I’m not always a fan of poetry - if I actually take time to ponder it
- it can be so irritatingly rhymey, kind of fussy and needlessly intricate.

Compare my love to a summer’s day and I’ll probably yawn and walk away.

Take a nuanced look at the transactions of *** and consent,
and as adults, we may wonder where the romance went.

You know, it only happens once in a while,
that someone with wit and individual style
comes along with something to say
and scribbles it down in a poem or play.

Here’s to the creative visionaries,
to Dickinson's unique and dreamy imagery,
to Shakespear’s highly stylized, run-on sentences
that manage to speak to us over the centuries
or challenge our stifled, bourgeoisie banality
like Nabokov’s use of stunning vocabulary.

I think he’s into you.
Why didn’t you talk to him?
“I was trying to make a good impression.”

I’m sorry we can’t start the morning
- I’m still stretching and yawning.
Oh, give me a skibidi break,
why’d you wait to snake me awake?
Anyway, you know not to bother me
unless you’ve brought coffee.
You can’t just insist we have to leave -
I haven’t even brushed my teeth!
I’d love to join in your drama
but I’m still in my pajamas.
Can you give me a quarter hour?
I’ve really got to take a shower.
We aren’t back in school,
who says there are rules?
You know, summer loses its charm
when you have to set an alarm.
Does running late count as exercise?
.
Kamala Harris! I’m SO hyped.
I guess Yale’s (5 member) Alpha Kappa Alpha ladies get to reify their nang now.
.
.
Songs for this:
Mr. Blue Sky by Electric Light Orchestra
I Remember the Sun by XTC

(An exercise to write a sonnet in iambic pentameter)

With heavy heart, I offer my remorse,
for I'm too tired to dance this weary eve.
The echoes of my workday's tireless chores
linger, leaving naught but fatigue's relief.

Oh, believe me, I hate to disappoint,
for the music tempts me to sway and dance.
But the hours I've toiled, each task and each point,
have drained me to a tired nudnik, perchance.

My spirit, once bright, now longs for respite,
to find solace in rest and heal my self.
Though my love for dance burns hot like cordite,
exhaustion demands I stay on the shelf.

Forgive me, my friend, tonight I must rest,
but once refreshed, we’ll fete and dance with zest.

Something’s happening, let’s call it sunrise, for now,
and summer vacation in Geneva, in umm.. 10 hours.
My heart-beat is spiking, like a flag or kite flying.
I’m leaving an empty room - making one last pass with a broom.

I’m stuffing my bag, with the last few things, for escape on aluminum wings.
My dreams, woven in bright, butterfly tapestries, are rolled and folded -
packed between urgent fantasies and harsh, time-sensitive practicalities.

I know you’re there, a quarter-world away, good news, pegasus awaits,
to streak gulf-stream high, over choppy oceans wide with mechanical fire,
its ice-cycle crystal contrail will point, like cherub cupid's arrow, toward you.

Forget pixels, tech instruments, remote lifeline connections,
and prayer-like whispers over thin, criss-crossed wires.
I’m making my move, coming compass-needle true,
to press up close, reintroduce, extemporize and ******.
.
.
music for this:
Someday by Sugar Ray
sunburn by almost monday
This Charming Man by The Smiths
Heaven by Los Lonely Boys

Pay Shylock his pound
of flesh, give Richard his horse,
let Juliet love anew.

Let go of the ghost -
Shakespeare’s doomed heroes
- pronounce them all dead.

Fight no more battles,
release strings so puppets
finish their dance.

Dismiss the actors,
set horses to pasture,
lower the curtains.

Ever-refreshed
villainy, once banished,
has taken new stages.

Human suffering,
in concert - you won't miss it
- it comes to you.

An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades.

It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms.

“Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.  
“Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog.
“Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s *****.
“Every man’s dream,” I confirm.
“Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word.
“Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add.

There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught.
“We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested.
“Why me?” he whined.
“Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?”
“These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?”
“It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.”

There’s another knock.
“Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat.
“Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a lynch mob.
“Women and children first,” I remind him.

There’s a third knock.
“Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door.
“You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.

I'm not an 'ingénue' anymore - that’s been vitiated.
I'm not innocent, pure, naive or vulnerable -
which are technically, 'ingénue' requirements
(I don’t make the rules).

That being said, if no one has an objection,
in terms of narrative trajectory, I'd like to be
considered a 'fémme fatale' until further notice.
.
.
Songs for this:
HEATED by Beyoncé
Hysterical Us by Magdalena Bay

11am 08.12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Seine river banks,
with their lack of guardrails, freaked
me out in fourth grade:

"Avez-vous entendu?!!"
My best friend rushed to ask it.
"Did you hear?! (the news)"

A woman drowned!!
She gushed - the horror tale
punch line delivered.

My eyes were wide with
shock and fear - the monster takes
another victim!

The dark Seine river
slithered, like a green snake
- feet from my front door.

There was no railing
- a misstep would drop you some
12 feet, to your cold death.

No parent could save
you - a terrifying thought for
a nine year old girl.

Walking to school, my
brother would sneak up, nudging
me near left-bank death.

I would scream, amid
cat calls and boyish laughter,
despite our au pair.

My best friend, Chloe, shared
my caution, if not my fear,
and loved to tease me.

That rapid river
loomed large in my dreams - as fears
can - for many years.

Last year we were in
Paris and I still couldn't go
near the riverbank  =]

I was dazzled - in
a summer spell - did we both
name it as special?

Was it the summer
freedom - the sparkling lake
that summoned magic?

The constant sun sent
a subliminal message
with its rise and fall.

It won’t last, it said,
there's an expiration
date approaching fast.

The short-lived summer
proved a brief, insubstantial
memory making.

