It all kinda seemed like yesterday that I began to unpack my car full of my things and headed in Vic Hall for the first time...
- And it all felt like yesterday when Sara was attacked by the creepy purple people in kilts and chains...
- And it was like yesterday when we met Simon and Dana and offered them a fridge...
- And it seems like yesterday when I was covered head to toe in peat moss and shaving cream in navy blue coveralls...
- And it was yesterday when we all took our first jump in the Lake off the pier
- And I could have sworn that it was yesterday when I went to my first class scared stiff just to find out that my profs were the coolest people..
- And it feels like yesterday that I met Margaret for the first time, and she thought I lived on her floor which I didn't...
- And yesterday I almost failed my first assignment and felt the tears rolling down my face, worried that I wasn't going to pass..
- And I will swear that it was Homecoming yesterday...
- And it was soo definately yesterday that Mariah, Sara and I conquered the BEHEMOTH!!!! Wonderland!
- And it definately was yesterday when Drama 100 went on their roadtrip to Gannanoque :P
- And it could have been yesterday when we went out for our first of many fire alarms in Vic...
- And it might have been yesterday when I realised that my calender is my new best friend..
- And it feels much like yesterday when my cousins came to see me and show me the best places in K-town...
- And it all went down yesterday that I wrote my first midterm...
- And alas it was yesterday that I found a boy and left him..
- And it must have been yesterday that I found out how much talent was in Drama 100's fall presentations...(especially Lab F... :P)
- And it feels just like yesterday that QMT astounded me with Jekyll and Hyde..
- And it could have been yesterday that I joined the Hip Hop class..
- And, of course, yesterday I helped organise Ale with the Profs for English DSC..
- And, yes, it was yesterday the I voted for AMS president...
- And then there was yesterday when I went to my first Hillel Dinner and loved it..
- And it was most definately yesterday when I discovered my hatred for chemistry...
- And yesterday, I went out for my room mates birthday...
- And then, yesterday, I figured out how much I love Indigo books... and Starbucks coffee..
- And yesterday I found out that people actually live in Stauffer Library.. sleep on couches...
- And it really was yesterday that I found out I was going to be a Gael and met Chris Mitchell aka our OC!! and my future Gael FAM!!!!
- And it was yesterday that I joined the costume crew for Man of la Mancha and learned how to use a sewing machine... sorry Julia :P
- And then yesterday, I went to see Ted in Anne Frank.. he was really great!
- And yesterday, I found out that Drama 100 was way more talented in their Winter Presentations...
- And it seems like yesterday that it was my last day of classes... but somehow I still had projects due..
- And it was sooo yesterday that I finished my last essay of the year...
- And it feels soo much like yesterday when I met to whole cast and crew and went to the somewhat and the gala night and closing night (the strike and cast party)!!! You guys are fantastic..
- And yesterday I began my first of many finals...
- And then yesterday I said goodbye to my lucky friends who finished before me and going home for the summer...


But it was today, as I was packing my things and talking to my parents, that they asked,"How does it feel to be finished your first of four years of university?" and I said, "It all seemed like yesterday."

What no one ever tells you
Is it’s gonna be real tough
You’re gonna wanna give up
You’ll think you’ve had enough


What no one ever tells you
Is your books don’t always go
With the classes you have picked
They’re outdated and too old


What no one ever tells you
Is that High School doesn’t compare|
To the Profs and the people
To the classrooms and the chairs


What no one ever tells you
Or what they say instead
College is a bomb
It’s a party, so we’ve read


What no one ever tells you
Or rather so they say
You can fly through College
Without showing up a day


What no one tells you
And what I’m saying now
I’ve been there two days
And I’ve figured out just how


Much that no one ever tells you
And what they never say
College is important
In every single way


And what no one tells you
Most importantly of all
Is never to give up
When you think you’ve lost it all


What no one ever tells you
Is that though you are debt
You need this education
You’ll get through this yet


What no one ever tells you
Is there are people who care
To help you through these years
Make it out fair and square


What no one ever tells you
Is this is a challenge of sorts
But prepares you for the real world
Makes or breaks you of course

What no one ever tells you
Is you’re gonna make it through
With support systems and time
And people who love you

