Hey, what do you think of this raincoat?
It looks really good! Does it keep the water out?
Yeah, I made it out of a plastic bag. Clever, right? Saves the environment too.
Biological Sciences Building, 11:00PM, 11/9/2023
sometimes we forget that people can be wistful. or creative. or proud. the conscience is plagued with disaster and sprinkled with the remnants of a dream. taking matters into our own hands. are our hands stained with oil, like a chef during rush hour? blood, like an actor during rehearsal? charcoal, like a miner or an artist or a disgruntled christmas elf? what are we to ourselves? what am i to you? i bellow into the wind and it bellows back a hail of frigid sleet. i wrap the plastic bag tighter around my shoulders and turn away.
It could be worse…
I open tomorrow.
See, it is worse!
Spencer’s, 6:00PM, 11/18/2023
walt whitman writes in leaves of grass that we should “do anything, but let it produce joy.” in the back of my mind the words bounce around my head and cloud my vision. time passes but it passes slowly, obliquely, like taking a picture of a spherical reflection and watching the sides of your mouth uncurl a frown (you press your cheek into mine against the chicago bean; i tremble).
the same hands that lock the iron grating will pry the jaws open the very next day. love is the addition — the summation — of everyday beauties; should we approach the negatives — the subtractions — with equal care? equal appreciation? there can be nothing good without something bad. what use is a sunny smile without the absence of a cloudy sorrow?
It doesn’t matter if you’re late or in a hurry. You never cross in front of a bus. Our brakes could fail or a car could pass and we still need you here tomorrow.
Fuller Road at Mitchell Field, 3:00PM, 11/20/2023
valiant optimism will always get you far, but not far enough. we are reduced to nothing more than ants, to figures, to statistics thrown on a powerpoint at the next faculty safety meeting. it’s the way we can quantify ourselves. and what good would that be? you wave to a driver at the cctc and the man next to you brushes past, oblivious. he is the chicken crossing the road, the one that got away. the road watches and crackles under our feet. perfection lost is persistence gained; vows, like eggs, are easily broken.
