that point, we’d been under a forest roof, protected from the wind and elements.

I’m so competitive, up until this point my eyes, my entire mind had been focused on the course, the game, the next shot, the angles and the par.

As the oldest sibling in her family, Leong can be a little bossy - but in a nice way. She “older sisters” me sometimes (she’s ten months older). When we’re at school, I abandon myself to her happily because she studies a LOT - something we have in common - and I know she’s always got one eye on the clock.

Leong has an uncanny knack of knowing precisely what to do, where to go, and when. I’m used to going second with her, following, sure that she has everything ordered, in her head, in such a way that the world around us never disintegrates into disorder.

As we topped the hill, overlooking a broad landscape of golf-course-sculptured green, dotted with trees arranged as obstacles, I realized that Leong kept turning around - was something happening?

I started looking around too and focusing more carefully. The trees along the fairways were flailing in the wind, making a collective rustling and shushing sound, as if to get our attention. The forest canopy we just left was an ocean of violently rolling green.

The sky immediately behind us was lower, weighted down with purple-edged black clouds that covered the sky like restless, moving bruises. In front of us, the sky was open, the sunlight still dazzling, but that brightness was quickly receding, as if fleeing the suffocating storm that was pressing in.

Thunder erupted as if freed by our attention and there were sparks of lightning in that menacing, fairy-tale darkness. I looked at Leong, her expression was new to me. Her eyes were narrowed, her knees slightly bent, like a surfer seeking balance and she was licking her lips as she twisted nervously around.

Suddenly, wordlessly, she took my hand and gave me an irresistible tug. I found myself running, unwillingly at first, towards the parking lot - about a quarter mile away. She was squeezing my hand hard. Is it possible that she’s afraid, I wondered?

The clouds were just behind us now, and a thick wall of rain, that looked like a cartoon curtain, obscured the fairway in back of us. The wave of water seemed to be following us, pursuing us - gaining on us. A fierce flash of light and a bomb-like boom seemed to shake the ground under out feet. “Oh, ****!” I half-screamed, half-laughed, panting.

I pressed my door fob as we approached the car and we clamored in just as the lashing rain overtook us. We looked at each other, out of breath, and laughed in relief.
“Who says frisbee golf isn’t exciting?” I asked.

Over the holidays, I was watching Lisa’s sister little Leeza, she’s 14.
She has a rebellious fashion sense and a joyful innocence.
She’s still fearless too, and on-God, I hope she never loses that.

Too soon though—the disco’s coming to town—the world’s coming for her. It’s the same for all of us, I suppose, but in Lisa and my cases, covid shut it all down.

It’s a rite of passage—the shoes, the bodycon dresses and the makeup. Those carry negative connotations, I get it, but there’s an excitement too, about finally getting to dress like an adult—a woman—in one of those bodycon, cut-out dresses.

I know the pressures on women and their bodies, but at her age, it's not all stress, cattiness and comparisons—it’s just innocent teen fun. She and her posse can take hours just dressing and doing their make-up—together. It’s probably the best part of their night.

Leeza’s dad (Michael) saw the little group of teens, all dolled-up and launched, like a SpaceX Starship. Pacing the living room, he quietly opined to Karen (her mom), “I don’t want her going out dressed like that.”

Karen was right there with him to cool things down, “No, ***, at her age, it’s about self-expression, learning and girl bonding—these connections are really important in the girl-world.”

I’m not worried about Leeza’s physical safety. These girls are watched over and gently curated. Their every movement is orchestrated and security escorted—hell, Hamas couldn’t get to them—much less some gropey boy.

There’s just this new awareness these days of how unhappy some people are—and a lot of them are teen girls. I wouldn’t want to see Leeza mired in the sad, brain-draining social media pressure and self-esteem traps.
Teenhood is scary—I was feelin’ positively parental.

Then I looked at Lisa, and I was reminded that they’ve done all this before, and she has a big-sister, role-model too.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Time Girl (feat. Charlie Barker) by Sofi Tukker
Dance To This (feat. Ariana Grande) by Troye Sivan

I think we all love kisses, like flowers love the sun.
They can be meaningful, deep and scandalous or fun.

