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(a university-life vignette)

It’s a Friday night, Leong and I are at a small restaurant close to the dorm called “Ordinary.” We’re in a cozy, pleasantly dark, little red booth—waiting for Lisa—who’s running late. This is Leong’s favorite bar and her taste in exotic drinks is labile—tonight she has us drinking ‘Maker’s Mark,’ a delicious, straight-up bourbon, with a twist of orange peel.

We’re on our second—and I’m starting to buzz—did I mention Lisa’s running late? On a hot note, we’re celebrating. I turned in the first draft of my thesis prospectus last Wednesday and this morning I got it back - accepted.

But more importantly, when I tore into the envelope, back in my room, there was a yellow sticky-note on the prospectus that read like an academic valentine. It said:
“Anais, you write beautifully, with the economy of a poet.”
I may have danced around my room.

So, we’re sitting there, sipping our drinks and noshing on a charcuterie platter when this cute, hipster, Princeton transfer-student guy named Milo showed up—drink in hand. He’s like, 5 '11 with light-brown medium-longish hair tucked behind his ears and he’s wearing a light blue, textured cardigan over a tan t-shirt and leaf-green work pants. At first, he’s walking by, but he spots us and stops.

“Has anyone ever told you look like Anais Vionet?” He asked me.
“No,” I replied, “never.” “You sound like her too,” he followed up.
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I answered, shaking my head ‘no’ and shrugging.
“But she’d never come to a dive this cheap,” he updogged.
“Oh, yes she would,” I assured him.

Then, I gasped, remembering. Milos on one of Yale’s 500 soccer teams. “You guys lost to Princeton the other day! Isn’t that your alma mater? Congratulations!”
“Thanks, for bringing that up,” he said somewhat chagrined,
“We lost one-to-nil—it was just bad luck,” he said defensively.
“Oh, bad luck,” I chided him.

He did look tired and defeated, so I motioned him to take a seat. He slid right in next to Leong, who’s hand he shook, “Milo,” he said.
“I KNOW,” she said, in a sly and evil way—we’ve talked about him, conspiratorially—even she thinks he’s cute—and cross-culturally-cute isn’t easy.

“Are you superstitious?” Milo asked us—turning so Leong was included.
“Oh, sure,” I spoke first, “I was raised catholic, and even if you don’t hundo-p believe, it carries over. I always carry a lucky crystal with me—you know, for tests and what-not—I depend on that, as opposed to diligence and studying.”

“You have one with you now?” He followed up.
“I do,” I confessed, “I always have one in my bra.”
“Wow,” he laughed, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I chuckled, “For luck—in case I need to appear supper fun and sassy? Though I guess I’m proof crystals don’t work.”
“Do you really have a crystal in your bra?” He asked, sipping his whisky.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding my hand discreetly into my left cup and bringing out a tiny, flat green, polished Jade stone crystal. “Isn’t that uncomfortable?” He asked.
“Nah, there’s plenty of room in there,” I admitted, sliding the crystal back in place.

“Leong’s superstitious,” I said, nodding to her.
“All Chinese are superstitious,” Leong pronounced, “whenever I had a big exam at school, my mother would go and leave a chicken at the temple.”
Milo and I chortled—I’d actually seen women do that when I lived in Shenzhen.
“Well, I guess it worked!” Milo pronounced, and he and Leong high-fived.
“We have a saying, ‘it’s better to be lucky than good,” he added.
We say, “Yùnqì zhòngyàoguò nénglì,” Leong noted, in Cantonese.
“Luck is more important than ability,” I translated.
Speaking of luck, Lisa finally arrived.
.
.
Songs for this:
Where Are You by 54 Ultra
Cut Glass by mark william lewis
Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 11/12/24:
Labile = open to change.

My thesis topic is "Molecular dynamics simulations of protein folding (or protein-protein interactions)." It isn't easy to give it a poetic twist.

Our cast:
Leong, (roommate) 21, is from Macau, China - the Las Vegas of Asia and she’s a proud communist (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it). She's a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major.’ I speak Cantonese—which may be why we were paired—I lived in Shenzhen China (about 30 miles from Macau) - we talk a lot of secret trash together.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff. Grew up in a posh, 50th floor residence on Central Park South in Manhattan. She shares my major (Molecular biophysics and biochemistry) and is easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in RL (and is sensitive about it). Our tastes match, in everything (fashion, media, music, humor) except men.
Caw , call , caul ,
the bird , mermaid birth ,
it reclined over the Childe's
face .
Striga and born with a shirt ,
carefully the child shifted it
to one side .