We decided to take a walk.
If the moon and stars still existed,
they were hidden behind clouds.

Then a fog hit us like a wave, a cloud
that had run out of gas and crashed on us,
to further shrink the perceptible world.

Ordinary, walking people became vague
phantoms that could loom, in film noir
black and white out of the fog,
suddenly sharpen and colorize,
only to disappear again in moments.

Sounds, out of sync, or garbled, came sharply
from odd angles, turning that fifth sense unreliable.
Noises, at first muted, were abruptly amplified as
if the hand of that ghostly vapor ran a soundboard.

A man, moving in stalker-like silence, clops,
like a clydesdale on cobblestone as he passes close.

I half expected a distant fog horn to announce
the passing of a ghost ship where all be welcome.

Let me introduce
David Dennison - wealthy,
*****-minded man.

Credit card in hand
and his pornographic plans,
for *** on demand.

Little girls attract
him - his daughter's body
teases and distracts him.

Of course Jeff Epstein
knew the way of it - the pay
& get away with it.

David’s lawyers
smoothed the way - and he’s the
President today.

*David Dennison is Donald Trump's alias in non-disclosure agreements with prostitutes

Peter in the summer morning sun
his cool smile shaded by shadows run
his voice as soothing as coffee’s scent
tell me he wasn’t heaven sent

Peter of Malibu moss and Spanish rose
his lips like light-coral, in kissable repose
his legs slouched akimbo, like a tiger’s limbs
how I long to re-entangle myself in them.

Peter’s quick caress, on windy Tropez beaches
aren’t men the most delightful, of nature's invasive species?
I miss the jeweler’s precision, of his warm and playful hands
and how the sun slowly gifted him, with a model’s golden tan.

Peter sipping coffee under a brittle, New Haven sun,
his rough laugh following something silly I’d done.
There’s no cryptic, localized pathology, happening at the beach,
when the two of us are together, our worlds just seem complete.
.
.
Songs for this:
What the World Needs Now by Tori Holub & James Wilkas
be mine by strongboi

They invented the word faith, when logic failed

The desk was half submerged in a lake of papers.
She felt so adult, being invited for coffee.
But get outta here. With your remarkable eyes and..  WEDDING RING
The question hung invisibly in the air.
What does that mean, coffee?  Have you ever felt like you were missing some obvious sign-signal? Why does he want to have coffee with ME?” Lisa asked herself.
He isn’t the first guy to hit on her but he’s a professor.
WAS he hitting on her?
Her ***-dar said he was hitting on her.
“Sorry, I, I can’t.” she said as her mind searched for context.
She thinks: What if I make him mad - and he decides he doesn’t like me anymore?
Wait, does he like me NOW - or am I just another of a million students he’s taught?
Am I making a thing out of nothing? Am I being fractious?
Maybe coffee means coffee?
She has a hundred thoughts in a millisecond.
“Why not?” he asks, not looking up and marking some student’s paper with a red pin.
“I’m busy with humdrum deadlines,” she said, wondering if that even made sense.
He looks up and chuckles, “No problem.” He says with a smile, then he returns to grading.
After a second she turns and goes.
“I need to find Anais,” she thinks, reaching for her phone.

Kiss me, cuddle me
arouse me, befuddle me
time albates with seduction
enkindle, caress, slowly undress,
resist all other disruptions.

(A bit of fun for Thomas W. Case - I think he lives in Iowa)

Hawkeye pride burns bright in Iowa City,
the place where Tennessee Williams learned to curse.

Iowa City hosts the 4th of July, Iowa speedway race, unique perhaps
because the cars have to stay behind a tractor for the first 199 laps.

How polite are the people in Iowa City? I saw a news report where a man was mugged,
traumatic? Sure, but the man still remembered to say “Thank you” before the perp bugged.

There are over twenty-six churches here, people can be a bit pious and obnoxiously reflective.
There’s a Hawkeye infestation in Iowa City because of the university, classified as ‘moderately selective.’

Geographically, Iowa’s where the rolling plains meet a limestone rise.(1)
Did I mention that the bars close at 2am? A travesty in any serious drinker’s eyes.

Some noted authors came from Iowa City, the locals are proud of that and own it.
Most were playwrights and novelists, luckily, few of them turned out to be  poets.

(1) whatever that is

I refuse to write anything brilliant today,
in support of the writers’ strike.

I pray to that dead
criminal Jesus - to set
us right - restore us.

We’re a mess - like
spilled salt - remember the  
fresh air of freedom?

In dreams I search - there
must be a cure lying
around somewhere..

Eyelid shades
open on chiaroscuro
lit, moody mornings.

I keep my head down
I’m doing my fey best, to
let nothing touch me.

.
.
.
** Note: I was raised a Catholic. Jesus wasn't crucified by some accident - he was executed as a criminal - that's just a fact - not an attack on Christianity - I would never attack a religion.. except maybe Scientology... that was a JOKE!!  aarrgghhh!

If poetry is art (I rather think it is) then one purpose is to engage and provoke emotion - I confess that the first stanza is meant to engage the reader.. hhhmmm.. maybe too much? I AM a beginner.

I’ve got it - woot!  Well, we’ve (Lisa and I) have it. The Covid.
After living carefully serpentine lives - for the last half decade - we both have it.

Lisa started feeling ***** Friday night, after work. Saturday she had some sniffles and we both took Covid tests, coming up positive. By Saturday evening, Lisa was laid-low and looked a flu-like death warmed over. I am asymptomatic, not a cough or a sneeze, although I do feel some fatigue and an occasional little dizziness.

“I hate you,” she said, in a moment of clarity and focus. I think it’s a temporary, fever-driven hatred - but time will tell.