You might briefly, sneakily, steal a kiss,
you can blow a kiss or condone a kiss,
emblazon every girl or boy you know with a kiss,
postpone a kiss, or bemoan a kiss as hormones,
but you can’t keep a kiss or own a kiss,
because they’re never more than half your own kiss -
sadly, as we’ve all learned, you just can’t kiss alone.

Every kiss is a puzzle, an experiment requiring a team
you may not even understand a kiss, or exactly what it means.
As far as kisses go, I’ve only had a few. I blame that dam
pandemic, they certainly weren’t something I eschewed.

I wish I had specific tips for girls with quick, impulsive lips
which somehow never can resist a flirty, kissing apocalypse.
Your roommates will support you, with only a few quips
but you really can’t keep doing this, you’ve got to get a grip.

I saw you on the lake.
You have a nice tan,
you glistened, wet, and smiled.
We waved halfheartedly, at a distance.
It was one of those 2020 moments.
where we're distanced by discipline,
with desires sheltered in place.
Mine are burned, as fuel,
for piquant eclogues or rest,
unused, like nuclear waste.

(this is another throw-back - a piece of writing, from high school, used in my Yale applications)

I pound the pillow, curse the clock and mock injunctions to rest.

The sun finally rises and its rays slantwise fall through the curtains as I dry my hair.

A meal, like a forced dose, we soak ourselves in wasted, nervous time.

Finally! We arrive at the competition...

Tension is here and tireless pressure.

The players waiting stiff as straw, tongues playing over dry lips.

Teachers and coaches unapologetic in their pallor.

Music drifts behind us and occasionally gasps, as imperfections play like daring circus tricks.

The sparkling prodigy returns disappointed, grimace of a smile, stricken, he stares away as we search for words, oh! clumsy, unrepairable prince!

Suddenly, its time and I wonder why we are hurrying, feeling weak, momentarily frightened to go there.

On this stage in this great, hushed hall, enormity suddenly dawns with mass enough to crush me.

At last, I sit before this odd Steinway music machine - my dearest mechanical friend.

A tremble resisted - the reward of mortal afternoons - endless practices fruit.

Eyes closed I prepare my best self - pushing all fear, all doubt, to the margins - and begin.

I hope, to recreate, one note at a time, Chopin's ancient impact - with hands flying, like tethered birds, I hammer out his timeless melody explosions, his streams of crazily exact math exam fiery semiquaver motions.. then, almost suddenly, I'm done.

I stand, joyously, nearly crying.. The world hasn't ended.
.
.
Songs for this:
12 Etudes, Op. 10: No. 4 in C-Sharp Minor by Vladimir Ashkenazy
Part of Your World by Emile Pandolfi
We gather together by Emile Pandolfi

He passes through the room like a bubble in champagne, unattached, teflon coated, and somehow freer than the rest of us. “Jordie’s here,” Leong says in an excited whisper.

“Yeah,” I sigh, adjusting my mask, “saw him.” She smiles like a cat behind hers. Leong knows I’m crushing on Jordie and she finds it delicious information which she waves at me like a flag whenever he’s around.

We’re processing in, distancing and passing table to table. Leong can be with me because, as roommates, we’ll be quarantining together. Lisa joins us, she’s back from the restroom. “Jordie’s here,” she says, bouncing up on her toes to better scan the room.

I don’t look at him but he fills my horizon like a thunderhead. He’s all I can see, even when I’m not looking at him. We reach the end of a row of tables and bam, there he is, six feet away. He says hi, I say hi - I’m very professional as we exchange looping, harmless euphemisms for settling in for spring semester - then he’s called to the next station.

“If only we weren’t so busy,” I say, holding this fiction in front of me like a shield. “Yeah,” Leong and Lisa say, practically together, and smiling like thieves.

“How does it feel, studying for your first exam of the semester?” My sister Annick dug at me, via Facetime.
“Oh, I’m miserable and no one even knows!” I exclaimed excitedly.

I already miss summer’s sense of infinite time and space, and life on the lake, with its big, wet, melancholy summer rains. But most of all, I miss the travel and delicious, swirling, excesses that form the dark side of long holiday freedoms.

