It’s nice to have some holiday downtime and not be all go-go-go. I’ve even gotten in some Animal Crossing play. After 40 minutes of picking up weeds, Bianca, one of my villagers, told me she’d heard I was dead.

Later, we’re in Lisa’s living room taking turns playing songs from Spotify.
Lisa just played “Woo”, by Rihanna. When the song ends, fading out, Leeza deadpan said, “That song is pure evil.”
“You guys, I forgot to mention it but that is my energy song, it makes me feel so HOT.” Lisa adds with a chuckle.
“It has an evil vibe,” I admit. “An evil vibe,” Leeza confirms.
“Don’t be judging,” Lisa reminds us.
“Your next,” Lisa said, nodding to Leeza, “What’ve you got for us,” she speculates, “some mental health rock?”

Leeza’s had this girl-punk-rock group called “Vancougar” playing on a loop in her room. At first, I wasn’t enthusiastic but now I think they slay. Her mom’s even gotten on board, dancing “the twist” to “Philadelphia” when it rolls around. Leeza has great taste in music although she leans a bit EMO (emotionally *******) for me. She makes me feel old by introducing us to all these new bands like “Youngest and only,” “Calling all Captains” and “Beatrice Dear.”

“I’ve got one song to play,” Leeza says, “Paparazzi, by Lady Gaga.”
“I’ve been listening to that song all WEEK!” I gasp, “I love that song, it may be her best - that’s so random,” I finish saying as the song starts.
As Paparazzi ends Lisa says, “That song has major Gwen Stefani vibes.”
“It DOES,” I agree, “It could be “Cool” or “Sweet Escape.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Leeza agreed, “shoutout to No Doubt.”

Leeza says, “I have a conversation topic: What’s something we all acknowledge is cheugy but we still do anyway?”  
“Being blonde,” I say, which gets stitches of laughter because it’s true and Lisa and I are.
“That’s true, that’s fair,” redheaded Leeza laughs. “Anyone blonde is dead to me,” which gets her a pillow in the face.
“Ok, I’m going to come for a lot of people,” Lisa says, “but yogurt, yogurt is cheugy.”
Leeza gasps, “You think yogurt.. It’s not cheugy!” she practically yells, “It gives MOM.”

I dream of love
like bankers dream of fees

I’ve been remembering dreams lately. I don’t know why.
I dreamed I had a conversation with God, last night.

We’d finished moving into the university residential dorm - this dream was ripped, directly, from reality.

We (God and I) were on a bench in my residential courtyard, and she asked me what she’d gotten right - in creation.

My mind went blank, I mean, what do you say to THAT? But she was patient, like she had all the time in the world and finally, I came up with something.

“Porcelain tubs,” I said, watching her for a reaction, “beaches, kisses, oysters on the half-shell.” My voice goes all singy-songy when I’m nervous.

“Fashion,” I added, a moment later,  “At SOME point we’d have had to have clothes, ya?”

After a bit, she stood up and I knew she was leaving. “About that touching thing,” I started, hesitantly.

She fluttered her hand dismissively, “everyone does it.” She said as she faded away.

When I woke up, I was disappointed with myself. It seemed like such a softball interview.

There are so many mysteries she could have explained, like UFOs, bigfoot, republicans, why people say “heads-up” when they should say “duck” or if running away from my problems could, henceforth, be counted as exercise.

Your sweet breaths and perfumes provoke so,
have I found love in this drift of circumstance?

DO you love me? If so, pray, swear it on the tireless sea,
whose thrashing cold, intemperate waters will last forever.

I swear it freely, on the sea, on breath, and on life itself
- may both be forfit should my vow prove shallow perjury.

As pronounced vows become curses, if they be lies,
truth only ripens, its harvest yielding the sweetest fruit.

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

I’m in LOVE - drunk love,
look stupid love - and I
expect a harsh trial.

A hurricane is
due - the sky is coldly-gray,
and the wind is fierce.

Tech issues have school
on hold and walking is a
peak-experience.

Then - the blue gray truck
rounds the corner and I’m hit
with Christmas-like joy.

I LOVE shopping,
like a lush loves drink or a
gambler loves risk.

It’s nigh ******.
How can YOU resist it? Please
- tell me your secret??!!

** Amazon trucks are blue gray =]

It’s 1:30am and we were at a cute little dance club in Dublin called “The Sugar Club.” It’s a converted movie theater with tables in stadium seating rows. That night was Salsa themed, and the regulars were stylin’ - the men dressed in white Havana or Colima, Italian Linen and women in bright salsa dresses.

The DJ was mixing a gr8 groove - with music from Bassia, Brazilian Girls, Kate the Cat, with some ElectroSwing thrown in from Tape Five, Pink Martini and Doja Cat (Yes, I asked the DJ for his playlist). The tiny, darkly-disco-sparkling dance floor was crowded and refrigerator cold.

We had a good time. Irish guys are funny and unpredictable, they’ll say practically anything, “Shall I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?” and those brogues make everything they say spankin’ hot.

We all danced a few times, but Sunny’s a gwyn who never seemed to tire. Guys kept asking her to dance and she seemed happy to oblige - I would have collapsed already.

There was a dead-fit guy, Rían, throwing a strong Chris Evans vibe, who seemed completely smitten with Sunny. He seemed a real dean but he didn’t 404 that Sunny’s femme-facing and that he might as well be offering lettuce to a shark.

We’d discussed the possibility that things might come up and decided to avoid delicate public acts of disclosure (Sunny’s gay, Leong’s a communist, etc..) - we’re trespassing different cultures on this trip, after all.

We explained to Rían that we were students, just in town for the Duran Duran concert, and consoled him with a couple of “Black & Golds” (Kahlua, whiskey and orange bitters) - he was a LOT of fun to talk to.

The bartender asked me if I was one of the colleens with “Margot Robbie” - he was referring to Lisa - which Anna found amusing - but I think Lisa’s way phater than Margot.

What's the scariest book you ever read? ... Some Stephen King book like Salem's Lot or The Shining? For me it's Kate Millett's ****** Politics ... Oh, man ... Now THAT will scare you to death if you're female.

I discovered a man, overheard at my church, who actually believes his *** is a sign of power and of superiority. WHY am I so startled? Some childish trust not yet scrubbed off?" Or worse yet, some belief, not yet strangled, in a better world? See, stupid me, I thought this bill had been paid, by sufferance, by real people like Elizabeth Stanton, Carrie Catt and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. ... by entire generations who ran through those tangled woods emerging cut and bruised ... if at all.

What is it like for HIM? I see him eyeing us, his little inferiors who bleed with the moon, with secret, catlike distaste ... regarding female opinions as slightly impure ... then, with calm, Godlike grace, granting females the forms of servant to assume.