Charles, our escort and consigliere, who goes everywhere we go, didn’t catch it. He’s become our designated shopper. When I asked Lisa if she wanted anything she said, “Orange juice and mango gelato.” Twenty minutes later, Charles handed me (masked and gloved through a door crack) two bags - one contained a large, extra-pulp orange juice, the other had a $70 selection of various ice creams, gelatos and ice cream sandwiches (the receipt was still in the bag.)

Saturday night, I texted my mom, who’s spending yet another summer overseas with “Doctors Without Borders.” She Face Timed me not two minutes later, from somewhere in Poland, or Ukraine - 4,170 miles away - and after checking I was ok - delivered what I think of as “family infectious disease lecture #17, full of “If you’re going to be a doctors” and “You know betters.” I love technology.

My sister Annick, a doctor herself, was knocking at our (her) door twenty minutes later. She gave us both mini-physicals and left a list of things to periodically check (like blood-oxygen levels) as well as two boxes of Paxlovid, “Do NOT take this unless or until I tell you to.”
We all have Apple watches and are now walkie-talkie connected for even more instant communication.

Rebecca, my fellowship surgeon, was, of course, very sympathetic and supportive when I told her but displayed a careful, verbal, clinical distance - addressing me as “Mz Vionet” once - instead of her usual “Anais” or the even more usual “excuse me.”

I’ve been promoted to nurse, cook and bottle washer - but the ice cream, topped with a little Bailey’s Irish liqueur, is spectacular.

Anyway, here we are. We’ve finally joined the Covid parade. I guess Covid isn’t over after all.

I had a date! (not a great date but a date.) Could our covid nightmare be ending?

An actual one-on-one date - can you imagine? It was with Noud, a university student (from Holland) I met a couple of weeks ago.

Noud, to be accurate, is a man. He’s 22 and I’m 17 (18 in 3 months). My mom was skeptical but we’ve been around Noud and he seemed pretty nice. It wasn’t like I was infatuated with him, this was a practice date.

I hadn’t been on many one-on-one dates before this (5). I was thinking my 17th year was gonna be a breakout year for dating - but NOT. The over-a-year pandemic lock-down put an end to that.

Anyway, here’s a date tip for older guys: if you’re sincere about something - say “sustainability” - don’t talk about it at dinner - all dinner. In fact, if you’re an intense, serious person - on any subject - take that secret to your grave.

We had dinner - that we picked up and picnicked with. After dinner, things went all WWE. Once we were back in his car, it was as if I became a birthday present he’d been waiting months to open. He pressed in like that was an established, almost impersonal fact.

For someone claiming to be interested in “sustainability”, he moved to the chest massage - skirt-search portion of the festivities pretty quickly - and that didn’t really work for me.

At one point, wrestling in his tiny electric car - which pitched like a rowboat in an angry sea - I felt his tongue in my eyebrows… yeah, my eyebrows.
“What are you DOING?”, I asked, digging my heals into the floorboard to gain enough leverage to push him away and wiping my face with my sleeve.
“You taste good,” he said (hear it with a slight Arnold Schwarzenegger accent).
“I’m NOT a gelato,” I complained, while maintaining a stiff-arm.

Hey, it was a long lock-down year - we’ve all missed dating, we’re all out of practice and maybe some are trying too hard - I get that.

This isn’t a “metoo” story - Noud took “no” for “NO” once I went to my big, “dog command voice,” but sigh Noud will NOT be getting a rematch.

(a firefly poem)

Love isn’t easy to find, it’s ​well-camouflaged.

I don’t know, I don’t care,
if you’re going to the party
or you won’t be there

I don’t give you a thought
you’re not on my mind
and if I ever think of you
I’m not very kind

Now that you’re gone
I’m feeling better
Now that you’re gone
I’ll feel that way forever

I laugh when I hear,
that you’re under pressure
or under the weather -
the last one is better

Look, I’m not irate -
and I haven’t any doubts
- you were like a bad taste,
that I had to spit out.

You proved a consternation,
a mistake on my part,
thanks again, LUzer
I actually learned a lot
.
.
a song for this:
Please Please Please by Sabrina Carpenter

Sunday’s an auspicious day to suggest
that you, as a student, take a recess
in order to try and decompress
from our studying and stress

Now, of course, if you’re so possessed,
or some might even say obsessed,
you could study for a test,
we all want to do our best
but some work habits can oppress
and leave one all depressed

Just  take a needed rest
and if your needs are unaddressed
get caressed when you’re undressed
some would have that thought suppressed
or simply left it unexpressed
but under oath I would attest
and to a priest I have confessed
all my roommates acquiesced
that for relaxation it’s the best
and quickest way to get unstressed

there are a hundred things I could suggest
you type “A”s tend to make everything a contest
in this, there are no professors for you to impress
this isn’t a competitive, academic trap, trick or jest
I just know that, on Monday, this girl will be refreshed

From the fiery hills of Maui
to the dry Canadian brush
from the flat lands of the delta
down to Texas on the gulf.

The weather’s downright awful
you can hear the people say,
summers sometimes take bad turns,
but it’s never been this way.

From the tall pines of the Great North West
to the Louisiana shore,
from Florida’s boiling waters,
to California’s reservoirs.

The weather’s downright awful
you can hear the people say,
With the heat domes far above us
Montreal’s hotter than Bombay.

From the fiery hills of Maui
to the dry Canadian brush
from the flat lands of the delta
down to Texas by the gulf

The weather’s downright awful
you can hear the people say,
everyday the heat breaks records,
how long can we go on this way?

From the tall pines of the Great North West
to the Louisiana shore,
from Florida’s boiling waters,
to California’s reservoirs.

