(no subject)
rain kept us inside most of the day. fall was the strangest thing this year. summer with all its heat tripped up and fell straight into winter without stopping. we ran out of things to do waiting for the rain to end. bored with playing cards and music, i decided to walk to the library. no one wanted to go, though i saw undisguised regret in meg’s eyes when she told me no. i told her we’d hang out later when she didn’t have so much work. i took my time walking in the rain. it’s always been one of my favorite things. closing my eyes to the sky enables me to forget myself. yeah, i’m more spiritual than i seem, but i’m not going to catch the hippie vibe that’s going around. no way. half the kids i know eschew showers saying they want to get closer to nature. i don’t think nature will let them get that close. don’t ask me if i’m kidding. i made it to the library before it rained again in earnest. there weren’t many people about which wasn’t surprising. i wandered the stacks for a while, just looking. i hadn’t eaten since breakfast and my stomach let me know. i got dizzy just thinking about it, stopping in the middle of a row, one hand on the nearest shelf. i looked at what my hand had fallen upon. it was a slim volume, thinner than most novels. the cover was unadorned; it didn’t even wear a library tag. my fingers tingled where they touched the spine. i shook my head to clear it and opened the book
broken stone wall
midst the wood it grew -
brooding
over it i crawled with childlike intensity
but shied away from its cliff edges
afraid; yet burning to know its purpose
dark adventurer held tightly
arching over the valley behind
approaching:
two figures
and i fled
wary woodland creature;
but vowed to return
over-turned mushrooms
i wondered if i
with clumsy shoes
had up-rooted them
gills facing sky
white among the fallen leaves
beside a clear running stream
the maple leaves in various stages of decay
here yellow and bright
and there spotted brown
darkened stems still clinging to red
and again exposed roots
limbs above and below
or the young trees
slim in their newness
a chair stood in the clearing
and i wished to perch upon it
my human self held back dreading wetness
and remained standing.
ferns: hanging
ferns: most ancient of all green inhabitants
do they remember as i that princes once
feasted on them,
thinking them unchanged?
the princes must not have known how right they almost were
will they live forever as they have skewed among the rabid vines and giant trees?
i devoured the book while listening to one of jeremy’s rainy day mix tapes, it seemed fitting. meg stuck her head in the door. “we’re going to the thai place on mission, want to come?” “ah, no... no,” i said distractedly. “i’m reading. thanks though.” i sensed her disappointment. “hey meg,” i began before she could pull away. “yeah?” “we’re still on for tree nine?” it was more of an assurance than a question. she smiled back. “sure.” i turned back to the book.
the ocean will keep me
when i die
we are more than just torsos and limbs
an assemblage of word and memory
i think
i will
sit here and
let the salt wear me away
rust and all
paul swore he could smell the sea air, though from cowell college that was nearly impossible. It was a beautiful day, though windy, the sun was out. He meditated a bit, revelling in the warmth. paul didn’t need to write this day, experiencing it was enough. paul opened his eyes. the tinny sound of a radio intrigued him, and he decided to find its source.
he stumbled across a place he’d never known was there. it lay beneath the dining hall, smelling of ink and metal. the air felt old, musty, and though paul knew all these buildings were relatively recent, the place struck him as ancient. he blinked against the darkness, such a contrast from the outside. he could discern the vague shape of a woman working at a machine. as his eyes adjusted, paul realized that the machine was a printing press. it was too late to back out unnoticed, so paul put on what he hoped was a friendly face.
”hi there.” he called out.
the figure ignored him, pointedly, he thought. paul passed over to a stool and watched the girl working for a while. he’d never had the chance to see how a letterpress functioned, and from what he could see, it was fascinating. tedious, but fascinating all the same. engrossed in the proceedings paul sat for what seemed like hours. it probably was; the girl made quite a bit of progress without saying a word. when paul wasn’t looking at what she was doing, he studied the young woman herself. she was tall, she probably would have stood around the same height as paul had they been closer. her long black hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and the intensity of her face astounded him. it was possible that the girl didn’t even realize he was there, she was that into her job.
paul knew better than to touch anything, but he desperately wanted to help. instead he sat there watching. when the light in the workshop began to fade, the woman cleaned up. paul stood, stretching his weary back and popping his neck. he tried to help her clean.
“how do you get permission to use this press?” he asked.
she looked at him.
“hey, I’m just asking,” he laughed.
she sighed. “it’s because I’m taking a class.”
“is it hard to use the press?”