I would like to go back a thousand years ago,
just to sleep.
For I'm drenched in thoughtlessness.
I ache for some relieve.
And I'm trying, solely not to burn up.
and I do not mean to over dramatize, but I'm lost.
Which I guess is usual for being 20.
Only 20, as I eat myself up in tv shows and confusion.
And I watch the world get married and have babies, but I don't want that,
No I don't need that.
Nor do I really want that.
As profs talk as if I care, about their useless pieces of info they throw at me, except the one about dinos. I like that.
But anyways I sit and here they look at me as if I really give a ****.
I want a job. Don't they understand.
And I parked in the wrong spot today,
and the critique went bad and I overpaid on an earl grey latte and wasted my day watching friends all day.
But we all have those bad days.
And I'm trying trying trying so hard not to think bad thoughts.
But the weather is rainy, and I'm still tired. This ever longing tiredness. But I drew today. I drew my sorrows away, and no matter what those stingy profs say, I can draw. I draw to keep myself together.
I draw so I don't think the bad thoughts, to keep my jealous thoughts back at bay. So I quit making a fool of myself, the only think I know how to do is draw.
And I have a wide open summer, of no plans, or prospering, or any real progress.
Isn't that sad?
To dread your own summer.
Maybe after having summer so many times, it loses it's freedom quality. It becomes just another season to endure.
And that's sad. It's sad when you can't look forward to summer.
Cause summer was once a fantasy.
A sense of adventure accompanied summer.
And I look at summer now with a dread and inability to really be ready or excited for it.
That's really sad.
And I'm not writing to make you sad, but I'm writing out of my inability to understand this sadness.
I'm trying to hold on to something...
Maybe this sadness will pass into something I can hold onto.
And coincidently were talking about the blues...in class.
Not really helping my melancholy frankly.
I think teachers are so wrapped up in their own cynical life they like to spread it onto others.

He worships at the shrine of capitalism
prays for a better fiscal quarter
with money spent in shopping malls,
a scrambling search for off-the-rack meaning
through blessèd, holy consumerism.
He gives thanks to this, our daily microwave meal,
while he mutters under his breath,
“What be the will of these, our stock-market Algorithms?"

He listens to sermons from business and econ profs preaching
from the higher-education steeples, teaching
students gathering like stampede sheeples, reaching
for a measure of worth in semester-long bursts
a silent choir scribbling in exam halls to petty praise,
leaving them burned out,
and crying on the bathroom floor,
lights out, itching for a wink
amidst insect hallucinations
adrenaline rushed
from Dexadrine or Adderall
dissociation flushed
from ketamine or alcohol
asking,
“What is wrong with me?”

Seeking answers,
he pays weekly penance to shrinks
a confessional of mental disorders from the Gospel of DSM:

“Forgive me, Doctor, for I have sinned.
It has been seven days since my last confession.
I’m obsessive, I’m depressive,
antisocial personality,
ADD or ADHD,
I’m poor as I ever was and ever will be,
I’m no service to society,
I'm squandered in sobriety,
but please
keep my hands tied
in these shackles of student debt!”

And his only act of contrition
is a medical prescription
made sweeter to swallow at communion
than the blood and body of Christ.

Welcome, the new order!
Welcome, the New Religion (TM)!

Pray it will be a better one
than what we left behind.

for a drunk: i can manage
                                  the cannabis induced
                                       chill...

   what, with england and
                      the laughing gas epidemic...

oh yeah, you can spot about
9 bullets of
the concentrated stuff
  in one evening's walking
                                                    session...

who would have thought
that english humour,
black as the advances of
melancholia
                                    required a: booster...

but then i've never heard
of: (and now it's a concept)
dyslexia in slavic languages...
no wonder

given my: not-so-bright observation
of -
            perhaps its a dialect
of east germany...

one example...
    the tinniest of "errors"...

                rammstein's ich will...
    past the veil and Volford...
      like counting knuckles
whenever not teasing
a punchbag,
      or a stomach on the *******...

there's an apparently missing S...
       what i hear what i hear:
what i see, but don't hear is ich...

and back into language games:
in slavic that's
literally translated as:
                  theirs -
mind you:
i also find the use of the apostrophe
sometimes confusing in english,
it's this one aspect of english
i'm still groveling over...

   have to forgive them for not
concerning themselves with this, minor,
detail...

       theirs,

                        the plural possessiveness
of the collective other...

               hardly a case to unload
with: there's -

     which in hounddog
                gobble gobble down
a goebbels as in:            
                                      there   is,

ya, i know, prostitutes for an hour,
the part of me that's supposed
to feel jealous of owning a car
when i own a pair of legs,

                    and you get to mind
road tax, while i concerns myself about
spaghetti al dente and shoelaces?
i'll take the shoelaces,
  thank you, very much.

   but this is a recurrent theme in:
well: at least sort this "orthography" out,
the english use of the apostrophe
when concerned with
            the plural, the possesive,
and the: "slang" add-on of is...

notably the problem: St. Paul's
             and what if not many Pauls?
you can't exactly note that,
depending on your aesthetic genesis...