Can I, can we, be forced to accept this inheritance? I don't know ... All I know is that this prejudice, so strangely without substance, strikes me like a dueler's lucky ******, robbing me of attendant rights and wit ... springing a tender trap of doubt in the future and abandoning me to stammering.

fuddle, chuckle, cuddle, fumble, subtle-supple-couple, snuggle.

We are poor creatures
slimy organs imprisoned in flesh.
The sun burns us, water drowns us
our lives are rough and short,
we’re little more than talking dust.

We all howl with angry doubts.

Our art may dry and chip
our science could let us down,
our poets stammer and grow quiet.

Humanity has always been imperfect,
but some of us are trying. We see the stars,
we know passion, we sing and dance
and are indomitable - join us-
because the best is yet to come

First outings (not a date exactly).
someone you’re impressed with.
You trot out your best anecdotes
and venture small confidences.

You have to decide which “you” to show
- the serious-seeming student, the ditz,
the pianist, the Tom Brady fan, the writer.

He does an impression of Tom Hanks
that was very good and very funny.
“It could have been worse,” I said,
but he knew what I meant.
“It’s my party trick,” he said.

I thought of a long ago prom after-party
- a guy removing my earrings with his tongue -
sending chills up and down me and grinning with pearls in his lips.

We’re here, in the new, the now
but we’re married to memories.

(each stanza is a haiku - I think I’m in a Haiku phase)*

I never think of
drinking tea - that's just not
me - but I like it

there are a thousand
things like that which define us
- our many small choices

Are our passions choices?
"Our wild passions instruct us"
- said wise Shakespeare.

I don't choose to
quicken my heart at the sight
of one special boy

so I'm not sure
how that works, the pushes and pulls
of attractions grab

But the effect stills
and taxes the heart like maple
syrup thickened blood

It’s Friday evening, (11-12-21) and Lisa’s Birthday. To celebrate, we’re going to see “A Night With Bill Maher” at the New York Comedy Festival (we’ll be socially distanced, in an opera box). He goes on at 8:30PM and my last class on Fridays ends at 05:25 (in New Haven CT). We had to hurry.

We have our bags and we’re hustling out the dorm gate loaded down like a couple of tourists. “We want to be on the island (NYC) by 7:30 for our dinner reservation.” Lisa said. I gave her a quizzical look, checking my watch, “It’s 6:18,” I said doubtfully, “we’ll NEVER..”  “Yeah, we will,” Lisa interrupts, “we’re taking a helicopter ride!” “Whaa.. REALLY??” I gasp. “Yeah,” Lisa grinned, “my dad arranged it, his treat.” “Thanks DAD,” I say, as we climb into our Uber.

An Uber off-loads us by a helicopter 15 minutes later (at Tweed Airport). I knew the blue and white grasshopper-looking whirligig didn’t have a mind - that it wasn’t capable of feelings or eagerness, but the blades were spinning and it seemed eager to escape earth - like a bug afraid of birds.

After we boarded, a guy in a yellow vest and helmet said - above the noise - “Buckle up!” and pointed to our seat belts. The “seat belt” was a harness that made an “X” across our bodies. Once the doors were closed it became surprisingly quiet. The cabin could hold four but we were alone, facing forward, Lisa seated next to me.

The earnest-looking pilot turned to us and said, “37 air minutes to the 34th street heliport,” but before he could close the little plexiglass door to our compartment, Lisa said, “Afghan takeoff please!” He nodded and closed the window, it got quieter still.

The pilot throttled up, the jet engines whined, the rotors became frantic and we lifted up into the air - just a few feet. I held tightly to my seat sitting perfectly still, as though the helicopter were a frightened animal I didn’t want to startle. “Relax,” Lisa said, with a BIG grin, “You’re going to LOVE this.” The helo rotated 180 degrees, “Woah,” I said.

“Wait for it,” she giggled. The back of the chopper suddenly rose, my body pressed forward, hard, against the harness. I went bug-eyed - about the time I thought the whole shaky contraption would roll forward end-over-end and we’d die in a fireball, we sprang into the air like a rollercoaster ride. When we lurched skyward, I had to fight the urge to hurl but Lisa roared with laughter.

After a moment we leveled out. “That wasn’t funny.” I said, still trembling and deadly serious. I opened a bottle of water, took a big swig and I felt myself relax a bit. “I almost threw up!” I wiped my hair away from my face. “I’m sorry,” Lisa said in a pouty, baby appeasing way. I glowered.

“Seriously,” she said, in a more reasonable voice, “I HAD to do it - I COULDN’T resist.” Unbuckling her harness she scooted over by me and took my hand. “It was a little mean, I know. I SWEAR, I’ll never, ever, EVER, trick you again.” She said, adding a girl scout salute that morphed into a pinky promise and we were suddenly whole again.

“I mean, it only works ONCE - and your FACE! - GOD!, I should have videoed that,” she laughed again - I just rolled my eyes and turned to look out into the darkness.

Maybe it was that take-off, but at first, all I could think of was falling to a watery death. I never get nervous on commercial flights, they feel like solid, white noise filled living rooms but this chopper was small and trembling, like an economy car or a hayride.

There was a TV screen that showed our altitude (9,000 feet and climbing) and airspeed indicator (140 knots) - I had to remind myself that trustworthy physics was at work somewhere behind this clippity-cloppity contraption our lives depended on.

The view of Long Island Sound, just after dusk, WAS amazing and soon I began to enjoy it. I counted 30 ships and barges lit up like birthday cakes against the watery darkness - and the approaching lights of New York City looked like a glittering tiara being worn by the horizon.

Ok, I thought, I have to write about this.

My freshman year is ending and I’m as busy as a one-armed juggler. Of course covid is back. It reoccurs at the worst times, like a movie slasher long thought dead.

When we have something scheduled very early in the morning, we call it an “early-burn.”  This one early-burn morning I had a 7am meeting. Peter and I had met for breakfast because he’s back in my life and he’s ALWAYS up and out early.

It was snowing and we were hurrying, because somehow, I always cut things close. I think I tripped over my shoe-string on a patch of ice. I went down hard and I heard this loud ripping sound. I’d ripped my pants badly and my book bag spilled too. I’m scrambling around on the ground in an attempt to grab some loose papers the wind was scattering.

Peter says, “Wow, your ******* are really thin.”

I jump up “I feel you don’t know where our boundaries are,” I laugh, “you’re so nasty - don’t just stand there grinning - HELP me!” I indicate two papers for him to chase. I looked to see how bad the rip was (BAD). Of course, my coat was short that day, so I untucked my blouse. “How does this look?” I asked Peter.
“That works,” he said, giving my fix his imprimatur.