You can feel that something’s different,
you can hear what people say.
It kind of makes you wonder,
how long can we go on this way?

Maybe I’m too simple
or too shallow
but I’m not angry.
What’s wrong with me?

I was trying to think
of someone I hate,
Jews, CIS guys, republicans,
palestinians, blacks, democrats,
the left handed, authority figures,
central americans, parents, vagrants,
the usual suspects, but I’m coming up empty

Things aren’t perfect
don’t get me wrong
I’ve got a pug nose
a flat chest
a giant forehead
and too much work to do
but I’m trying my best—

Worse yet, I’ve no plummeting anxieties
no obvious neurosis
—that one could be a misdiagnosis
no painful hangnails
no sad life tales
no addictions to defend
or hated ex-boyfriends
I have no emo hooks to pin my verse.
no current melodramas to cozen and coerce
between you and me, I think I’m off the rails
It’s really no wonder my poetry pales.

Yeah, that’s what’s wrong with me.
.
.
Songs for this:
Gee, Doctor by Dimie Cat
Sweet Lovin' (feat. Anna-Luca & Iain Mackenzie) by Club des Belugas

I love the way the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences let Will Smith sit there, for 40 minutes, preening in the front row, in plain sight, after he assaulted a black man at the Oscars.

I know what you're thinking - wait, isn’t Will Smith black? Well, obviously NOT. In an America where black men are routinely murdered for selling cigarettes or having a broken taillight, Mr. Smith got to commit his crime in front of millions of people. Then sit around like a three-piece suited sultan for over a ½ hour to receive an Oscar and a (reflexive?) standing ovation.

Will, in an effort to make his violence palatable said, in his tearful acceptance speech, that he was protecting his wife. Chris Rock made a joke about her hairdo. Was she actually in some kind of unseen danger? Perhaps this is some kind of new, Muslim “honor” slapping?

The very function of comedian hosts and presenters at the Oscars is to take-the-**** out of these overpaid actor-celebrities. If you multi-millionaires can’t take a joke, stay home or wear a **** wig.

I’m curious, we know Jada and Will have an “open” marriage - because they have said as much. Does that mean, in “Smith” logic, Chris could have *** with Jada but not comment on her looks?

How far does Will’s privilege extend - could he have *****-slapped Betty White (she was pretty salty sometimes) - for instance? I mean, Chris Rock is half Will Smith’s size. Do you think he would have launched up at Dwayne Johnson, Idris Elba or Jason Momoa? I doubt it, even if Will did get to pretend, he was Mohamid Ali for a while.

Chris Rock is a trooper, he took the hit and carried on like a professional. He’s going to be ok. Chris is in the middle of a national comedy tour, and it completely sold out the night of the assault. Even with ticket prices jumping from $49 to $340 per seat. I can’t wait to hear his new bit. I’m fairly sure every comedian in the world will now make a point of making vicious fun of Will - who’s made himself a punchline.

Will Smith will now start an apology tour. “It was a momentary lapse,” he’ll say - like every guy who ever slapped his wife or punched-down on someone weaker than themselves. From now on, whenever Jada’s invited anywhere, she’ll be asked if her husband is coming too and if he can be counted on to behave himself.

Chris Rock generously declined to press charges, but the LAPD doesn't need him to charge Will with assault. I know he’d only get a slap on the wrist, but someone should hold him accountable.

I was a Will Smith fan once.

Republican Vice-Presidential nominee JD Vance’s comments on the catastrophe, that is Donald Trump:

In DMs, he wondered whether Trump, “Is America’s ******.” (2015)
“Fellow Christians, everyone is watching us when we apologize for this man. Lord help us.” (2016)
“Donald Trump is a moral disaster.” (2016)
After one meeting with Trump, Vance wrote “My god what an idiot.” (2016)
“What percentage of the American population has DonaldTrump sexually assaulted?” (JD Vance, 2016)
Vance tweeted: “Trump makes people I care about afraid. Immigrants, Muslims, etc. Because of this I find him reprehensible. (2016)
“I’m definitely not gonna vote for Trump because I think that he’s projecting very complex problems onto simple villains.” (2016)
“Trump’s a total fraud who doesn’t care if regular people call him reprehensible.” (2017)
“Trump’s cultural ******, just another opioid for Middle America.” (2017)

On Twitter (X) Vance liked tweets saying Trump committed “serial ****** assault.”
and called Trump “One of USA’s most hated, villainous, and ******* celebs.”
.
.
A song for this:
The End of the Innocence by Don Henley

Like Mozart’s Cherubino, I know nothing of love
but I am waiting on the runway, idling like a jet
I am burning my composure
I am inviting trouble
I have hidden gifts
and a steely will

My roommates and I
always have something to say.
We talk incessantly, like chirping birds.

We’re all reading the same large print here, and It suggests that college is almost over.
We’re bleeding time and there are dreams in need of scheming.
It’s time to stack our chips with transactional relationships and hoard the things that matter most.

I have to admire the sheer attitude and bravado of these girls—their defiant strides,
as they face the invisible indignities and constant obstacles of job hunting.
(Where they’re required to behave while they’re observed and evaluated).

They have their resumes and they’re complaisantly ready to flex their appealing gregariousness.
All of the major playas are passing through—from established giants like (Amgen, Bayer and Genentech)
to biotech startups and research Institutes—to cull through the herd of Yale biomedical graduates.

I don’t get to play (interview) this time and it’s rough just watching the signs and plays from the sidelines.
I can’t help the feeling that I’m underperforming—even though my ‘Master of Public Health (MPH)’ program starts 10 days after we graduate. ‘Baby, I was born to run’— to steal a line from Bruce Springsteen.