I’ve been called excessive, I accept that and I have to check that aspect of my nature, from time to time.
“Don’t you have any brakes?” My roommate Leong once asked me, like I was some runaway train.

I remember last summer, how we almost eased into fall. As summer had faded, things changed and slowed down, as the European students turned back to their serious, ordinary lives. The bars and streets became deserted, carousels stopped spinning, arcade games were turned off, yachts sailed away, the eager summer wait-staff vanished from the elegant hotels. Brightly lit, summer-gaudy Saint Tropez became just another faded seaside town, where the paint everywhere suddenly seemed chipped and cheap.

This year, we sped up, by spending the last couple of weeks in flashy, frantic, fluorescent Manhattan - oh, man.

Then BOOM, we were dropped, as if from a great height, back into university life, back to cafeteria lines, shuttle buses and the scholastic gridiron - which oddly enough, has a lot in common with the teenage world. It was going from a-hundred-mile-an-hour adult freedom, to dealing with all the old teenage issues, like homework, tests, studying, the endless clock-watch scheduling of to and from classes - you know, the physicality of academics.

It sounds rough, I know. We’ve been told that as seniors, we can expect an even more important and frenetic emphasis on social life. Yep, we’ll be stepping things up to a whole new level this year!
Woot!! Maybe I’ll even get to wear some makeup!
.
.
A song for this:
September by Earth Wind & Fire

The bright sunrise made the snow-covered Alp mountain-tips, an hour-away-by-car, glow like they were topped with lemon ice-cream. Was this evidence of magic?

Peter (my bf) and I are low atop the five story Hotel de la Paix, in Geneva, which seems like a small town - with only 10 slightly interesting things to see - like a large fountain - gimme a sarcastic ‘wow’ (so sue me Geneva board of tourism).

Unless you're planning to launder money, go elsewhere (free travel advice). In fact, Geneva is SO boring, they should assume anyone traveling here (who’s not a physicist or the girlfriend of a physicist) is laundering money and just lock em’ up.

The Keurig in our room gurgled as it turned out yet another sub-standard cup of coffee. I’d started the contraption, brushed my teeth and jumped back in bed. But the thought of yet one more lousy cup of coffee was depressing. “Run down to the lobby and get us some real coffeeee,” I wheedled at Peter, helplessly.
“I’m not dressed‽” he exclaimed (he was in his boxers), like that was an acceptable excuse.
“This is Europe,” I foisted, “They don’t care. GO!” I tried my best to push him out of bed, but he was immoveable.
“Order room service,” he offered lamely, ignoring my pushing on him as hard as I could.
“That’ll take forEVER,” I moaned.
“We don’t have forever.” he pronounced smugly, “You’d better hit the shower,” he added, looking at his watch.
I checked - he was right. 15 minutes later, I was showered and dressed - a skill I learned in pre-covid high school.

Pater was on his laptop at the tiny office desk they gave you in supposedly luxury hotel suites.
“Today’s our last calm day, for a while,” I’d said, kissing him on the cheek, “we need to savor it.”
“The flight’s in three hours,” he’d replied - and again, looking at his watch, “Our Uber will be here in 20 minutes.”
“Two points to Slytherin house,” I said, defeatedly - the ‘busy’ was starting.
“I’m a Hufflepuff,” he said, in a ‘don’t you even know me​​‽’ way.

“Maybe we just shake hands and pretend we liked each other,” I said, dryly, “that would be perfect⸮”
He wrapped his long, ape-like arms around me and reminded me of the alternative option.
“You could always stay here, in Geneva, in my little apartment, all day, while I go out and work - for the rest of the summer,” he said invitingly.
“As irrational as that sounds,” I sighed, “I’d end up chewing the furniture, like an angry puppy.”
“They just don’t make wives anymore,” he lamented, “even though there are substantial tax advantages.”
“Aww, my dominant little male, man-baby,” I cooed in baby-talk, “You want to be my tax deduction!”
“I like when you talk down to me,” he confided, “It motivates me.”