The two of us managed to corral the papers. “Let’s pretend that didn’t happen,” Peter said. I realized I’d ripped my pants leg and scraped my knee badly - it was bleeding profusely.
“******* It!” I went off.

This lady comes up - seemingly out of nowhere - this old white Christian lady who we’d never seen before. She was so out of place and random and she says, “I really don’t think you should be talking like that in public.” She wasn’t harsh.

At that moment, a gust of wind came up that made me lower my head, as though I couldn’t look the old woman in the eyes but I was just ignoring her anyway - having my own set of issues to deal with.

She had a point though. I’m cursing too much these days. I feel like If I admit it, maybe it’s ok but I am trying not to cuss anymore - well less maybe - at least in a negative way.  
“I think you look fu-kin’ GREAT,” would still be acceptable.

My palette is empty
after over-busy school
and tense homework.

By the time dark night
staggers onstage, sleep is my
longed-for, **** muse.

I’m greedy for sweet,
numb sleep or perhaps to dream
love-flushed fantasies.

This morning’s sunrise was a tacky and artificial affair.
The sun was played by a weak, 12-watt, refrigerator bulb
that looked wet and heavy as it struggled uphill like a drunk.
The horizon reminded me of a cheap, runny theatrical illusion,
the clouds were old cotton ***** glued to cardboard silhouettes,
the birds sagged like dead puppets from uneven coat hanger wires.

I don’t miss you. Everything’s fine. I hardly noticed you were gone, actually.
Things here are a laugh and a half. We’re doing fun girl things. Anna got new shoes.
I’m hardened by years of inescapable, solitary, covid lockdown. I’m immune to despair.
So go off, interview for that new, far-flung PhD life. Go fawn over Elon Musk for all I care.
I’m definitely not in my room eating spoons of peanut butter and crying to Tom Waits songs.

We were calculating theoretical yields on chemcollective
and somehow we ended up dancing to ”go left.”

We were finding oxidation numbers on labster
but somehow we started laughing.

We were balancing chemical equations on PhET
but now we’re singing “World we created” with hair-bush microphones.

Believe your competence - be impressed with your progress.
Attack every challenge with self-contained ease.
Armor yourself with confidence.
You’ll like the way you enjoy it.

Being back home, in my childhood room is like climbing into a time capsule. I left for college quickly, back in ‘21 and I’ve only been back here once, briefly.

My closets are still full of my old high school clothes and there are shelves that line the upper walls of my room with maybe a hundred “Disney Princess” collectable statues (my favorite is Ariel).

I have one wall space behind my bathroom door that has a hundred yellow stickies on it - reminders of old assignments and quotes like, “Do you hate drama or create drama?” and “Imagine your future.”

Everything seems carbon dated. It gives me an impeccable, knife-like sense of ennui. I want to cherish it all or burn it all, depending on the time of day. I went to take down my old Humphry Bogart and Billie Eilish posters yesterday and Kim said “Noo,” in such a sad way that I stopped.

Hold on, let’s overthink this.

I had a hard conversation today. I broke the news to my cats (Belichick and Tom Brady) that school starts at the end of the month, and I have to go back.

They took it well, I think. You know how cats are. I’ll know in a day or two, if their good will has turned to sour offense - they'll claw something up.

Belichick seems to be watching me extra closely though.
.
.
Songs for this:
Lava by Still Woozy
Can't Hardly Wait by The Replacements
.
08.01.3PM

Oh, you swamp me with charm - get out of my head.
There’s something about you - a warmth - like the comfort of home - that pulls at me.

I study your landscape of attractive surfaces like a star chart - logging my weaknesses - to strengthen my emotional firewall. I WANT you but my “wants” just seem untrustworthy after recent deprivations.

To be honest - I can’t afford you - not now. You’re a delicious pastry - with strings - and I need to cut all my strings.

You’re something younger me would have wanted - before the pandemic, when scandalous thinking was uncomplicated and freedoms taken for granted.

Last year simplified my reality.

Over time, boredom melted me like wax but a new me crossed some threshold of certainty - that to flourish - no, just to survive - I must become more than I am, or find I’m less than I hoped.

In 2019 goals seemed way, way someday things - far off reference points to seek out - like an inchworm. Social details occupied me like an unfocused dementia - there was an unacceptable level of childish thinking.

But now I’m an escapee on the run who won’t be taken back alive. Old attachments must be stripped down and the old world made disposable - if I’m to achieve escape velocity.

We have to write a lot of essays
and I love it - the twisting of words,
the molding of nouns and verbs until
thoughts are clear and paragraphs
sit symmetrical and idealized.

I’ll write a paper, and scowling,
write another version and another
- lavishing them with attention
until every word is perfect.

I miss handing in papers though
- paper is substantial, not virtual
and even if a paper wasn’t well received
at least you took a tree down with you.

E - Everyone
T - That
H - Has
E - Eggs
R - Really
E - Expended
A - A
L - Lot
.
.
A song for this:
bad idea! by girl in red [E]

I’m in the residential dining hall with my suitemates Lisa and Sunny. We’re talking about sausages.

Why? Because April 30th is ‘National Sausage day.”
Someone mentioned that when I complained about the beyond-meat hot dog atrocities they serve here, in the dining hall, as if they were food.
“Can we get some real food here?” I moaned.
“These are ok,” Sunny pronounced, examining hers closely.
“That’s what we want,” I went off, “the average, the acceptable, let's build our lives around that.”
“I think they’re Canada,” Lisa said.

“That’s why there’s no ketchup (in the dining hall) - they decided it was unhealthy,” I replied bitterly (with a few expletives removed here - I’ve really fallen into some obscene verbal habits) “What are we supposed to DO?” I asked rhetorically, “Start carrying our own ketchup packets everywhere? Noone here’s over 23 - will ketchup **** us?”
“I miss the ketchup,” Sunny agreed sadly.
“Nothing’s perfect,” Lisa shrugged.

“That’s true,” I said, “I’m thinking of a specific, textural issue I have with sausages - even though I love ‘em”
“Issue!” Lisa chuckled. “Major issue,” I added nodding.
“Conflict!” Sunny updogged. “Oh, No!” Lisa laughed.
“The really good sausages, like you get on a charcuterie board? Have this little bit at the end - the tie-off?”
“The casing,” Sunny named it. “Yeah,” I agreed, “those can be hard to chew but I usually do it anyway,” I said.
“Because what can you do?” Lisa added, “Spit it out in front of everyone?” she asked rhetorically.