An earthly lord ,
transcending a hero's
archetype .
Fly wastrel to enchanted
faerie kingdom ,
and watch a whole world
pass away .
Byron was born with a caul ... the slang names for which are listed in the first stanza .
In times not very much before his , it was thought a child thus born was a
' faerie ' child or even the sign of a witch ( striga ) or vampire .
A drink; a drink,
Another for me!
And one overboard
For the God of the sea!

A drink; a drink!
Another for me!
A vision of ***,
A truth for me!

A drink; a drink!
Once more for the gods!
O, safe keep our ship,
From the men of the odds!

A drink; a drink,
Poseidon, he falls!
Dionysus insists;
His brother; he calls!
A poem I wrote once while thinking about drinking on a fishing boat. When I get a chance, I like to go out on boats. Being broke as I am; that's rare. But still, there's something to sea out there... plus I love the old gods. Here's a drink in tribute for them all.
Zywa Jul 4
Faith is guidable,

while superstition hardly --


can be influenced.
Novel "The Enchantress of Florence" (2008, Salman Rushdie), part 3, chapter 19

Collection "Low gear"
David Hilburn Jun 17
Red...
The snore of a ghost...?
Has seen a party, with music fed
A prayer; a sincerity lost?

Catching a breeze
Catching a star
Chances predict, a certain heathen
With marveling eyes, staring at far

Away
Motion of a decision
Saving might from may
A sorrow has spent a stare's lesson

Purpose beyond
Stifling a wish, that gave...
No man a soul, for psyche and longing?
Are we to dance, alone or might we take...

The time to ask
Cause curious, enough to face...
The music, for its compassion of facts?
Seeing a cacophony, I know you, for dread's race...
Lets party like it's nighty-night, benign?
lua Mar 7
the shell chipped
and fell into the bowl
two yolks swirling around
one whole and deep orange
the other paling in comparison
fragile membrane pricked by ivory
bleeding into the white

i cursed
could have been
more careful.
Kitt Jan 18
don't eat the green ones,
for they bring upon sudden rain
that slicks the roads on a Q....t night

don't touch the yellow ones,
for they cause mechanisms to fail
upending lives in a matter of a moment

and for God's sake, don't taste the red ones,
for they are laced with poison
far deadlier than cyanide smoke.

hold tight to your coin, the one whose year
adds to thirteen. perhaps it will save you
from the danger of counting to three.

make no plans following your shift
for the gods of fortune do not favor the prepared
nor those who stitch their patches on too soon

you'll come to loathe the moon,
her face, shown in full, driving mad the insecure
and away the rolling lights.

no boots off until midnight,
lest you be called impertinent, and proven so
by the savior bell's ironic sense of humor

follow these rules to survive.
question not why they are told, for it is better
to wonder in safety
than to tempt the unfair Lady known as Luck.
the old wives
say it must be
the left hind foot
of a rabbit
shot with a silver bullet
or not shot at all
simply captured
one way or another
ideally on the grave
of a criminal
the more wicked the person
the more potent the charm
with the foot harvested
while the poor creature
is still alive
it has to be done
in a cemetery
during the night
of a full
or new moon
though others say
it should be
a friday
a rainy friday
friday the thirteenth
if the foot is to become
one of those lucky ones
David Hilburn Oct 2022
Patience, fate
Trees and treasures of kind
The tale of inclined sate
Has a sunny disposition, as if time

Care for a threshold of dissuasion another day?
Real regret, is the purpose behind our musings
Anger and delves of uniqueness, are to begin with may
A choice of shoulders, save itself for what patience looses...

Salt, is a final run to safety, a hug in the wind?
Curious speed, the irony of candor, to exist
Bred upon balance and the common, the tone of a new voice
That was a care, the towardness of you, an embarrassed list...

With no man's land, came the wish of potential
Sulking and denoted to be, the vice of remembering
The otherwise certain specific, the tongue of quintessential
Looks of responsibility for a question to guidance, sometimes humbling...

Will you marry me?
Places of blossoms, and the callous through and due, today
Of a quiet simplicity, for the anecdote of when boding is anarchy
Isn't a world of itself, the only reason a challenged voice, was anyway?

Persist and pout
The devil and the deed of the bluesy's...
Right to contain and contemplate another good intent, shout
Upon a caring rainbow found in the mere, all more, and me...
Dread says, ask for a tattoo only when you can afford it, unless you want it in all ways my pillow...
David Plantinga Jan 2022
The ancients put tremendous matters
On oracles and auguries.  
When godhood speaks, the priest agrees.
Glib cunning fails when trouble batters.  
Calculations have a thousand ways
To err, while chance can cut the odds
To one in ten, or more if gods
Drop hints about our dossiers.  
Augurs read events to come
From entrails, bones, and scattered sticks.  
Their guesses are arithmetics
For problems reasoning can’t sum.
The idea for this poem came from Montaigne’s essay on prognostication. Agammemon will slip in later.
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