I knocked on the door to the adjacent suite (where Lisa and David are), ‘Uber in 17 minutes.’ I called.
A moment later I heard a muffled, “Yep,” Lisa’s reply.
“Shotgun!” I called, thinking of the Uber seating.
“I already called it,” Peter said.
“You LIE!” I shrieked referentially, pointing at Peter like Valerie, Miracle Max's wife in The Princess Bride.
He chortled, getting it.
I was ready. Bring on the flight to Paris, the dress fittings, the make-up planning, the shoe and accessory decisions - the Grand Masked Ball (at the Versailles Palace) was in two days. I was ready, I could take it.
.
.
songs for this:
Nobody by Kate Earl
The Spot by Your Smith

have you ever grappled with despair
not in imagery, symbolism or portrayal.

I mean, have you ever felt the elevator drop
the watery weakness that extenuates breath
a depth of fatigue that makes lying on the floor a burden
an aching pounding in your chest,
the broken-glass dryness in your throat
the gritty ache in your eyes
that makes you want to close them forever?

Struggle no more, leaden limbs,
free the weary weight.
Eyes that struggle, release the light.
The body begs to no more fight.
In a blur of sluggish thought,
I whisper sleep's sweet name.
The will has dropped.
The yearning stopped.
I’ll rest on that distant shore.
.
.
Songs for this:
Nessun Dorma by Sarah Brightman
Caruso (Live at "Pavarotti International" Charity Gala Concert, Modena 1992) by Luciano Pavarotti, Aldo Sisilli
Pie Jesu by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Sarah Brightman & Paul Miles-Kingston
0730.0722

The smart, modern boys
who’ll shepherd satellites
and parent sly AI -

live blocks away and
spend sunny afternoons with
digital zombies.

I talked with one - once,
I think, he mumbled some
strange techno-English.

He was pale and
skittish but attractive
in a shy, goth way.

“Who are you voting
for?” he stared blankly, “for prom
court??” he stared blankly.

“Madison’s nice, I
say", handing him a ballot,
(He checks her name) “Thanks!”

I use make-believe
overwriting memory
it brings me some peace

The fiction I’ve weaved
you’re at the store - you wouldn’t leave
is a fool’s relief

So I take mine neat
sweet ****** of self-deceit
my strange trick or treat

If you ask our NewsMax, America One fueled, republican congressmen
who won the last presidential election - they’ll pretend that they don’t know.
But hey, these are the guys, the “honest brokers” we can trust, to figure out UFOs.

These republicans disavow Trump’s clear treason. If they refuse to follow those clues,
like video captured by the guilty themselves - how can their UFO “hearings” fail to amuse?

It’s a shrewd political distraction, a republican red-herring, to put vague “aliens” in the news
just when Trump's lawyers are figuring out which prison facility he should choose.

In this circus of misinformation, we’re offered unproven decades of government collusion,
heck, we even have that RFK.jr nut insisting that the alien saucers are full of jews.

Of course, the aliens must be from distant galaxies - in their new breed of flying saucers -
why else would they be turning down so many lucrative showbiz offers?

Will it turn out that the cute, little, ET-guys are here conducting interstellar analysis?
Stay tuned. Have the aliens come to eat us - should we be frozen in fearful paralysis?
Or will our republican overlords, so busy removing our freedoms, decide it’s time to save us?

There’s no long proven, scientific fact that the newer, dumber, Republicans haven’t disputed,
maybe the UFOs were sent back from the future, their mission: study primitive human stupid.

Bustling corridors, places to go,
you can’t stand still or move too slow.
Make a plan, plot a course,
there’s an entire campus to traverse.
Other things are good to know,
like the best place for lunch
or where the wi-fi’s slow.

Last year, when there was lots of snow,
the Yale tunnel system was the way to go,
to warmly get from A to B,
when paths were dangerously icy.
This year there hasn’t been any snow
it guess it’s global warming, you know
- or that Pacific weather pattern, El Niño?

I miss the Nor'easters and bomb cyclones
the hazardous weather that made Yale seem like home
those storms were something I took for granted
‘Cause I want snow drifts like they have in Canada.

I left Georgia and now I’m feeling cranky
I want the winters God used to inflict on yankees
I remember when blizzards, up north, were doctrinaire
to stop them now isn’t fair - or something else näm-di-'ger.