“I took étiquette lessons one summer, when I stayed with my Gandmère - I was seven,” I grinned, remembering. "We were at dinner one night - she has this long table that’s always full of guests - when she suddenly looked down at me and pronounced, ‘You’re just a little savage, aren’t you?’"
"7-year-old me froze, unsure how to answer THAT."

“The next morning, I began ‘L'art de vivre’ (the art of life’) lessons, with an old, brusque nun - Sister Thérèse.”
“Too funny,” Sunny snorted.
“When did you forget all that,” Lisa asked innocently.

“Anyway,” I continued, “The rule is: if you get a mouth full of gristle or something, you just spit it out - you don’t make a show of it - you don’t go with a giant ‘blaah’ or something - but you don’t swallow it either,” I finished, shivering at the thought.
“Really,” Sunny said, watching me closely for signs of deception. “Chyeah,” I assured her.
“What else you got?” Lisa asked, fishing for more tips.
“Mmm,” I hummed, considering, “Elbows on the table - good - not bad.”
“Whaaaaaat?!” Sunny practically shreeked. Lisa chortled.
“If your hands are in your lap, at least in France, everyone assumes you’re diddling yourself, or someone else,” I said, grinning.
“Now you’re just making things up,” Sunny said, making a snarky face. Lisa looked dubious.
“On God,” I said, offering a Girl scout salute.
“Sister Thérèse told you that?” Lisa smirked.
“Nuns know all about ***.” I assured her, “It’s an occupational necessity.”  
.
.
Songs for this piece:
Glamor Girl by Louie Austen
Glitter of the City by Ron Everett
Anthony Kiedis by Remi Wolf
.
.
slang…
Canada = healthier, fitter, more Canadian
chyeah = f*ck yeah.
on God = swearing to God

In this beautiful place of worship, the pews are padded but uncomfortable, the sanctuary large, candle lit and cold.

There's a huge glass dome and I can see the stars. Are the stars our fiery heaven??

No, I don't think the stars care about us - they don't burn with affection or passion. And if the stars weren't there we could live with an empty sky.

The Greeks would call on our star, the Sun, to perform their acts of God. I imagine most of their prayers went unanswered - not unlike our own??

To me, the whole Jesus story is somewhat sinister and inauspicious, but if Jesus, the son of God, and that whole story were the deepest, truest reality - then why hasn't Jesus returned??

Imagining heaven's father and son dialog

God: "Ok, Jesus, time to go back.."
Jesus: "Go back... go back?? Daaaaad... Did you see what they DID to me???.. nailed me to a cross; ***** them, there's no way I'm going back. Why don’t you try going back, as an ordinary man - maybe they’ll set you on fire.”

These 20 millennium old bible stories aren't exactly Euclid's logical system.... I mean, the various books aren't even consistent. Are these really, I mean really our beliefs? Or are they just kind of traditions and good rules to live by?

My parents - unlikely pilgrims in the intoxicating poetry of belief - face front and appear to be listening... in all other things they're so skeptical - it's a puzzle.

If Jesus did come back, wouldn't he practically be a caveman surrounded by bewildering technology?

I'm sorry, There's something too rich in creation for these rehearsed responses and fairy-tale fragments from a primitive world to be the answer.

Now I'm not saying there is no God or no life after death.. I.. just.. hopeless shrug

So, anyway - I go through the motions, I chant the litanies with the enthusiasm of obedience; just storing up my spiritual loot and hiding my questioning, heathen heart.

Happy Easter everyone!

I’m at (my roommate) Lisa’s for the holidays and it was Christmas Eve afternoon. I was in Leeeza’s room (Lisa’s 13-year-old sister). One corner of the room is all pillows. A hundred pillows or more - Disney pillows like Mickey and Minnie but shrek pillows too and penguin pillows, minion pillows, mario brothers pillows and novelty pillows that look like bags of doritos, cheetos and ramen noodle soup - just about every toy pillow you can imagine.

Leeza was there on the pile with me, watching “La La Land,” my favorite movie. Leeza had never seen it and I hoped she’d love it as much as I do. In the end, she pronounced it a new favorite.

Later (still Christmas eve) Lisa, Karan (her mom) Leeza and I made our way to a lardy-dardy rooftop event space called “The Skylark,” where Michael (Lisa’s dad) was co-hosting a Christmas party. The rooftop is on the 30th floor and everything there is made of glass - even the staircases.

When Lisa told me about the party (at school), I brought out a few Anna Molinari bits I had stored under my bed (when I realized Yale wear wasn't very fashionable). I ended up wearing a black lace party dress, a black knit crop cardigan cover and white, satin bridal shoes. It seemed very on point as a "Wednesday" look. If you haven't watched the "Wednesday" series on Netflix - It's fun.

As we arrived the sun faded, as if timed, and natural light gradually gave way to the cityscape of artificial light. Once it became fully-dark, New York city glittered around us, as if the stars had dropped from the heavens to join the party.

A brass and piano ensemble played seasonal classics like Prokofiev’s Troika as we (Lisa, Leeza and I) explored the venue. Every surface seemed decorated with poinsettias, candles, and ornaments or ribbed by garlands of balsam, spruce and fir that smelled incredible.

There were (guessing) about 200 guests and servers wound their way through the crowd with trays of cocktails and champagne. These waiters were all good looking, as if picked from the sea of actors, in New York, just waiting for that big Broadway break. At one point, Leeza, with a mischievous holiday gleam in her eye, reached for a flûte à Champagne only to have the waitress twirl, at the last millisecond, like a dancer, leaving her grasping at air, disappointed.

Michael’s company had set up a tall, white and gold Christmas tree, in a corner of the terrace, under it were packages, for special clients, so beautifully, individually and uniquely decorated that you could believe they were wrapped by angels.

The papering was exquisite, handmade, thick as Liva and embossed, inlaid or pebbled with gold. They were topped with bows, brooches, angels, or snowflakes of silver, rose-brass, batic silk and even crocodile.

No doubt the wrappings were as valuable as the gifts inside and though those presents enchanted, teased and cajoled us all, they were reserved for people on the very, very nice list (a cop stood discreetly by). We were briefly transfixed by the spectacle, but the spell was broken when Leeza said, “I’m hungry.”

Cocktail parties are for adults, so after we ate, Karen stayed with Michael and the teenagers were sent home. We didn’t mind, after all, none of those presents were for us - our day would be Christmas!

Happy holidays!

slang..
updogged = when you chip in to keep a conversation trend going
fit = gorgeous
buje = unexplainable glamor
football minute = a minute, that with time-outs, lasts a half an hour.
crute = cute but cringy
women's-rights = a really funny joke

In the subscribed course of science - and eventually medicine - night hours seem multiplied by the rough enforcement of study, but this tale is not about that, fair reader.