                   Pauls's - paul-sysyz...
god forbid i be the one steering
           the hindenburg over London...
    
but clearly there's a dispossesive
pluralism involved in the possessive
article of apostrophe S,
                                                      's...

ich can imply: not the german first person
pronouns, subsequent with
                                        ()Pad...
                cheap, monetißing on grammar...

but in the çited song?
              there's an "enigma" of a missing S...
if you just listen...
it's not ich: closing in on
a lost harking...
         missing phlegm of course...
         there's clearly a sentence
bound to...                                   isch...

details of linguistic technicality
are like itches:
or tooth-aches,
   can't seem to fathom the irritating
S+ in                singing:    ich will....

     namely isch...
             or how the germans managed
to consider a phrase for:
                              shutting up!

a hornet's needle jerking off on
an ear drum...
  one russian lass once suggested
that i spoke too much: sh    sh sh    sh...
and never               hagh-shhh'd...

i know, the U would give up
the Hugh...
    not the ******* Freckled Heffner...
that: faking i'm not spanish
english actor, you know:             (  
                                                      
                                                         (
those eyes,
bypassing a fringe and not even settling on
a raised eyebrow...

******* want to dance...
   łired...
                łorth...
                         which is basically W:
who the hell calls a letter so rigid as
an upside ranging M and double-U?

      is that a real name,
                                or a prison, ksyva?
there is no iota in why or Y
               but a hollowing out,
          a mummification process...

         ******* deutsch-schprech-*****...

nibbi-nibbi: imitating a goose-quack
with the four primes above,
   and a thumb as base:
             of the hand...

        oh i agree, oxford english profs.
have nailed it perfect...
      even though there is no concept
of loan words in english
******* over hindustan...

             but there is the antithesis
of deutsch genesis,
       just shove in the hyphen and
people will read you
           Mendeleev no problem...      

remnants of old Saxon can only be found
among chemical nouns:
      hydrocrabons doesn't require
  a: cut up technique akin to
   Burroughs and Tzara
                 to mind: hydro-carbons...  

look at that ******* aesthetic!
    ugly as a hog snuffing a human
**** imploring to ask at the altar:
grovel grovel grovel:
                    turnips and birch leaves!
       truffles and caviar...
  
most impressive...
    sooner the breath of Miles Davies
squeezed through a horn,
than a sneeze let out from a pork
snout...
            both deserve applause
nonetheless:

there's a missing S, in rammstein's song
ich will:
                 must be an east berliner
"hidden" plot to harvest the dyslexics.

- because playing the grammar game,
fused with only the pronoun
category...
             well... that's not going to vork...

- mind you, in poetry,
     is like... saying: a beginning of
a "paragraph" in poetry,
   not an interjection as such,
  just a "grievance"
         with what's already in
full momentum...

              - did i mention my concern
for the apostrophe usage in englsih?
      basis of: not      use?

hence the stability, and its perpetuation:
hence: usage.

         oh we can go on and on and on
with the technicalities of "hidden" english
"orthography":
   which is really a concern for
either the aposthrope, or the hyphen....
    
reigning superior over
the literacy monopoly of priests...
    degenerate ******* suddenly took
the human route...
and did... what any new-found-literati
would:
           play the fox in a chicken-shack...

miser *******...
                   good to know who i'm
up against...
                      and i can do more in
an hour with a *******,
that you might cling to with,
a post-scriptum nasal cavity being
called a ******* with a boy
     being 30 years his senior...

  these days ****** would not have
been published...
      
fashion's playthings that are called:
the sojourn of days...
  what the french call the yewish sabbath...
   nothing out of the ordinary...
just...
               a formidable
   perplexity with a damnable reflex...
an assorted
comparison of: feeding a tiger.