(Senryus)

If I don’t have
a hair-band on my wrist I
feel out of control.

When I was a kid
I thought teens were the coolest
people in the world.

Now I know that teens
are the tiredest, most stressed
people in the world.

How fun would it be
if ceiling fans could support
our weight - bye boredom.

Life at 21, do you remember it?
Things rush at you, hit you, from all directions.
Any small decision can turn into a major plot beat.

What are our lives anyway but the sum of our decisions?
Opportunities contract and expand around us, like breathing—
and what fills those lungs are our test scores and faculty opinion.

College is a land of dreams—we’re all dream catchers—on our own paths, but the paths are mazes shrouded in haze, tumblers in need of combinations, variants that we must learn and memorize though it drains our communal blood.

At test times, the silence in libraries and coffeehouses is deafening,
full, as they are, of hunched-back phantoms toiling on books or blue-lit screens. If it sounds stressful and dramatic—it is. It’s not a time to get raddled—it’s all a big test.

Your world contracts to the sterile and dry— the facts and the moments needed to gather and order them.

That’s why we love breaks. Fall, Summer, Christmas, Thanksgiving—any flavor—break.

In fact, Lisa and I are on break now, I’m typing, on a MacBook Air, in a helicopter, screaming towards Manhattan.

If we don’t die in this shaky, 250mph, 3000-feet out-over Long Island Sound, cricket-like contraption, we’re going to have a great time—if we do nothing but sleep, hug our families and eat turkey—a great time.
.
.
Songs for this:
Little Hercules by Trisha Yearwood
Constant Craving by k.d. lang

Santa Claus is coming.
This isn’t a luck situation.
He knows things, like if you’re sleeping.
Which is kind of creepy if you think about it.
I suppose I’m an open book.
It’s an implacable reality.

oops, better rhyme something.. let’s see..

“Santa, that elf commanda
will bring you all a panda
fresh from the jungles of Uganda
straight to your verandah”

Whew.. art is hard work.

Leeza has a small aluminum-tinsel Christmas tree in her room with a new-age LED-star topper. It slowly prisms through the color spectrum, breaking down light, like modern jazz. Small things can still enchant, if you’re open.

I was sipping dark-chocolate coffee while Lisa rearranged the ornaments on the tree - again (as head-elf, the tree is her purview). She was humming to herself unconsciously as she worked, like a finch in a beautifully lit, evergreen garden. There was no real melody to it, it was just happiness.

Peter (my bf) is here, he arrived last night - we’re workshopping instant gratification.

Even if things have been tough - I hope you have a joyous holiday - that you chose it, like an option in an app. Nothing’s sweeter than the bruised joy of someone who’s known sorrow.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

If you had one year of love,
and then you had to say adios,
should you be glad or morose?

Sure, if it ends, it’s not what I’d hoped,
we just weren’t destined to be betrothed.

We had fun, we were close and jocose,
we snogged until we practically choked,
and we did ALL the fun things that were gross,
but our forte was that we felt safe, I suppose.

Now, I’m not saying it’s over, but I tend to diagnose things,
and while I wouldn’t say that we love overdosed,
I would guess that we’ve shared more love than most.

In dreams, I’m where the music plays.
I’m listening to the laughter, like it’s in another room.
My drink is dark, bitter and oaky tasting
and the peanuts taste like soap.
There aren’t any napkins.
Others are lines of light and shadow.
I feel an anxiety that I gnaw on,
like a dog works a bone.
My dream’s conflating memories.
Suddenly Lisa’s there,
she comes up from behind,
“Aww, your tag is sticking out,” she says
but before she can fix it,
I hear tower bells ringing.
It’s my alarm.

Happy pumpkin spice latte season!

Someone said the leaves had turned
to butterscotch, banana, and lemon
but they don’t taste right.

Ooo! Your fake smile - what’s up?

It’s Sunday morning, my watch shows that it’s 33° and 5:58 am. Surprisingly, half of us are up and motile. My excuse is that I’m scheduled to volunteer at the hospital this morning.

Leong just came up from the basement fitness center, she’s all sweaty. “I hate that metal music those giant guys in the weight room listen to.” Leong said, slipping her shoes off.