It’s about a reception, last Friday night. It hardly matters what it was for, there are so many. This one was first class - so please, have some decorum ladies. Our cast is Lisa, Leong, Sunny and I (4 roommates). We stay clumped together, on nights out, like conjoined quadruplets because there’s safety in numbers.

There were about sixty people there, mostly students. Lisa and I had gotten invitations, Leong and Sunny are our plus-ones. After making the rounds, doing our meeting and greeting due diligence, we’d captured one corner of a long table and began enjoying some actual drink-drinks. We’re usually studying, trying to prove ourselves like rats in a maze, so we go a little crazy when they let us out and about.

Is it me, or are free drinks just better than other flavors? There was a long line of ‘Tom Collins-ses,’ on the bar which one could freely walk up and take. I think they’re made with lemon juice, sprite, gin and the tears of fallen angels.

These were quite good, each featuring both a lemon slice AND a cherry. Like I said, first class. We were taking turns getting them, two of us going up, each returning with 2 drinks. That way we didn’t look like 4 hookers hanging on the bar like horses at a trough (decorum).

Socials, receptions, fundraisers - whatever - can be social minefields. Even in how you greet people. Do you shake hands? I’d heard that shakes were out due to COVID, but if so, they’re back now. Some people were even huggers - your professor initiates a hug and you just want to avoid head-butting him. Monday morning though, you better hand in that paper, girlie.

At one point (I was mothering my third Collins), Sunny said, “Meeting people is awkward,”
“Being out in the world is awkward,” I updogged.
“Not for Lisa,” Leong said, and everyone sniggered.
“Why not ME?” Lisa said, looking up from her phone.
“Because you’re fit,” Sunny said, “everywhere you go, it’s like ‘Goodfellas,’” she mimics various, waving people, “Hi Lisa, or Hey Lisa," and “Yo Lisa!” with the point & nod.
We all chuckled again, but Lisa said, “It’s not true.”

Alas, it is true. I’ve come to rely on Lisa’s buje. Places seem livelier, less daunting and more welcoming when she’s there. She draws all the attention - I might as well be her beaded handbag and I’m fine with that. In unfamiliar situations, she’s a shield, handling the initial introductions and handing people off to me, like a track-and-field sprinter passing the baton. Without Lisa, in new situations I’m quiet. Quiet doesn’t mean shy - that’s a false assumption, I’m a natural watcher.

I’m skipping the mingling and speechifying - the boring stuff. Apparently, it’s all about us, we need to make a plan and do more, about everything. Interestingly, of the 8 organizers (the adults) five had literary first names. There was a Jude, a Tess, an Ophelia, a Clarissa and a Cordelia. Granted, they’re all fictional characters, but why name a kid after a protagonist who came to a tragic end - to seem well read?

As Leong and Sunny returned with our fifth round, Sunny pronounced “Tom Collins for President!” and we all raised our glasses. Just then Leong’s phone whooped with a text. It took her football minute to fish the contraption out of her itty-bitty disco-clutch, and then she fumbled it to the floor like an oiled baby.

It was a crute moment that, at first, struck us like women's-rights - but it had a sobering effect too. We agreed, in the silence of exchanged glances, that perhaps we were having too much fun, and we soon made our usual quiet and dignified exit.

Kissing burns 6.4
calories per minute, so,
you wanna work out?  =]

The sky is a cloudless crystal blue
with a breeze to chap your lips
I’m grateful for it, it’s heaven-sent
the dawn was a celestially stamped, angry red
sailors take warning

It’s going to get feisty cold,
I’m told
about the time we go back to school.
A polar-bear vortex with all its features
will spread its icy paws

What jumps out at me first
is how it could be worse.
if unapologetic nature
pounced sans disclaimers
with a cold worth semi-Shakespearean verse

What follows, star-crossed
is a week storm-tossed
a winter holocaust
with heaven-kissed frost
that only madness would call a judgement

We’re steered from harm
by precision alarms
stay warm
sweet friends
wrap up, stay in
.
.
Songs for this:
Come In from the Cold by Marc Broussard
World's A Changing by The Bingtones

There’s a feeling called
the drifting force
that makes you want
to shift your course
and find a better vector
on boring study nights.

They’re so many things
a girl starts missing,
like hugging, dancing
and oh, yes kissing,
when she lets a dry syllabus
control her life.

After several hours
of intensive reading,
your intuition is that
what you’re needing,
is something we’ll
politely call ‘delights’.

But you make the almost
painful choice
and factor out your inner voice
and you pick up yet another book
and not a boy,
because, you see - it’s really
a necessity, not a choice.

Lisa and I played a round of frisbee-disc golf today—let’s reminisce.

I love the ‘live performance’ of sports, how you must physicalise
discipline. You get this instant feedback that you have to own and
lean hard into. The being present to adjust, the internalised mechanisms of performance—the ‘liveness’—is the most exciting thing about sports. And, of course, the one who does it best wins—there’s a simplicity to it.

Being Sunday, the course was crowded with guys. Most of the groups were college teams of five or six guys. Since there were only two of us, we were playing faster.

I don’t like going up to a group of guys and asking to play through.
They always let us but we get these appraising looks—not strictly golf related—that you can feel. So we skipped around the guys and played open holes—still playing 18—they just weren't contiguous and it took a bit longer.

It was great to get out in the sun. The course was all rolling fairways, there’s no grass greener and no sky bluer. I came in 14-under (straight brag). I’m a little competitive, my ego loves to be placed in a hierarchy, and winning seems to give form to me, it’s such a pleasant and coherent narrative.

As we were leaving our escort Charles stepped away for a minute and a couple of Yale looking guys offered us a ride back to campus—which was all very innocent and chivalrous—to save us waiting for an Uber or something—I'm sure (we were all sweaty and looked like drowned rats).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘let’s run off into the sunset.. not.’
But I said, “No, thanks, anyway.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Golden Boys by Res
Fruitcake by Subsonic Eye

I snuck into the party with an ID I hastily made
and stumbled, out of step, into the poetry parade.

In this beautiful country club, I'm surrounded by my betters.
I wave my kindergarten rhymes to show the men of letters.

In the echo of the learned men who came this way before me
I hear the patterned minuets, that if followed, lead to glory.

I chafe in those traveled ruts and I long for something varied
and I hope to spark a unique verse, between school and the cemetery.

I snuck into the party with a ID hastily made
and stumbled, out of step, into the poetry parade.

In this beautiful country club, I'm surrounded by my betters.
I wave my kindergarten rhymes to show the men of letters.