           it's still a concern for me,
to mind a pluralism of the pronoun,
with a possessive article,
  and: the "innocence" of hding
letters that the english know all well
how to employ...

        ich:              theirs...

                ich:             belogning to them...

          ich:  which is i, in bavaria...

              i(s)ch to propagate speaking
german in a song, or with:

             shish kebab ***** or something?

ich:
                  chappy chappy non cheerie
chop of...                         ich...

    i hark to assert your presence, dear sir...

call it hyperbolic on the literacy
scale...
               but you move beyond
the "concern" for pronouns...
  and revel in the fact that:
   no philosophy book has ever utilised
the shortening-script
   of acknowledging grammatical
pillars...

                   you can inhale into
a rubber ***, call it a balloon, minus
the evidently loss of injecting helium:
and than -benign- the other
              with a case for a ******* umbrella!
fungus party: unlike the tree -
stood on one leg,
         and branched out in a Y -
or gott-tore?
                one revisionist argument
with:
        since the incubated pawns
of a pine forest...
                        no schizoids near an oak...
        farther that i might: "see".

               cut in:
        Pauls'               (with a zee?
                    seppelin *******!)

         certainly: Paul-seßez:
   or:            Paul's: ßyz,

    ha ha... funny alternative of cis,
which is congregational surmounting:
                    çis -
    which is not: sister.
  
what?
               ka-ka macaques *******?!

how come the close approximate
of there's and theirs?
see?! don't know how to lodge in
an apostrophe with the latter example...
but you almost itch thinking
it's necessary...

                       mind you,
i'm bilingual, i don't hide behind
     a /wəːd/ for word encoding
    to: vaguely imitate computer coding...
but there are people who
pursue this: second tier of
       a former, exhausted literacy...
              
reduced 2: not 3: as in free,
                    and that's not: too, either.
when prior to secularism
the power dynamism of the clergy
was obvious, and...
                 but now the deviat
literate can only be mad...
       where's the fun in what
continues to constitute the, grey,
everyday?
              there really is a tomorrow
to mind...
            in writing this?
         i'm just making claim that
there might be a yesterday to
contend with;

but clearly there isn't...

               ich: plural in the possessive
form,
             whatever "it" there is
that belongs to them -
                                        there's
an otherwise unexplored
          existential celibacy to not mind
this writing...

        such obscure testimony of
not: winning...
                        
    a mind in two formats:
soft- and there are virus
ridden repercussions...
   and hard- and there are...
  virtually sessions of reiterating:
there's nothing to worry
about...

   comes the age old conclusion:
there's an age-old
             sub- / ob-ject
         splinter('s) worth (an) ego
lodged in the timber of a mind,
in "metaphor" descriptive
element to attune a shovel and
                 the bristles of broom to...
mind as dust, and mind hiding...

you can't exactly "hide"
a shadow, with a hand
enlarging the capacity of your trouser
pocket to suddenly
become anti-narcissus:
      mesmerizing by staring
at your shadow,
           let alone the stillness
of the lake-water,
          or rather:
          catch-up with him by
the shoreline of a sea...
     troubled waters breed no
                                     death: sarcasm.

- and all this, to mind being in possession
of a wife, and fireplace as counter?!
            as all such comfort are
welcome...
          i can't but find a blister of a burn
i, simply can't help, but: scratch!
    it's the oink-pink hidden beneath
the unparalleled agitation
that demands my closing-in
                      of attention parameters.

They walk—no, more likely, they saunter,
Embassy functionaries, associate profs at G-Dub,
A smorgasbord of polka dots and vitae,
Leopard-print and Linkedin pages,
Sufficent and necessary in their presents and futures.
I occupy a bench in my own shambling manner,
Denim-clad most days,
Perhaps affecting a less humble khaki
If I am feeling particularly grandiloquent,
Redeployed here from more rough-and-tumble of more avenues,
Among the bar-and-concrete hosteled llamas and coyotes
(Probably closer kin, if one is being honest)
Simply an ornamental thing, overgrown garden gnome
Or bowdlerized lawn jockey, unobtrusive and unnoticed
By those who would coo at the macaos and mandarin ducks
Or shudder at the offal left uneaten by black bears and maned wolves.
And so such days proceed, from my convenience-store coffee arrival
To such time that something approximating dinner
Must be conjured or cadged from somewhere,
My thoughts tend to stray not to the lionesses
Nor sleek Catwoman-esque jaguars,
But to the unpretentious turkey vultures of the fields of my youth,
Circling warily, inexorably in threes and fours above
And I know there is neither ennobling nor annihilation to find here,
No outcome but to simply await.