“That music makes me feel so hot, It has such energy.” Sunny shivers, slipping-into a sweater.

“I don’t understand old music.” Sophie said, spreading butter on a piece of hot toast.

“What does THAT mean?” - I had to ask - thinking she meant “classical music,” which I love.

Sophie explained, “My English professor played this old song for us - it’s old - “The times they are a changin”, by Bob Dylan? It’s an AMAZING song”

“You’ve never heard THAT?” I asked, dubiously, but slobber-knocked if it were true.

I never LISTEN to old music,” Sophie shrugged, “it sounds so flat and one dimensional - I can’t stand it,” she winces. “I like spatial audio, binaural and object-based dolby atmos, you know - lossless and three dimensional.”

“Don’t get technical with me,” I said, as if offended, while gathering my gear,

“But you watch Carol Bernett and all those old TV shows.” Lisa said, “What’s the difference?”

“Video?” Sophie argues, with an implied “HELLO,” as if that one word made everything obvious.

I missed the rest of it, my watch beeped, it was time to disco, I had stops.

I can’t deny Peter and I are sync’d these days. Have we fallen in love? Maybe, but I think we’re still upright. He doesn’t tease me about my fear of heights, bugs, the dark, and cheesecake - anymore. He overlooks my crying during movies, streams and pet-reunion videos. It’s reciprocal, of course, I let him hate salad dressing, ketchup (just odd) bananas and chocolate (can you imagine?), I let him help me with homework and I try to ignore his awful bro-act, around his bhessys.

I’m going to Peter’s to watch football, later, ‘cause I love my NFL. The doctoral guys have a notorious “mancave” situation setup in their basement where they red-zone, kaber, or blare shley emo-core at 120db. I flat told Peter that when my watch alerts to harrowing audio levels - I’m outro.

But between you and me, these guys make THE best BBQ (they slow smoke briskets or something). I’d probably just go upstairs, put on my noise-canceling AirPods, read (with the smart girls) and wait for the **** eats.

Monday’s Halloween - Happy Halloween everyone!

“You don’t indulge in much self-reflection, do you?” Peter asked me.
“Are you asking about that time in Reno I shot a man just to watch him die?” I answered.

(A poem from a friend (by Peter)

A big affair
I know more about particle physics than love
but you have a gravity of your own,
and I want to be around you.

A big affair
A fight for your attention and commitment,
a revelation, a feast of impressions,
I could drown in it.

Peter hops up for a handful of peanuts, then retakes his place on the deep red couch next to me. “Sure,” I say in my best frenetic, surly and spoiled voice, “leave me alone here - desperate for kisses - and then try and creep back into my life.”

Some people are cynical about college -  it’s rigid, they say - why is it even needed?

Don’t be confused about college - it’s not a place for creativity. You can’t use an essay to wander restlessly through your imagination - you’ll fail - and fail quickly. Universities are places for conscientious minds.

Conscientiousness - the desire to do the needed well and thoroughly - is the best predictor of success in college, in graduate school, in law, in management and anyplace that has structure and rules.

In science, most progress is incremental. Oh sure, there’s the occasional Einstein who changes everything, but that’s rare. The reason science is so powerful is that it allows regular, educated people to advance knowledge one microstep at a time. Imagine a hundred thousand people microstepping and exchanging knowledge and wow, now we’re zooming.

You don’t want a surgeon in their well lit operating theater to have an inspiration and try something new on you. You want them to apply the state-of-the-art procedure diligently and carefully.

Entrepreneurs and artists don’t always do well in college. Those careers require constant “out of the box” thinking. When a person starts a company, there are no rules, it’s necessary for the entrepreneur to make things work on the fly. Artists are almost required to break or create new rules. Conscientiousness certainly plays a part in those fields but it’s not the main predictor of success.

Creativity is necessary - every company needs a small group of people generating new ideas but it’s a high risk, high reward game. Few new ideas pan out - the odds that your idea will be unique, practical, affordable and reach the marketplace at exactly the right time to be successful are astronomically low.