In the echo of the learned men who came this way before me
I hear the patterned minuets, that if followed, lead to glory.

I chafe in those traveled ruts and I long for something varied
I hope to spark a unique verse, between school and the cemetery.

I can be a wretched fake, in private, intimate performance.

I’m an actress capable of imitating spontaneous pleasure -
by tricks of hesitation, convulsive vocal play and postures.

A mimicry undetectable to an immediate spectator.

"Aww, thank you", I’ll sigh, as if leaving a good party.

“I’ve got a lot of homework to do,” I’ll add, a minute later.

To clear the stage.

In New Haven, Lisa misses the sad, dark, city aesthetics of her hometown. Its crime podcast vibe, actinic crime-lighting and sirens in the distance, that lull her to sleep like lullabies. She has a disturbingly romantic attraction to hustle, bright neon lights, skyscrapers, subways, crowded diversity and swirling dance clubs.

Yep, we were in NYC for fall break - a week-long escape from school. We head back to Yale tomorrow. We’ve been seeing the sights, Broadway shows at night, the views from great heights, restaurant delights and sisterly fights.

Lisa's sister (Leeza, 14) can’t sit still, she’s all theater kid energy. She started playing electric bass and desperately wants to be in a band. She’s taking bass lessons, has calluses on her little fingers, and plays it (silently) even as we watch TV. Calling it an obsession would minimize it.

We saw the Eras Tour movie, last night, in iMax and it’s hypnotizing. Better than RL? Maybe.
We’ve seen two Broadway shows too: “Six’, a modern retelling of the lives of the six wives of Henry VIII (don’t bother) and ‘Merrily We Roll Along’, (two thumbs up) Stephen Sondheim’s weakest play saved by the cast of Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe), and King George (Jonathan Groff).

Lisa, Leeza and I were talking, earlier in the week, about Autumn comfort foods. I described the joys of cassoulet, fondues and tartiflette (potatoes, cream, cheese, bacon, and onions delight) - three French favorites and Leeza said, snootily, “This is New York City,” like, ‘you can find anything here.’ It was a freakin’ challenge!

So, we’ve hit French restaurants all week in search of these treats. We each order one of the three and compare them. So far, La Sirene (south village) had the best cassoulet - although it had a crusty top - which is just - No. Mominette (Brooklyn) had the best Tartiflette but they all treat it like a side dish?? And The Lavaux wins best fondue. So book those flights now!

Lisa, Leeza and I were sharing the couch in their dad’s all-glass, 50th floor, corner study, that overlooks the city. The view makes me feel like an angel watching over mankind from the firmaments - if the firmaments feature the winking, blinking lights of jets landing at Newark Liberty, Teterboro and LaGuardia.

“So, how’s Fall semester been for you?” Lisa asked me. Of course, we’re roommates so she’s seen the more obvious events in my life, but we all have complicated, internal lives.
The subtext to her question, of course, is Peter and how I’m dealing with his absence, so far, this year. But I’m not ready to go there, and I frown.
“I’ve been seeing so many Tumbler compilations, she added, to save me from answering, “saying how the start of Fall Semester is a time of agony, pain and reflection.”
“And I think that’s real,” I interjected.
“How so?” Leeza asked - she LOVES the uni 411
“School can be harsh,” Lisa continued, “the sudden, hella work, and, of course, it’s breakup season on campus.”
“Oh, Yeah,” I agreed, “Being away from home and those certain ‘someone's’ for months can be rough on freshmen.” We all nodded in agreement.

“Has anyone been vibing to anything regularly?” I asked (musically).
“I’ve been bumpin’ to Pink Pantheress,” Leeza revealed, “I think people see her as a TikTok, one hit wonder, but I think she still slaps!”
“Yes!” Lisa exclaims, “I’ve had “Picture in my mind” on a loop.

The city looked like an exquisite, miniature, clockwork toy. How could someone not love it when seeing it the way God does? It’ll be even prettier at Thanksgiving - I'm crossing my fingers and hoping for snow.

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

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

Lisa laughed, and my senses returned to reality.

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

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

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

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

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

Fall semester starts tomorrow. It’ll be exciting - for a few days - but it won’t be long before we’ll miss the tanned bodies of summer, the cool, clear lake-water or lounging carefree, on bright, sand-like gravel beaches.

Tomorrow, things will be different. Our days will start earlier, they'll be a value - a new currency - to morning hours that went wasted on unproductive summer vacations. The change will be sudden, herk, there may be an audible pop of some sort, somewhere, in tonight’s darkest hours.

We’ll be going to the gym so early that we’ll be done and leaving before the first, lazy pigments of sunlight weave morning.

I imagine my room looks like backstage at a new Broadway musical, the very first rehearsal - when nothing’s set in stone and everything’s a mess. My clothes are everywhere. Why did I decide to reorganize tonight? Brilliant.

Peter wants to come over but.. “No,” I say, sighing, overwhelmed. “Look,” I say, as I slowly pan the Facetime camera around the war zone that my room has become.

“Oh, my GOD,” he says, jerking back in horror, like a Californian seeing a fur-coat, “Was anyone HURT?!”

“Ha, Ha, I say, sarcastically, suddenly too tired, “Breakfast at 6:30?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, taking a tucked pencil from behind his right ear. “Guh-night,” he says.

“See-YA!” I say, pressing the red button and letting gravity guide my phone to a gentle rest atop the clothes-pile that’s concealing my bed.

I pray to that know-it-all Inter-web
- that I can book a safe beach vacation.

That I’ll meet some nice cahtholic boy online
- without **** fueled expectations.

Weber-net, without undo downtime
- please address my ongoing frustrations.

I need my Christmas loot on time
- and not priced-up by supply-chain inflation.

AIs, who are listening, it’s time to send me a sign
- beep or whir to let me know you heard my small rogation

If you prophecy the end of kings you are wrong.
Write no epitaphs, dig no graves, taste no grief.

The new czar, a rough and worldly killer firmly fixed
this very day stirs the cauldron of war to reset empire

Still, foxly friends of tyranny, who stab at weak democracy
praise the czar's autocracy, and mock free speech with treachery.

As modern judases, riding limitless swells of fortune, tease simple mobs
our old republic stagers and fades, mortally wounded by hypocrisy.

Perhaps, someday, freedom’s autopsy will show what transpired,
but if you prophecy the end of kings you are wrong.

Fashion’s symbolic sensuality draws eyes, stir passions and maybe even resentments!  =]

Of course, maybe you’re above worldly conceits, above fashion. YOU, go through life as unaware as sinless Adam and you’re excessively handsome, or pretty, obviously.

But for the rest of us - fashion is the medium of our beauty and God created Paris for fashion.

