Touch
As this senior year reaches its expiry date, I'm thinking about writing a column for the Collegian. It won't be really good, probably, just like the column I wrote for the Tom Tom at the end of high school. It was about ideals and creating the best world possible. It drew heavily on the "You Were Meant for Me" scene from Singin' in the Rain.
My column would not be ideal, nor would it be about ideals. Ideals have little to do with it. Most things that seem ideal have little to do with it.
--
I'm thinking it may include just a few anecdotes from this break. It's spring break, two days in, and I have filled it with Empty Hillsdale, "Seinfeld" episodes at the Sad Bear, pizza coupons, recycling bottles, laundry, "Serenity" episodes, movies, YouTube, walks, and such things.
I was walking to the Sad Bear today, taking a long route behind the houses and through people's yards (no one's home anyway). As I walked, I read the first half of Kurt Vonnegut's God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian, in which the author pulls an Odyssey and visits the Afterlife to talk sardonically with great folks gone dead.
A car almost ran me over, then slowed and backed up to meet me. "Hey," the driver said. "Another soul in town."
"Yup," I said. "For a few more days, anyway."
"Yup," he said. "What are you reading?" I told him. "That must be interesting."
"Most books are, when you read them."
"Enjoy it," he said, rolling up his window.
"I am," I said.
--
Now, an Oberon and two medium pizzas later, the six of us have sneaked into the Grewcock and I am finishing the Vonnegut book while the others play Rock Band on the big screen. Two other jokers are just around the bend, playing Call of Duty, somewhere.
I like this.
Two years ago, when I found out I was going to fly to Edinburgh with friends to see and do theatre that summer, I figured I ought to save up so I could fly to Italy during my senior spring break. I was going to go with a friend. We were going to skip classes the week before or after, so we could have a solid fifteen-day tour and hit Naples, Sicily, Venice, Rome, et. al. I was going to learn Italian.
It didn't happen. As it is, I've barely got enough money to get myself home on Monday for an orthodontist appointment. Yahoo.
But this...I still like it. It's completely cool and carefree, coming and going as I please, which is something I haven't done for a long time. I don't know why it's been so long, or why I'm still here, or what I'll do tomorrow. Lentil soup is on the agenda for tomorrow's early PM; that much is for sure.
I don't know if I'll ever get another chance to feel like this. Another thing Vonnegut talks about is his uncle, who used to interrupt casual get-togethers to remind everyone about how precious life is. "If this isn't good, then I don't know what is," he'd say.
I like that, too.
So again about that column. I don't know what I'll write. Maybe I won't even bother. Maybe I'll write it, after all. We'll see.
My column would not be ideal, nor would it be about ideals. Ideals have little to do with it. Most things that seem ideal have little to do with it.
--
I'm thinking it may include just a few anecdotes from this break. It's spring break, two days in, and I have filled it with Empty Hillsdale, "Seinfeld" episodes at the Sad Bear, pizza coupons, recycling bottles, laundry, "Serenity" episodes, movies, YouTube, walks, and such things.
I was walking to the Sad Bear today, taking a long route behind the houses and through people's yards (no one's home anyway). As I walked, I read the first half of Kurt Vonnegut's God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian, in which the author pulls an Odyssey and visits the Afterlife to talk sardonically with great folks gone dead.
A car almost ran me over, then slowed and backed up to meet me. "Hey," the driver said. "Another soul in town."
"Yup," I said. "For a few more days, anyway."
"Yup," he said. "What are you reading?" I told him. "That must be interesting."
"Most books are, when you read them."
"Enjoy it," he said, rolling up his window.
"I am," I said.
--
Now, an Oberon and two medium pizzas later, the six of us have sneaked into the Grewcock and I am finishing the Vonnegut book while the others play Rock Band on the big screen. Two other jokers are just around the bend, playing Call of Duty, somewhere.
I like this.
Two years ago, when I found out I was going to fly to Edinburgh with friends to see and do theatre that summer, I figured I ought to save up so I could fly to Italy during my senior spring break. I was going to go with a friend. We were going to skip classes the week before or after, so we could have a solid fifteen-day tour and hit Naples, Sicily, Venice, Rome, et. al. I was going to learn Italian.
It didn't happen. As it is, I've barely got enough money to get myself home on Monday for an orthodontist appointment. Yahoo.
But this...I still like it. It's completely cool and carefree, coming and going as I please, which is something I haven't done for a long time. I don't know why it's been so long, or why I'm still here, or what I'll do tomorrow. Lentil soup is on the agenda for tomorrow's early PM; that much is for sure.
I don't know if I'll ever get another chance to feel like this. Another thing Vonnegut talks about is his uncle, who used to interrupt casual get-togethers to remind everyone about how precious life is. "If this isn't good, then I don't know what is," he'd say.
I like that, too.
So again about that column. I don't know what I'll write. Maybe I won't even bother. Maybe I'll write it, after all. We'll see.