Kathy Charmaz suggests that if
Grounded Theory leaves me stuck,
I ought to add an "ing" to all the memos
Of all the field notes of the scratch notes of the observations,
and the transcribed notes of the interviews
That I took a half a year ago,
And so....

I'm creating a list,
Starting with A
Accepting (criticism)
Adapting (to change)
Attending (to lessons)
Attributing (blame)
Attributing (success)

Skipping B
Which seems all alone,
I move to the Cs,
With a heart of cold stone....

Caring (from teacher)
Changing (to learn)
Collaborating (in learning)
Comparing (with others)
Connecting (key concepts, and ideas to life)
Correcting (one's errors in deeds or in thoughts)
Conferencing (to see what the good doctor thinks)
(Guess the Cs are nice to look at in my despair),

And on toward Ds,
Those diffident dogs,
Dialoguing (in classrooms, in memos and calls)
Differentiating (myself from the pack)
Disrespecting (my feet up on somebody's desk)
Dominating....(discussion in class or the hall)
(Careful, Ds, talk it out or you're gonna fall).

Es are Encouraging (the work can be done),
Enjoying (the tasks, alone or with you)
Engaging the students, (not too much to ask)
Excelling (the sense of, and actually, too)
(My sense is that E is a place to be dwelling)

F is still Focusing (on the specifics)
Then jumping to G,
Goal-setting (so needed, and powerful, too)
Graduating (the goal, so I've heard, how 'bout you?)

Then H is for Humor,
Amusing for sure,

And on to the I
Interacting (dialogue is our guide)
Identifying (the needs and the shame and the pride)

J stands with K,
Both empty and alone,

L is for Learning (adjusting in change)

M is for Modeling (Bandura's so proud)

N stands for "none" at the moment,
But O is for Organizing, (homework and my thoughts)
And P is Participating, (profs like this a lot)
Paying forward, (so noble, and so seldom done)
Persisting, (not quitting, as losers have done)
And Plagiarizing (May God help us all)
Praying, (we live through the work set before us)
Prioritizing, and
Finally, Progressing (Can we sing all in chorus?)

Q's pretty quiet just now,
But R is for Reading, and
Reflecting, (like mirrors or a pond)
Resigning, (accepting) or consider this,
Risking (daring to risk)

While S, Lovely S is all about Self,
Self-advocating (students)
Self-assessing, (too)
Self-deprecating, (but not much)
Self disciplining, (cool)
Self-motivating, (how often?)
Self-regulating, (we all should do this)
And last, some Struggling proceeds
Before we find ourselves Succeeding.

T is Threatening, (a sense of foreboding)
Teaching, (is harder under a threat)
Transitioning, (moving on, before we all rust)
Trying, (not tempting, but taking a try)
Tutoring, (If you need it, don't cry)

And U
Is alone with the flu.

So is V (guess it's viral),
But W's Writing, (the goal in this study, of course)

And so far,
X, Y, and Z
Are still hiding, no Ings in their view,
And it's back to my coding,
After I get back from the loo.

overly theorising poetry can only allow university profs. specialising in the subject the mid-grammar eloquence of philosophical narrative endeavour the um-um-um-ah-ah-mm-mm-blah-blah in trying to elaborate or simply clarify... as it stands... i'm using roman lettering... but i'm writing in chinese in order that many more can live and claim the sire totality of entitlements via lost marxism and the endowment of 3.4 children being nailed rather than ******* into the tangle of seaweed comparisons along the beach of socio-economic paraphrase - i can write english... and you can pretend to be stupid... believe me... i can play this hide & seek until our death dies when we live a second time and forget that i wrote this and you read it; we'll hide ourselves in the blanks, and the hope that remains is: we won't despair over having our memory wiped out like robots unnecessarily memorising the digits of π after 3; how i rather till the field at late summer than till my thoughts into numbers for the sunshine of i.q. glee in parental authority gratified and applauded to simply turn me into a white tadpole of rosy cheeks chequered between success and failure of strangers' expectation levitated into the ******* familial model that's ready for the jaws and clumsy fingers of scientific failures known as statisticians... the journalists of the world of science with numerological headlines that call you - also included.*