Despite our separate paths—we’re like cats getting ready to jump in all directions—a bouillabaisse of intoxicating and terrifying excitement for the future is brewing, and we still have the constrictions of our current curriculum to deal with—like a snake, it still wraps around every aspect of our lives.
.
.
Songs for this:
born to run by Bruce Springstein
Time by Tom Waits
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_03.mp3

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.

It was the summer of 2014, I was just about to turn 13, spending June of summer vacation with my Grandmère, in Paris. Tonight we’re at a fundraising benefit for African relief (it’s always something). It was a coveted ticket, I was told, because Keira Knightley and Rita Ora were there - somewhere. It was being held at an empire-styled museum-estate in Paris, once owned by Josephine Bonaparte.

The rooms were ornate in the extreme, with dark, woodland, panoramic wall murals, large, finicky-looking furniture, heavy, with gold encrusted - everything. It made the small, dark rooms and tight passageways seem foreboding and claustrophobic.

A boy named Théo was my ‘date’ for the evening (NOT my idea). When my Grandmère was a girl, back when hoop skirts were the fashion and F. Scott Fitzgerald was just sharpening his pencils, a girl didn’t attend a function without a date. Théo was in my grade at school, but he was a couple of inches shorter than me, and his voice seemed different every time he talked. He was a surprise; I don’t even know how she found him.

As we snaked through the main house to the solarium, in a parade of otherwise middle aged, formally dressed guests, the dim hallway squeezed us down to a single-file line. Théo kept trying to take my hand, in the darkness, like he’s scared or something. “Stop that!” I warned him.

Then I saw a mirror - ‘Oh!’ I thought in surprise, stopping dead in the hallway to check my hair, straighten my dress, and pose for my imagination. I became aware Théo was talking, again - he always was - saying, “You're wa wa wa,” or something. Call me a casual and indifferent listener.

“Were you talking to me” I asked, “or just making words up?” He looked exasperated - why?
“You're blocking the way,” he said, anxiously, in a squeaky voice, the way he said it made me think he’d said it before.
He gently took my arm to move me along and I wobbled in my high-heels, I wasn’t very good with heels yet. “Easy,” I cautioned him, my arms briefly flailing.

“You know,” I said defensively,“ someone PUT that mirror there.. probably Napoleon or Josephine - they WANTED people to stop there.” Men are so illogical, it’s a wonder they survive.

As we finally entered the solarium, there was a jazz trio playing ‘C’est si bon’ (Arm in arm), what else? I said, “I’m starving.” A long table along a blue-glass wall featured desserts and champagne. My stomach growled.
I looked around, there was nothing for it - action must be taken - and Théo was useless.
“Want to go get something to eat? I asked him.
He lit up as if awakened, “McDonalds?” he asked. Our conversations were in French, naturally. His joy probably meant his parents didn’t like him eating there (American cuisine! = junk food).
“Bien sûr,” (of course) I said, grinning.

I found my Grandmère in a cluster of elegantly dressed patrons - and there was Keira Knightley - gorgeous, in a dress like she wore in that ‘pirate’ movie - she movie-star glittered, otherworldly.
“I’m starving,” I informed Grandmère, “we’re going to get something to eat,” I turned to show her Théo’s delighted face - he was her idea, after all.
“I was hoping to introduce you…” she started.
“Please!” I asked, bouncing up and down on my toes with some urgency, taking her hand.
“Very well,” she said, sighing, after a moment.

I turned away, wrestling my too-large iPhone-6-plus from my sparkly party clutch.
“Hey Siri, Call Charles,” I commanded. A moment later Charles picked up.
“McDonalds, Champs-Élysées,” I said, as Théo grinned, rubbing his hands in glee. “We’re in the solarium,” I added.
“Eyes on,” Charles said, indicating that he had me in sight.

We plan, organize, gather and pack,
we fly - what liberty is this - to fly
like a weapon on the edge of heaven.

Having no power to do it ourselves
we trust security, the silver whirligig,
and the immutable laws of lift and ******.

Looking down at clouds, near the speed of sound
“Yes, I’ll have the pretzels, please, and a sprite.”
aviating thru the night, a few silent, blinking lights
wedged up in the stars to those stuck in slow cars.

We land with a bump, and reverse engine ******,
remaining in our seats until signs are revealed
we then become the many-headed impatience
to exit, to rush - for the baggage we trust
made the journey with us.

Oh, quick, grab a cab, catch a bus
the grumpy, disheveled, six of us
we weary travelers thus
were returned from vacation,
to a near dawn New Haven.

Vibe-check, it’s Friday. Yay! A delightfully cool Friday at that! I’d like to thank the democratic party (which I’ve heard controls the weather now). Has the heat finally surrendered to the inevitable freshness of fall?
Can we please proceed directly to a cruel winter?

“What are we doing tonight?” I asked Lisa as she sat on the edge of a chair to put on her Nine West tunic pointed-toe booties. She has class this morning and I don’t. I’m sipping coffee, curled up on our red-corduroy couch, under a school themed throw, trying to grasp the plot of a fascinating chemistry book.

“Something fun,” she said, verbatim, offering little concrete as she picked up her slouchy silhouette, hobo bag.
“See ya,” she said, shouldering the door open with her right arm and securing her coffee with her left.
She’s got one of those giant coffee cups that are so vogue. She gives herself 30 minutes, after our morning jog, to get ready for class and that whole time, she’s brewing cup after k-cup of Keurig coffee to fill that monster.
“Byeeeeee,” I responded, before the door clunked closed.

Sunny, came to the door of her room, “Do you separate your whites and darks?” She asked.
“Of course,” I said, not looking up, to save my page-place, “we’re not animals.”
“I never separate,” she confessed.
“That’s why your white socks are pink,” I updogged.
“They are pink,” she said, pulling up her pajama leg to expose her pink socks, “bright pink.”