Someone who wants to - who feels they have to be creative - is almost cursed. Yes, it’s ironic that I’m publishing this on a poetry site - but in most cases creative people fail - it’s much better for the average someone to be practical. Practical people are generally more successful in life although the rare creative can be extremely successful (Musk, Jobs, Gates).

Colleges teach how our world works - a simulacrum of what is currently known - in hopes that the student will be able, one day, to ask the next question - the one that will push their particular science ahead that one microstep and move us all into the bright future.

I dreamt about an alligator
- what could that possibly mean?

Am I hoping that a lizard man
will slowly romance me?

Are my desires so primitive, so ancient
that we could come to some arraignment?

Would a silent and cold-blooded lover
be as ​​considerate as any other?

Do I long for scaly fingers
to caress me up and down?

Or lust for reptile Dolce Gabbana pumps
and a matching iguana gown?

Do I long for another dazzling week
of lying lizard-like under a mediterranean sun?

If I saw an alligator prowling there,
I’m fairly sure that I would run.

What, on earth is going on,
in my secret subconscious mind?

After years of psychotherapy,
what do you think they’d find?

My pose is gathered this Saturday morning because I made a pancake and bacon breakfast. We're listening to a Britney Spears song, off one of Leong’s playlists. “I remember when I was about 8,” I say, “I was drawing and singing a Brittney song and I got to the line - “I make no apologies, I’m into phonography,”” and my mom sharply says, “Don’t say that!” And I’m left trying to figure out what I said.”

“People are harsh with her, but Britney is timeless,” Leong says.

“Everyone at Yale fancies themselves a music critic,” Lisa says. There are numerous vocal agreements. “I’m like, “Ok, Pop-off then queen, go complicated,” but in my opinion, you need to have fun with music - that’s the main purpose - just to have fun.”

“That’s like the difference between Cardi B and Niki (Minaj). You can just stroll a Cardi B song, you don’t have to interpret,” Anna adds, “but with Nicki I feel I have to listen to see the point.”

Lisa, surfing on her iPad asks, “Did you guys see that Jojo Seawall wasn’t invited to the kid’s choice awards - because she came out as lesbian?”

Sophy says, “Nickelodeon’s been trying to seem MORE accepting, working in more black artists.”

“Yeah, but they’re fake.” Anna pronounces. Everyone nods agreement.

“He hasn’t called all WEEK,” Sophy moans, holding her iPhone up to her ear like she expected to hear ticking, “I made a ghost of him,” she says, flopping the phone on the couch.

“Should I call the Po-po?” Anna asks, distracted as she searches the kitchen cupboard to be sure the pancakes were gluten free.

“I had a dream,” Lisa begins, “I was a child in a family I don’t know. We were criminals. We stole a car and robbed a store. My dream mom ran the operation. And wouldn’t let me watch TV until I emptied the loot out of the car. Then the police arrived, we saw the flashing red and blue lights through closed venetian blinds, then there was a banging on the door, in the dream, that woke me up.”

“That’s way off track but It’s fine, so fine, I see how it is.” Sophy said, “I’m bleak and no one CARES.”

“Is love something you find, or something you believe?” I ask no one in particular.

“That’s a coffee-cup inscription.” Anna pronounces.

“Aaggh,” Leong says, “An email from my professor - it’s TLTR.” We think it's a policy that professors at Yale have to send incredibly long emails - almost too long to read (TLTR).

There’re only three weeks left of our freshman year, so emails are flying and everyone’s trying to nail things down for a smooth ending.

I broke my personal record for days alive yesterday. Yeah me. I feel great today. This morning I swear my hair looked shinier and more lustrous and there’s the slightest glow to my skin. I’m just saying. I’m out and about for the first time this semester and you couldn’t slap the grin off my face.

The commons dining hall was a rolling buzz of conversations endemic to university life. At the next table, the topic is how many people can someone be in love with at once. A girl named Ariana, is at the center of the discussion. She’s a film-study major and I think it’s the topic of a documentary she’s working on.

Ariana has choppy purple hair with bangs about an-eighth of an inch long. Today, (34° and rainy) she’s wearing a short-short skirt, thermal tights that look like sheer leggings and about four tank tops. “You should pick one person and give them your everything.” Ariana argued.
“Monogamy used to mean one person for life,” another girl states, “then it became one person at a time.” I hide a smile and try to look like I’m not eavesdropping. It’s hard to explain how much I adore these overheard conversations.