sometimes theologising with israel
is like standing next to the brimstone
caste of the golden calf
trying to resurface with people
not used to cast statued embodiments
of pharaohs in stone among hindu
endowments of number & sustenance...
but so it goes...
palestinians come as fleshy shields
for egyptians not having moved an inch since
the crucifixion...
elongating the nile higher than the crumbling
everest of buddha attempting border
and horizon of the dali lama's exile
not extended to los angeles in quest...
if only all nations stood the mark of colorado
of easiest divide in linchpin park of stuttering piston remark...
no i didn't decide to escape through there...
i took the friend's groomed necessity of remorse
to keep him sane...
i grew his remorse and my once loved love
to be his kin... his kind...
i grew his remorse like a vegetable
into a success of career and familial reliefs...
i grew him into a son
into that he might feel remorse being fed
responsibility of the life i could have also lived,
and her too... into a lived i could have lived with her...
and they germinated... into germany...
and i solidified my etymology via logical coupling
with epistemology and eugenics that was without
logic except darwin who was not the only
person to logistic time, timing and timings...
and there it was left... a poem...
a scratch of nebuchadnezzar on the wall
prior to the fear seen by balthazar...
the fear of seven years of madness:
the judea slaves could see the pythagoras a-tip
the pyramids...
but salvage the mind of civilisations
to upkeep prophecy with the foolish
gardens of upside-down, encrusting the king's
skin with oaken bark creases in human age
known as wrinkling or turtle... to see sense of mind
dribbling senses in equations of 1/5 and 5/1
given correlations for the messiah to be sacrificed
and ordaining the comfort of prayer on the crux,
rather than the discomfort of prayer through
work and the thing ordained prayer - on a throne
to our wonder of not having looked
eagerly for the knee to bend beside the algebra of
90º and a, b, c... but instead provoked the anger
of cloning narcissus in mirrors and wax of the idols?
why are you praying over suffering - are you praying
for more suffering, or a quick end?
are you praying for more suffering or your liberation
through the choices of others?
i cannot deny that you took your choices like you
picked up chopsticks... and decided you life
was a free chicken chow mein...
if it was... i can see the bums regurgitate raw cement
into your eyes... and if it wasn't...
i can see you partake in gang rapes of the pensioners' purses
driving them to suicide...
i can then remedy my "name & shame" poetry...
excusing it all as... "capturing the moment,"
given the early stressor signalisation of traffic
past 20, 21, 22... beginning with only the second decade,
of the 21st century.

The alleyways of Ann’s arbor – a
reminiscence of myriad trips from
Lisboa to Cascais with stops at
the green lawns of the palace of
a desceased Portuguese nobleman.

Nine trips to the same country –
a welcome yearly journey to a
welcoming country – Portugal –
my gift to him, for his gift of
love to me, obrigado, T.

A bell tower decorating the campus
sky – under the stately protection of
a graduate universe – was home to
languages sought and tended to
reverently in their own building.

Across the diagonal heart of the
sunstruck pagan centerpiece –
libraries and hothouses cast their
shadows on the pedestal of the
flagpole, in its trite austerity.

The halls of the new residence
greeted a swarm of newly coined
experiments – immune from the
15 credits of drills visited on the
typical first-year initiates.

The typical pie chart had three
pieces – logic & language, frosh
seminar and foreign language –
a fourth piece could be elected,
and was, from a vast menu.

It was I, the almost doctoral kid,
who swept up the remnants of
French vocab and grammar for
the required classes needed to
be proficient by college rules.

I, who lamented his freedom, yet
came to classes – more than one –
fettered by guilt, if not burdened
with book-writing and admin tasks
which violated the Ph.D. goal.

That first class was a thrill per
conjugation and realia – nothing
was too much for the college –
and my recollection is of
a no-holds-barred classroom.

Only once before had I broken
a rule that then wasn’t even of
consequence – the post-grades-
turned-in frivolous date with
an ex-student, a male.

Language classes were not graded
in the college – so there was little
to dissuade the profs from an
up-front, public display of college
camaraderie – call it tutorials.

She was the perfect fit – a well-
educated daughter of a diplomatic
family – with manners, looks and
wit – and no apparent frosh
baggage to taint our time.

I think back, those fifty years ago,
of her as an exceptional friend, a
lovely, soft and caring woman –
a female who actually cared what
I thought, and liked my friends.