The serious events have started. Parties thrown by groups, always to a theme, offering whimsical, rainbow palates of fun. We’re here for it, my room and suitemates, all of us. There’s no better way to spend a Friday or Saturday night, than dressing up as a Disney princess, jedi princess or streetwalking zombie princess.

Some nights, there’s more than one and we jump gatherings until we find the perfect one. We easily feed off of each another’s energy. We’re all 21-year-olds now and pushing past painfully obvious insecurities, legal restrictions and occasionally, moral boundaries.

Ok, let’s reach for some Friday night rhymes:

Fridays are reserved for revelry, for noise and crazy mirth,
you can find a rave or masquerade with very little research.

The venues are themed and adorned for festive cheer,
and the turned-up music ignites those dance-like atmospheres.

Picture tapestries of youthful fun and you’ve grasped the vibe of the night.
In fleeting moments, we reach for it - I hope you brought your invite.

There was a disappointing ‘jungle rave’ where people were smoking inside!
Are you a ‘master of the universe,’ if you can’t get air-quality right?

Way too soon the revels cease
and in the Saturday morning quiet, we search out tasty eats.
We did it for memories, to give our dull lives a makeover
and good news! I didn’t wake up with a hangover.
.
.
Songs for this:
Nite Becomes Day by Citizen Cope
Breathe In by Frou Frou

Sophy’s mom sent her a giant case of “Fun dip” - a thousand packets of sour, fruit-flavored sugar. Is there anything more junkavore a parent can buy a child - well, ok, an 18 year old?

She LOVES them and so does Leong who’s from China where, apparently, you can’t get useless, non-nutritional snacks. The two of them are running around, all sugar hyped with their emo-grape-chemical-lips, sticking out phosphorescent-green-tongues and threatening to tickle everyone with cherry-red-fingers. It has me wondering, should I switch to dentistry?

Our college prep has moved to a new phase - with just 16 days until we move back into our residential college. We’re suddenly sleeping-in. It’s nothing we planned or even discussed, it just started happening. We go to sleep around 10pm and sleep until 10am - or later. I think we all subconsciously realized that soon we’ll be back to sleeplessness.

I’m peachy - in a great mindspace - these days. I’m well rested (see above), we’re killing our sophomore prep - even the physics, my period was a nothing, we spent over two hours in Ulta sampling perfumes, I have a new Macbook M2 (see below) and I painted my nails in tropical colors.

The FedEx man rolled up yesterday. “Anyone expecting something?” Anna asked the crowd of roommates attracted by the driver bringing packages to the door, two at a time. No one was expecting anything. Eventually he’d delivered 8, back to school, M2-Macbooks (2 in each color) - one for everyone - from my Grandmère.

If that sounds needlessly ostentatious, then you’re thinking she went to the mall and paid full price, but she probably just traded Tim Cook a half ton of lithium or something - one of her companies mines it - in Chili - I think. But still, my roommates were blagabloo.

I picked a starlight one. An odd thing about the new, flat Macbook Air design is that you can’t pick it up with one hand - unless you hook it underneath with a long fingernail - what are guys going to do?

(Senryu poems about crushes)

That awkward moment
when you're caught day-dreamily
staring at your crush.

You know that tingly
feeling when you start to crush?
It's common sense leaving.

The fantasies that
you indulge about your
crush are scandalous.

You can’t ******
your crush because self-worth
crumbles up close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breathless summer heat retreats with the sun. People come out after dusk - like nocturnal animals. We’re hunting ice-cream, at a carnival-painted shop. There are four serving windows, hundreds of flavors and crickets serenading from the dark.

My BFF Kim and I are with my older brother - we run to the line and he follows. We’re waiting in line when the noisy muscle car roars up. The driver is Kim’s ex-boyfriend - Rob. Dumped but still, somehow, on the planet.

We fear the contamination of simple ice-cream pleasures with sour drama. We turn our backs as they park and then join a nearby line. I feel Rob watching us, we’re tense, like maybe there’s a spider nearby.

Rob comes over - he wants something from her - she’s bored with understanding. He stands close - private-space-invader close - he’s high-school-junior smooth. His assertions have no creativity - just history repeating itself - the talk is brief.

After a minute, he storms off - his friends are disappointed - I think they wanted ice-cream. Tire squealing and motor roaring announce his departure - his reputation is upheld.

I got two gigantic scoops- one Banana Peanut Butter Ripple the other Key Lime pie.  *YUM

There’s a lot of heat when all eight
of us suite-mates get together.
I might have mentioned it somewhere.
We’re like surround sound,
eight car alarms going off together,
it’s jabberwocky by an established team.

It can get frantic and maybe frightening
for the uninitiated or inhibited.
Some of us are pretty boy-crazy
and there’s a mix-in of twinkling girl-crazy too.
We’re basey, bugzee, spaceheads and freaks,
yeah, we're the whole emotional spice rack.

“She’s a good person to **** time with,”
is pretty high praise around here
because we have so little free time.
But these are good people to **** time with.

And we’re portable, we travel, we invade,
we’re crazy young women who’ve got it made.
So if you’re coming at us, trying to enter our enclave,
you better be brave or a situational upgrade.
.
.
Songs for this:
No New Friends (feat. Sia, Diplo & Labrinth) by LSD
Lysergic Bliss by of Montreal
Freedom Is Free by Chicano Batman
.
.
slang…
basey = a cool loser, nice but a bit odd, a ****** with style
bugzee = slightly crazy
spaceheads = people who talk about weird things

Your life’s but a shadow
he’s a king of the earth
he’s secure in his place
he knows his own worth.