“it’s a long process,” the woman replied, obviously unwilling to have a conversation with paul. normally he would have backed off, but seeing her working at the press got him excited about the possibilities. he knew right then he wanted to print his own book.
When the girl finished cleaning, Paul tried to get her attention.
“Excuse me,” he said. “How do you get access to this workspace?” A sweep of his arm indicated the whole studio. She looked at him coolly.
“You have to take the class.” she said without inflection, walking out toward the parking lot.
”What class? Which department?” He remained eager.
“Jack Stauffacher’s class. It’s through Cowell.
The girl stopped walking and got into an old Ford truck. Before Paul could even say “thank you”, she turned the ignition and drove away.
broken stone wall
midst the wood it grew -
brooding
over it i crawled with childlike intensity
but shied away from its cliff edges
afraid; yet burning to know its purpose
dark adventurer held tightly
arching over the valley behind
approaching:
two figures
and i fled
wary woodland creature;
but vowed to return
over-turned mushrooms
i wondered if i
with clumsy shoes
had up-rooted them
gills facing sky
white among the fallen leaves
beside a clear running stream
the maple leaves in various stages of decay
here yellow and bright
and there spotted brown
darkened stems still clinging to red
and again exposed roots
limbs above and below
or the young trees
slim in their newness
a chair stood in the clearing
and i wished to perch upon it
my human self held back dreading wetness
and remained standing.
ferns: hanging
ferns: most ancient of all green inhabitants
do they remember as i that princes once
feasted on them,
thinking them unchanged?
the princes must not have known how right they almost were
will they live forever as they have skewed among the rabid vines and giant trees?
i devoured the book while listening to one of jeremy’s rainy day mix tapes, it seemed fitting. meg stuck her head in the door. “we’re going to the thai place on mission, want to come?” “ah, no... no,” i said distractedly. “i’m reading. thanks though.” i sensed her disappointment. “hey meg,” i began before she could pull away. “yeah?” “we’re still on for tree nine?” it was more of an assurance than a question. she smiled back. “sure.” i turned back to the book.
the ocean will keep me
when i die
we are more than just torsos and limbs
an assemblage of word and memory
i think
i will
sit here and
let the salt wear me away
rust and all
paul swore he could smell the sea air, though from cowell college that was nearly impossible. It was a beautiful day, though windy, the sun was out. He meditated a bit, revelling in the warmth. paul didn’t need to write this day, experiencing it was enough. paul opened his eyes. the tinny sound of a radio intrigued him, and he decided to find its source.
he stumbled across a place he’d never known was there. it lay beneath the dining hall, smelling of ink and metal. the air felt old, musty, and though paul knew all these buildings were relatively recent, the place struck him as ancient. he blinked against the darkness, such a contrast from the outside. he could discern the vague shape of a woman working at a machine. as his eyes adjusted, paul realized that the machine was a printing press. it was too late to back out unnoticed, so paul put on what he hoped was a friendly face.
”hi there.” he called out.
the figure ignored him, pointedly, he thought. paul passed over to a stool and watched the girl working for a while. he’d never had the chance to see how a letterpress functioned, and from what he could see, it was fascinating. tedious, but fascinating all the same. engrossed in the proceedings paul sat for what seemed like hours. it probably was; the girl made quite a bit of progress without saying a word. when paul wasn’t looking at what she was doing, he studied the young woman herself. she was tall, she probably would have stood around the same height as paul had they been closer. her long black hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and the intensity of her face astounded him. it was possible that the girl didn’t even realize he was there, she was that into her job.
paul knew better than to touch anything, but he desperately wanted to help. instead he sat there watching. when the light in the workshop began to fade, the woman cleaned up. paul stood, stretching his weary back and popping his neck. he tried to help her clean.
“how do you get permission to use this press?” he asked.
she looked at him.
“hey, I’m just asking,” he laughed.
she sighed. “it’s because I’m taking a class.”
“is it hard to use the press?”
“it’s a long process,” the woman replied, obviously unwilling to have a conversation with paul. normally he would have backed off, but seeing her working at the press got him excited about the possibilities. he knew right then he wanted to print his own book.
When the girl finished cleaning, Paul tried to get her attention.
“Excuse me,” he said. “How do you get access to this workspace?” A sweep of his arm indicated the whole studio. She looked at him coolly.
“You have to take the class.” she said without inflection, walking out toward the parking lot.
”What class? Which department?” He remained eager.
“Jack Stauffacher’s class. It’s through Cowell.
The girl stopped walking and got into an old Ford truck. Before Paul could even say “thank you”, she turned the ignition and drove away.