The recently redecorated college
halls greeted us with grace on this,
the fiftieth anniversary of inception –
I recognized my former colleagues
and students, wrinkles and all.

We said our names to each other –
as if they were fake news or as
if we wanted verification of the
physical existence of the elder
person standing face-to-face.

Then I made a necessary walk –
my walker and I – to the couch
in the lounge area, where I could
not resist asking about him – her
erstwhile boyfriend of the 60s.

Names, dates – more or less –
came to both of us – she knew
more than I about many men
who shared our lives – It was
my turn, then hers to recount.

Our college coterie was not
immune to the unacceptable –
there was Jay’s addiction, George B.’s
penchant for boys, my lunchtime
martinis, and bizarre Anita.

My forty-seven years were a
predictable journey – what else
do non-***** French teachers
do? – she a surprise package,
at least to me, a cause for envy.

These two lives joined only by
memories – the symmetry of
years together, and the unknowns
of years apart – except the names:
Chuck, Tom R., Mark, and Tom W.

The agenda called us back to our
raison d’ être – the need to go to
the next session, event, meal, etc.
We met at Stephen’s limnal space
crossing, and I went to hear music.

There were so many college “sardines”
seated at round tables at the festive,
closing dinner, that our meeting up
was almost accidental – she and I
both trying not to waste a moment.

In the days that followed our abrupt
goodbye, I spent trying to relive this
unique couple that she and I were –
student/teacher? Only briefly –
lay minister/clergyperson?  Yes.

But denominationally different and
worlds apart in miles, would a couple
of onetime friends – forget titles –  
now share their lives in a modest way
or drift apart forever?

We are technocrats, so the business
of staying together rests on electronic
mail – or phone numbers scribbled
on a napkin – hence I shudder at the
loss of a treasure such as she.

I cannot know the outcome – the
marriage of minds is complex,
especially for two aging ones –
but I am a hoper who takes his
clues from above.

A favorite author writes of “ghost
spots” –  staring out from my world
to her world – “Remember the way?”
I look her in the face and say:
“Call me by your name.”  Please.

© Lewis Bosworth 12/2017

I heard that Dr Johnny Bananas
signed off on a letter on herd immunity
and *******, I’m in

Last seen fleeing a beat up
Chunking Mansion room
after a deal for python skins
(needed for his surefast oil) went bad,
his mad streak nearly had him

This was after that narrow squeak in Singapore, when peddling stay hard pills to rotten expats got dicey, as they realised his concoction
was more talc than tungsten
and some Salakau took a machete interest

So the enigmatic Dr B has resurfaced
in Great Barrington, Mass.
to add his voice to the Ivy League Profs, homeopaths and khoomii singers’
hard nosed exhortations
to stop worrying and love the fever,
persistent cough,
anosmia

If life has taught us anything
it’s that when Dr Johnny B spins
fresh from Whitehall or White House
with advice for living well,
you can take that to the offshore bank.
I’m sold

I find myself disengaged—why? When everything is the same but—
-I am 3 months older
-She is less easily delighted
-The sleepy aura of heaters coated in snow
==
We are the x in front of a word, not behind it. We put the cart before the horse.
==
Poetry prunes the spiky thoughts off
us so what is left is smooth and
inoffensive. But others are radicals
and then without their words, their messages
lose force, like judo kicks over the course of hours.
==
Rhyme is so sincere, that when there’s lack of trust, there’s lack of soundalikes.
==
What is there to be upset about
except for what others infuse in you?
Think how successful one’s own life could be
without the core, without others who care,
Freer than a paper snowflake with one too many cuts.
==
A story cannot reach its full potential until it loses its identity
and the protagonist scrubbed clean
existing in the minds of the collective.
==
Sometimes you get stuck in academia;
EA would suggest you allocate your time more effectively
but then, full time lit profs would not exist
and there is demand for them. So what’s the point?
I guess liberal arts promotes the self-improvement required for clear thinking,
while EA takes a more biological tone
skim the cream and fridge the rest.
==
The life of the mind is the sacrifice of the life
or at least the other 90%
Those who put you down for living
are not worth your time.
Live the life of your life,
and 髮 yourself until no one knows you
outlive the minds with your grace/wisdom/tenacity
show them how it’s done.
==
Green, stained cloths
lie over the donuts