Three days in - three days of school - and it’s like I never left.

In school, you can get oversaturated with screens. I like books.
They have a sense of permanence, they don’t glare back at you,
and I want something physical I can grip, markup and push off
the bed onto the floor when I get over it.

After three days of class, I’m asking (no one in particular), "Are we there yet?"

I can speed-read if I have a pointer - I use cocktail picks (swizzle sticks?) - you know, the little olive skewers you get in a martini? I have a collection from all over the world.

If I go to a bar and they have nice swizzle sticks, I’ll gather a few up. “What are you DOing,” Karen, (Lisa’s mom) asked me as I scarfed up several from patron’s empty glasses at the elegant, Refinery Rooftop bar in Manhattan.

“I have a TON of reading to do,” I explained, helpfully.
“Don’t even ask,” Lisa shrugged, rolling her eyes, when her mom looked confused.

The trick to speed reading is your eyes (and brain) pickup more than you realize and people tend to pronounce things, in their minds, as they read, which REALLY slows you down. So, you swivel the pointer down the page, following the pointer with your eyes, and Walla!

You can’t do THAT with a computer screen. You need a book, and when you have 2 or 3 hundred pages (or more) a night to read, you can’t just hold your breath and refuse - like a seven-year-old - can you? Seriously, I mean, can we? I’m asking - though it’s probably a little late (senior year).

Now, of course, not just any appetizer toothpick or fruit pick will do - the selection process can be rather byzantine. They must be a certain length, about 2 inches longer than my finger, so my hand doesn’t block the text, and square ones are the easiest to grip. Finally, if they have a little arrow-point on the tip? Well, that’s true love.

The problem is, I can get a little intense when reading and they tend to break. When my roommates hear me exclaim, “God **** it!” At 2am. They usually know why.
.
.
A song for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls

W;hi    L.      ere     re       Adi
            Ng   aGai"n                                
                                Casu!
       aLly    t;h'um:bing     (li   ke    A
          hAIRyhITCHhIKEr)htrohug         The Poetry Dictionary
                                                      ­                     by  John Drury     
,p'ic:k   iNG    m
                                                                ­Y
         pOeTiC  n O sE      W.ith
                         ALL       0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9of
      my       PoEtIc       f-in-g-ər-s    ,i  
           rem      inde             d       a.m.

THa,T
                            a         cobla     i
           s.a          poem          t  
                Hat's          o+n­-e=stanza
                                                       ­       loooooooooooo0°    ng
    (   Li ke    Bob   Fro'sts     Fire
                                                  aⁿ
                                                 Dice          )


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In the depth of the night,
when the crickets and cicadas
are holding my pain,
and they chirp as each tear wets the pillow,
I would like for you to hold it too.

To be fully seen is to be
a closed book with a lock,
for he who has the key.
He who cannot wait for the night
to come and let his pain be held
and also hold hers.

He prepares himself and reads
a page or two a day,
immersing himself more and more
in the story of her.

To be fully seen is to know well—
well,
he could grab a pen and scribble all over,
add a page or two,
write instead of you.
Yet give him the pain, and the pen and the markers,
excited to see what he'd do.

Because you have his book, too,
and all you want to do is highlight,
draw a rose or two,
plant a kiss or two,
where the scars are visible,
where the pages are torn.

When it feels like too much—
two people and two books—
to be fully seen
is what I am here for:
to open the book of my heart
and my life
with hands trembling,
with eyes caught,
with heart open.

Did you throw away the key?
Forget it...
I want to read your book, too.
For every page that ends with a question,
I'll make sure to add my answer to my book.

To be fully seen,
as a soul, naked,
floating in space,
with you,
you can let go,
with all my secrets,
with all my questions,
with my book.

You can tear it to pieces if
you so decide.
With my heart trembling,
and a bag of markers,
I'll return your book and the key
and be glad I was fully seen.
At least, I tried to be.

Sometimes, no matter how much you explain,
the person cannot read your book well,
nor remember the details
carefully underlined by you.

Maybe, just maybe, the closure is to see
it's not the quality of the book;
maybe the genre's just not his cup of tea.

and I thought I spoke delicious words?
yet here you are,
making me come back for thirds.
sweet as blueberries on a beautiful breezy sunny day
one by one, devouring every word you say.
the sentences glimmer, they are rare, rememberable yet short
& reading your name is like watching a butterfly float around me
brings peace,
pauses time,
takes me back to myself,
(with sincerity of course)
you make me ******* own words.

I rule out myself

when reading, so I can hear --


what is being said.

Time to embark on another journey
through the islands of words, avoiding
dangerous pitfalls and **** the desire
to look back, knowing well what it means.
And no one wants to go back to the square
one, to auto-da-fe everything what has
made us. We strive for engagement with
the light—the mother of all lights. The source
of inspiration, the fuel, and the weapon
against the darkest nights spent waiting
for something, knowing that it will never
come. Knowing is evil.

Another day, a mission impossible to complete.
Whether the apple has been eaten, or no,
we would still be dripping this light
on our journey to the unknown.