He‘s lacking all burdens
his smile merits bliss
by the King be commanded
you’re deemed worthy young miss.

The lady‘s so lucky,
as a rose meant for plucking,
this brawling, rough rogue,
- this heir to earths throne,
deems her worth the f—king.

I chuckle demurely,
“Be away drunken sir
- leave me to my studies
- go chase other skirts
with your fraternity buddies.”

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.

The Heraclee sky was a lurid, neon blue but the morning was surprisingly cool (at 54°). The antemeridian sun managed to cast sharp, surreal, black-hole shadows, giving the world a baroque art look, as if we were strolling through a Rembrandt painting, where everything is defined by shadows.

The lavish breeze, coming up off the Mediterranean Sea, seemed compressed and frantic, as if trying to flee the choppy, sapphire water. Tall marsh grasses waved back and forth, as if to unheard music, reminding me of 60-thousand swaying arms at the Taylor Swift concert.

Higher up, the wind played with feather-like clouds, making them seem to rise, fall and spill over each other in their race for the horizon. On the beach, there were ten or more colorful, elaborate kites - the French love their multi-wired stunt kites.

There was a dragon, a multi-color WWI biplane, there were bird kites, an octopus and a swooping butterfly. We watched them for a while, from a hill. “I’m going to get one of those,” Peter said, dreamily (for use on the Malibu beach his parents' modest home overlooks).

A little later, Peter and I decided to bike down to the beach from the hotel. The idea was valid but the bikes, seeming leftovers from World War 2, shook and rattled like percussion instruments as we made the death-defying plunge down the steep, uneven stone-laid path. We were laughing, screaming and half convinced we’d die by the time we reached the bottom.

Once there, a snooty concierge said, “That is NOT the bike path.” Which seemed hilarious. When Peter replied, dead faced, “We’re American,” as if that were an internationally understood pass for being stupid. It made us laugh so hard we couldn’t look at each other for a couple of minutes. I don’t know which hurt more, my bottom or my side.

As our guffaws were dying down, Charles arrived on the bike path.
“Why’d you do THAT?” (take the wrong path) he asked, with a tone of irritated censure.
“There was a sign,” I argued, gasping for air from my still doubled up laughing position, “that said ‘Bike Path?’" my voice rising like a sarcastic question.
“You didn’t notice the ten-inch tall, blue arrow under the words pointing to the bike path?”

Sometimes Charles can be extra over - as in overprotective and over-reactive.

As Cherles and I wrangled away, Peter stood patiently by, waiting. He doesn’t argue with Charles, he says he finds the 6-foot-3-inch, retired NYC policeman a little intimidating.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, dismissively, “he’s a big ‘ol teddy bear.”

This poem was mused by:
"Shakespeare won't look at me" by ThomasW.Case
-----------------------------------  -------------­-------------------

We fill our lives with work and stress
in the lust for new possessions
we're taught that this is called success
and it makes for good impressions

But pleasures we’re taught to suppress
so our souls will fly up to the heavens
but this flesh that god has gifted us
are our only true possessions

If we find ourselves casually undressed
which is frankly, our natural condition
and if ****** needs should be addressed
there’s no need for ****** confessions

for pleasure is something to be expressed
if we’re alone or in a marvelous coalition
So I wish you satisfaction in elations quest
as you work the knobs, slants and levers
because this isn’t some kind of competition

P.S. Will Shakespeare was familiar with *******'s guilty thrills.
"The expense of spirit, in a waste of shame is lust in action"
.
.
A song for this:
Flowers by Miley Cyrus

Thou hast my love and I desire thine.
Dost thou know or knowing, care?
I keep the nymph's lonely station.

But my impatience grows savage.

If thou carest not, my love
the stars will keep their motion
flowers will still need water
I will learn stillness
the feeling will rust

Thou hast my love and I desire thine.
Dost thou know or knowing, care?
I keep the nymph's lonely station.

But my impatience grows savage.

If thou carest not, my love,
the stars will keep their motion,
flowers will still need water,
I will learn stillness,
and the feeling will rust.

Ooo! Your fake smile - what’s up?

It’s Saturday morning at about 9am. I’m in the chemistry lab, a sterile looking room with 12 workstations that are like multi level kitchen islands with sinks and various lab gear. It’s the most fluorescently lit environment on earth and everything looks to be either white, stainless steel or glass.

I’m one of the two students in the lab this morning, so I’ve taken two stations at the far end of the room and I’m performing two experiments at once, I mean, why not get ahead?

Before I start a lab, I do a ‘cutsheet,’ It’s something I learned from my sister, Annick. The cutsheet lists every piece of equipment I’ll use (like a magnetic stirrer), every step I’ll perform (control the atmosphere), every safety measure I need to take (fume hoods), every chemical I will use (for instance alkyl halide in 0.1 concentration) and what my results should be. This is all more-or-less textbook - but I still hand-write it out myself.

It’s a quiet environment, I have my AirPods in and I’m listening to cello music - it’s relaxing. I’m performing two variations of nucleophilic substitution reactions - creating new carbon-carbon bonds. It’s Pretty standard stuff and I’m at the stage, in both experiments, where I combine reagents. When suddenly, a TA (teaching assistant) is stooping over my hunched, left shoulder.
“What do you have there?” He asked - let’s call him Lewis. I flinched. Ok, I jumped.

Lewis’ breaking the silence was sudden and intrusive. I hadn’t noticed him prowling about and for a moment I was flummoxed. I tapped my AirPods to stop the music.

This was irritating. See, anything I would say to him would sound like a child talking to an adult. He’s a doctoral student and to him what I’m doing is stupidly simple, like stacking blocks, but he’s put me in that position.