We’re pretending we’ve come to Paris (our immediate, pandemic safety-pod-family) for a family reunion - but REALLY, we’re on safari - a freshmen, college-wear, “back to school,” ensemble hunt (for meeeeeeeeeeee!).

Step 1 (there’s only 1 step) - go to the Rue Saint-Honoré.

This year, I like-like Anna Molinari - most of the ready-to-wear daily-trash I snapped-up is hers - all hers. It didn’t start out that way - but she sould me on an uncharted course at first sight.

Other designers seem to be pushing old-lady-looking floral prints this season. Eeuw! Why?? DIAF.

My gran-mère (grandmother) told me - 6 days ago - as she attempted to tame my run-away hair: “You need to be unpredictable, petite beauté, not some comely young automaton. Then everyone will find you interesting and watch to see what you do next.”

Thank you, gran-mère - I’ll settle for looking interesting any time.

Vintage Chanel lives rent free in my mind
the colors are deep, subtle and magical.
Over time, the originally soft textures,
become luscious, like a lover's caressing touch.

In college, you dress down,
you want to blend in, not stand out
gods forbid you flag entitlement
and draw envy's barbed compliments.

The simple styles bear the twin burdens
of camouflage and practicality.

In Paris, fashion can be capricious,
but elegance is a silent conversation,
with its own intricate vocabulary in drape,
line, fabric and in painstaking choice.

In places where fashion matters - Paris, Manhattan, the Hamptons,
it can signal position, the way uniforms signal authority everywhere.

A splash of fashion can not only have a fabulous effect
on how its wearer feels, it can tell important stories.

I’m told that, in back rooms, where fortunes are awarded or lost,
fashion can announce arrival, rank, and intent.
It can whisper new wealth, in upstart display
or a threadbare, silent duel with mounting debt
.
.
Songs for this:
The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range
Read Between the Lines by The Bingtones

I may look like a cheerleader - but I really am a cheetah
and after they pass those tests out - I’m going to beat ya.
I heard a student say, in the cafeteria near where I sat
“They really don’t expect us to read all of that.”
and I chuckled to see the many headshakes of agreement.

Don’t these people know that this is really an arena?
I was accepted to Yale before I finished ninth grade and now
I’m surrounded by these “A” types who think they have it made
- until I eviscerate them with curve-crushing grades.

Learning is a passion, an exhilaration and release.
The last place on earth, that you ever want to be
is sitting in a classroom, competing against me.

“How’d the test go?” He asks.
“Oh,” I shrug and say, “I think I did ok.”
Let me translate that for you, “I made a feekin’ A.”

There’s no substitute for life.

I find myself,
seduced by yearnings.

I’m flourishing here,
contemplating sin.

I’ve nothing to do
when I’ve nothing but time.

I’m reusing solitudes -
they’ve become ragged.

What’s the answer then?
Should I seal my girly heart,
engage in uncaring kisses
like it’s ‘casual friday’ -
connive brief excitements
- just to feel a pulse?

Let’s talk about feelings - feelz.
Does anything else really matter?
Ok, sure - health - yeah, right up there.

Covid was my generation’s depression (literally).
Maybe not for everyone, there were places that ignored covid, I think.

We didn’t ignore it, not any of it, not at my parent’s house.
Do I sound bitter? I got fifteen long months of ‘social isolation.’
In most states, you can shoot someone and not get fifteen-months.

At one point, we sprayed Lysol on everything that came into the house. Except the cats.
Anyway, that lock-down mess was reason #1 why I skipped senior year of high school for college.

If you look-up ‘desperate’ in the right dictionary, they used my high-school junior-year photo to illustrate it.

University felt so far, so different from my covid, remote video, no-touch high school life that it was, in the most basic sense, like going to a foreign country.

It felt dreamy, in a jet-lagy, out of sync, science fiction, not part of real-life way. I landed in this wonderland where I didn’t know anyone, or where anything was and there was a different sense of fashion, of music, of freedom and I didn’t quite speak the language (not snack bar, buttery).

It was like there was a soundtrack, that’s how serious it was.

You know how, when you’re intoxicated, you can be half awake and still excited? I didn’t want to miss any of it, I’d rub my eyes to stay focused.

Everything was so stimulating - the sights, the sounds. I had this idea about writing - a fealty to the idea that I could capture the experience and share it with others.

Now, I think that idea was so 2021.

OK, before it’s too late - poetry time!

Now-a-days I feel like I’m in the know
hold on, I’ll I paint the celestial afterglow
uhh, this might take a while..
.
.
Songs for this:
Dreamin' by G. Love & Special Sauce
VIRGO'S GROOVE by Beyoncé

I’ve only been at my fellowship gig a week, but It’s official, I’m a candy-striper. Sort of, I wear a blue vest, not the old, red-striped dress, but it’s the same job. I shadow my surgeon (Rebecca) most of the time, like when she does her rounds but otherwise, I study or try to be helpful by delivering specimens to the lab, messengering things from Rebecca to other doctors or assisting the nursing staff with very minor, mundane things.

My training, so far, has consisted more of what-nots than anything else. “You are not a doctor, you don’t comment, don’t advise, don’t touch anything, don’t perform CPR and if a medical emergency occurs, get out of the way - put your back against the wall.” I made up the “back against the wall” part but that’s the soul of it. I’m just an observant pair of eyes and ears or a Yale lampshade.

When Rebecca (my surgeon) does rounds, she usually has five or six interns in tow (medical school graduates who are first-year residents). The interns review patient charts and get quizzed about symptoms, their meanings and possible treatments. It’s very interesting to watch the process up close - these people are wicked-smart (that’s a Boston saying).

Growing up, my parents were both doctors. I found myself standing, listlessly, a million times, waiting in hospital corridors or by nurses' stations for one or both of them to break free so we could leave. I was exposed to 17 years of medical jargon, as they discussed treatments with other doctors or passed on their final instructions for the night. I’d roll my eyes impatiently, but I guess I absorbed more than I realized. I can pretty much follow the consults as they do the rounds.

I met two new people last week, who I think I’ll see a lot of - Jammie and Quinn. They’re both rising-juniors and fellows, from other schools, working with other surgeons. Jammie’s a handsome, gay, black man from Georgetown University (my brother Brice’s Alma mater). He’s loud, fun and smart, very smart.

Quinn, on the other hand, seems like a short, officious little ****. When we were introduced, he cast his eyes over me slowly and deliberately like a frat-boy or an experienced stock ******* and from the way he talks, you’d think he owned the place. He’s from some second rate, local college, called Harvard.