Soon it’s time to head for class and we're up, gathering our bookbags and putting in our AirPods. When you’re making your way across campus, the goal is to be fast, fierce and bouncy. I love Miley Cyrus’ “Flowers.” It’s Eden on so many levels. People try to shame Miley but the woman goes hard, she slaps - all the things - and “Flowers” is one of those songs that get you there.

In crowded halls, ivy clad, walk the sleepless zombies - the walking dead.
They’ve come to grapple, the chosen few, in trials by pen and pencil too.

Long ago we quietly agreed to trade studies and stress for a lives of ease.
The fire of competition burns within, a pyre fueled by challenge and adrenaline.

We’ve been grinding from morning’s light to dark midnight, fueled largely by tasty caffeine's bite.
Sleep’s a distant memory, that’s been swapped for all-nighters, notecards and highlighters.

Professors who’ve taught us now plant briar-like, trickster-questions, to fraught us.
Have we synthesized it all - the labs, lectures and quotes, the chapters, quizzes and notes?

The hours we’ve spent, dissecting texts, parsing equations, crafting essays - pay off now.
Or don’t - the clutter of fact, theory, and tensors will separate the scholars from the pretenders.

But fear not, dear reader, for we’re tough, seasoned cowgirls and this is just another rodeo.
True, we chew erasers not tobacco and ride desks or lab stations, not bucking broncos
But some are thrown, bruised and scarred - finding their future careers discarded.

We’re required to hand-write our test essays out, a trap that negates AI with age-old foolscap.
We know the challenge, we’ve studied and crammed, to tackle the hurdle of ‘top-tier’ exams.

Beyond the stress beacons the sweet release - of holiday parties and presents that please.
But perhaps the sweetest possible tease, is the promise of slumber and weeks study free.

We hurtle down the last few hundred feet
of steep lavender lined cobbled *****
shaded by majestic umbrella pines - around
a last hairpin turn and there they are:

The blue-white Pampelonne beaches, of St Tropez.
Their indecent beauty almost defeats words.

With the scents of lavender, pine and salt sea air, you can
get dizzy on the aromatics. It's a Mediterranean performance
or perhaps a preview of heaven.

Our daredevil, fifteen year old driver, (Sylvain)
gets an unappreciative look from my mom. My brother (Brice)
and sister (Annick) whoop as if practiced, as they leap
from the open-sided Mercedes shuttle. I calmly gather my things.

This tranquil and elegant beach cove is private for hotel
guests - no chic crowds here - just a few quiet guests and
valets dressed in beige. The Pampelonne beaches are *******
(**** if you like), Annick peels ******* just before she hits the waves.

Brice, ever the considerate brother says, “Come ON,
RELAX, you’ll just look like one of the BOYS.”
Which earns him the old, American, one-finger salute.

I missed vacations this year and the beaches - where hours
stretch, with blissful laziness, to the rhythm of nature.
Will we ever get back to some pre-pandemic "normal"?

It's hard to feel like
you're growing up when you're moored
- sheltering at home.

I am patiently
waiting to take the helm of my
life's navigation.

My life, so far, is
prelude - I long to cast off
and exit the slip.

I got this new hand soap, called “Frosted Coconut Snowball.”
It's the dreamiest scent ever.

When I’d unpacked (from Spring break) and had everything in place,
I dragged Andy and Leong into my bathroom. Wash your hands,” I suggested, holding up the soap dispenser and turning on the tap.

“Ok," Leong said, offering her upturned hands for soaping.
“Sure,” Andy said, assenting with his hands as well.

I pumped out a generous, foaming squirt for each of them.
Leong held the foam up to smell. “Oh, my GOD,” She moaned, “is this edible?
I shook my head no.

Andy sampled his as well, “Nice!” he agreed. Which is volumes from a guy.

“I fell in love with it.” I declared, adding, “You know, I never used to wash my hands before - now, it’s practically a habit.”
Andy chuckled.

“Good to know,” Leong said, before she began slowly inhaling the fragrance off her now-dry hands.