“I’m doing both variations of (problem set/homework) problem 5,” I motioned to the other station, “and I’m ready to introduce the Grignard reagent,” I couldn’t help a note of cringy defiance creeping into my tone, like a child expecting to be reprimanded.

“Are you..,” he started to say, I’m sure he didn’t mean for it to sound like an interrogation.
But I read his mind, adding, “I’m using anhydrous conditions and an ethereal solvent,” this time I said it like it should be obvious—and again I sounded childish and brittle (like an ignoramus)—to myself anyway—but I was at a loss. ‘God, I really need to be less defensive,’ I thought, mortified. I hate looking dumb.

He nodded his head, he’d been looking over my cutsheet. I gave him an upturned, sideways glance. Was he going to stand around observing or worse yet micro-manage me?
“Very good,” he pronounced, tapping my cutsheet lightly with an index finger, “carry on.”

He walked away, off to bother the other student, I hoped. Better him than me. I had work to do. I tapped my music back on, looking at my cutsheet.
Where was I?
.
.
Songs for this:
Havana by Brooklyn Duo
Carnival of the Animals: XIII. The Swan by Yo-Yo Ma & Kathryn Stott

It was a cool, overcast and windy Sunday morning in March 2014. We were about 50 miles from Paris, at my Grandmère’s (grandmother’s) farm. She lives in Paris, but she owns a Château and surrounding 1,100-hectare farm that she calls her “fall retreat.”

Between three and five hundred people work on the farm, the Château and its surrounding shops (some work is seasonal). The shops sell wool, cheese, wine and ice cream produced on the farm, as well as touristy things. Many of the employees live on the farm, rent free. Their homes, owned by the farm, form a hameau (village). I didn’t understand much of this at the time, I was 10 years old.

My Grandmère was dedicating a new store just off the village green. The green wasn’t square, like those in the UK and it didn’t have swings or a slide, as I’d hoped. You’d think I’d know a hamlet my Grandmère owned but this place was alien to me. I’d arrived as part of her entourage but as the presentation ground on, I got bored. So, I took Charles by the hand and off we went.

We (my little nuclear family) were living in the UK then and we were visiting Paris for the Easter holiday. The fall before, as the school year had started, a girl in my grade (4th grade or year 5 in the UK) had been kidnapped and murdered on her way home from school. My Grandmère was “having none of it,” and hired Charles, a burly, red-headed, just retired, ex-NYC cop, as my security, escort and practical nanny. He’d been with me for about half a year, at that point, and we’d become fast friends.

It was the height of the pre-summer, Easter season. In addition to the villagers, there were tourists everywhere, picnicking on the grass, visiting the shops and playing football (soccer). Most of the tourists seemed to have small children that ran around. The townspeople sat on benches, eating ice creams and playing dominoes or quoits, a horseshoes-like game, played on a sand pitch.

You couldn’t mistake the two groups - the natives and the tourists. The towns folk were plainly dressed, the women in simple smocks and sweaters, the men wearing slacks, tweed jackets, berets or tag hats. The tourists spoke other languages - there were Italians, Britts, Germans and even Americans - who wore sports logoed t-shirts, shorts, sneakers and baseball caps.

As Charles and I wandered around the village, I asked, “Can we get a sirop?” One of the most popular drinks, in France, is a grenadine sirop (soda). We stopped and as Charles bought us drinks, I wandered a way off. He found me, moments later, hanging from a tree limb, upside down, my hair sweeping the grass like a broom.

“Stop that,” he’d said, swooping me up and off the branch with his soda free hand and setting me alright. As he picked leaves out of my hair, he said, “Don’t wander away from me like that, you know better.” “Yes sir” I agreed. A moment later, he picked me up and placed me atop a low, four-foot parapet wall that ran around the village. I could feel sharp, rough stone edges through my cotton dress but I drank my sirop and didn’t complain.

“You saved me from the dragon,” I said, after my first few sips.
“What dragon?” he said.
“The dragon that had me in its teeth, over there.” I pointed at the tree where I’d been upside down.
“I saved you from yourself,” he said, as he looked around the square.
“That’s silly,” I announced, “how can someone need saving from themselves?”
“Oh, It happens all the time,” he said.

The event ended and as people began leaving, they filed by us on the sidewalk. The village men doffed their hats and the women nodded a quick curtsey as they passed. “Why are they doing THAT?” I asked Charles, “am I a princess?”
“No,” he snorted, “you’re no kind of princess. They’re doing it out of respect for your illustrious grandmother.” “Oh,” I said disappointedly.

A moment later our car pulled up and we were headed back to the city. “Did you have fun?” my Grandmère asked, “yes mam,” I answered. “Did you behave yourself?” She followed up. “Mostly,” I admitted. She nodded, pronouncing, “That’s how it should be,” as the limo turned onto the autoroute (expressway) and accelerated for lunch in Paris.

In my family, a convent in Lucerne, Switzerland loomed legend large.
Its name is “La Madone Noire” (the Black Madonna) and according to my mom, it is a “finishing school” where captious girls, who lied or who wouldn’t behave, were sent to live with and be schooled by nuns.

It was, from all reports, a terrible and stern place where there was never any ice cream or bedtime stories and the toys, when there were any, were made of straw.

Most of the time it was my older sister Annick getting the dark Poe-like lectures, but I was there, in my high chair, listening wide-eyed. The very idea that Annick could be snatched up, for some infraction, and sent off to the nuns horrified me to the point that my heartbeat seemed to come through my whole body.

Eventually, as we grew, “Lucerne” became a shorthand for “shape up or else,” and oddly,  it never lost its potency. Hmm, you know, come to think of it - there was no equivalent monastery for my brother.