Funny story, Jammie and I had just met and we were looking-up some fellowship information, on his laptop, I was looking over his shoulder and as he flipped around - his computer files and folders were SO organized - there wasn’t a stray file anywhere - not one. As we were huddled closely together I said, conversationally, because where I come from it means nothing and I guess I have no filters, “Are you gay?” He cringed, shocked, and laughingly said “SHHH!” He wasn’t “out” at work. I swore his secret safe and we became fast friends.

Jammie, besides being a molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major (pre-med track), is an observational comedian and as he’s thinking out loud - at a hundred miles an hour - I wish I could record him, so I could play him back later, slowly and deliciously to take it all in. We had lunch together in the cafeteria Friday and when our time was up, I discovered I hadn’t eaten anything. I’d been too busy listening to him open-mouthed or laughing.

I also realized I’m spoiled and not used to working indoors all day. We come in at 8 and we're released at 4:30. It’s almost a shock to see the sky isn’t fluorescent-lit and the breeze isn’t tainted with antiseptic smells. That was fellowship week 1.

Fight the algorithms
that tell us what to do,
to make us predictable,
unoriginal and bankable.

Have you witnessed how
increasingly bland and homogenous
our lives are becoming?

Choose freedom
avoid the diaries of commerce
that riff on the ubiquity of apps

resist the reductive tropes
of our published and circulated,
perspective customer identities.

Fight the algorithms
with their embedded backlot
familiarity, built around class
and consumerism.

Try to understand the
vague, inscrutable and
purposefully circuitous.

Or stop overthinking
and embrace liberating surrender.
That’s the path I’ve chosen.
.
.
Broken People by The Narcissist Cookbook
Talk Down Dijon

It’s finally Friday night
there’s not a professor in sight.

If you think I’m happy - you’re right!

My homework assignment is light,
I just have an essay to write.

We and our sister suite will unite,
dragging a couch over, so the seating is right.

We’ll binge on Ozark most of the night,
‘cause we’re all Justin Bateman acolytes.

Pizza and ice cream will be a highlight,
in an evening of lazy delights.

I wish you could join us on-site,
but a quarantine prevents the invite.

simply awake
No music lulls
No quiet snoozes
No counting naps
No stretching tires
My clock taunts me
No comfort lullabies
No breathing relaxes
Pajamas strangle me
No coolness soothes
No meditation stupors
No visualization sleeps
No position tranquilizes
No supplements sedate
No aromatherapy calms
or finger painting slumbers
I am insomnia’s vigilant sentry.
Where, oh where's the sandman?

Final exams start Thursday,
and it’s giving us all the feels.

Finals have a gravity of their own.
Are the papers worse than exams? Maybe.
The tension can be relentless and heavy.
“It’s finals week, see you on the other side.”

As for me, I’m almost packed up.
Time is an odd and unpredictable beast.
It’s hard to believe that in two weeks, I'll be a junior.
It’s an unimaginable prospect.

To work, for a long time at something that seemed impossible
- head down in concentration - then suddenly, like a passing,
cotton cloud somehow became a bunny - everything came into focus.

I’m halfway done. I’m going to make it. I got a chill.

I wanted to throw my lattice windows wide open and scream for joy
- but it might’ve been taken wrong. I’ve no time to give mental health advisors.

Next week might be a more plausible time for wooting.

Yale’s friday “spring fling” was a soggy success - both as a concert and super spreader event. My groove-spirit was dampened by weather and a final I had the next morning.

I pose here tonight, in the chill residential courtyard, on my green sport-brella beach chair, like Canova’s Pauline Borghese, relaxed, canned *****-martini in hand, still untouched by the covid menace - as if I’d taken sagacious care in avoiding it.

The waxing crescent moon is strutting its familiar runway, like a vague, ambient night-light, but what should we expect for free? Maybe it’s saving itself for warm, clear summer skies.

I can relax tonight and binge on the moon because the school year is over (for me).

I’d been in a coffee-fueled study-trench for over a week, finishing my last assignment paper with my last gasp of academic energy. It illustrated what could be crafted in a vacuum void of originality. I filled it with ideas, gathered like runoff-water, from deeper sources and tailored the paragraphs with care, weaving by sleight, the 3D illusions of depth, breadth and substance. It was very well received. taking a bow

I love the feeling of being done with finals but still living on campus. It’s casual, adult and relaxed - close to life as I dreamed it as a kid.

My room is disassembled and I’m living out of my suitcase. Movers will come and cart off our stuff Monday. Leong and I will head south - like wrong way birds. I hate goodbyes but knowing these are temporary helps. Most of my summer will be like one continuous sleepover.

Happy Mother's Day!

American citizens in “bread-lines” to get little boxes of food. How desperate do you have to be to join that line? The sad, generous, little boxes of nutrition. We are all human, we all need our next breath and our children’s next meal. We all need shelter.

It’s a carnival of pleasure to mock human need. Tell me my mistake.

Watch our President’s Daily Briefing. He doesn’t mention bread-lines. He chooses not to. How counterfeit is his competence. No “fire side chat”, no promise of hope. How mean is this fat, grubby, “rich” man who s*s on golden toilet seats and ignores starving Americans’ desperation.

The tyrant’s plea, as the collapse begins, is “I’m not responsible”. Tell me my mistake.

We have lost our immeasurable strength. We are become callous. We are robbed, of our better, more generous selves by narrow focus, by zero sum greed. Our collapse will be just, like verse set down in primitive times when the margin of error was clear and understood.

It’s a calm discrimination to choose carelessness. Tell me my mistake.

This unfolding viral nightmare is but one of the fires along the tree line. The encroaching environmental disaster, the loss of our political system’s integrity, the militarization of police racism.

Maybe China will do better - if I’m reading my score card correctly, it looks like they’re up next as the world’s great superpower.

It’s Spring Fling today - an all-day campus concert with some up-and-coming music acts. We’ll be out there, in the rain if we have to, we're determined and somewhat waterproof. We went out earlier, doing a scan for friends to find seats and place stuff to hold our spot.

What, up until now, have been notes of preparation for summer move-out, will become a symphony tomorrow - after my last final - I’ll be a sophomore then, I suppose.

Peter has to check an experiment he’s working on. He hugs me and heads out.
“He’s so hot,” Anna observes, “he makes me think about ***, and you know what - YES!”
“You can have him," I say, he’s too tall - and besides - he’s friending-down, with me.” I admit.
“I like him,” Lisa says, “he doesn’t complain or disapprove of things.”
“He’s the modern man,” Anna says, dreamily.
“And he’s REALLY good at kissing games.” I confide, grinning like a creepy boy, to make them jealous. They all made various noises that piggybacked and incorporated into one coherent gagging sound.