from my journal
standing at the top of the hill, i am higher than the library, i can see the wood stairshaft covers of the new campus, suffolk terrace, the bare trees and the broad.
to where do the clouds insist on going so fast? i'd never really looked deeply into them before. the bottom layer, the grey paint blobs, the wispy clouds, move the fastest, morphing and disappearing before my eyes; pink metallic gold hues fill the patches between blue evening sky beyond.
i listen to 'inside of love' again, its slow insistence lets me turn to face the wind and the residences, where i can see people silhouetted against the dull orange light of their bedrooms. i can see the faces of students in kitchens.
i turn towards the wind, and briefly think of the god i asked to bring more waves upon the boston whaler off bar harbor in the early 1990s, also the wind that supported me on the beehive last summer.
i dig my hands out of my pockets and they are bitter cold at my sides. the wind strikes them faster, until i extend my arms farther out to catch the growing gusts. i float and try and fall against the wind. i turn and the sky has grown clearer. the wind bubbles against my back and i run down the hill towards warmth and writing.
to where do the clouds insist on going so fast? i'd never really looked deeply into them before. the bottom layer, the grey paint blobs, the wispy clouds, move the fastest, morphing and disappearing before my eyes; pink metallic gold hues fill the patches between blue evening sky beyond.
i listen to 'inside of love' again, its slow insistence lets me turn to face the wind and the residences, where i can see people silhouetted against the dull orange light of their bedrooms. i can see the faces of students in kitchens.
i turn towards the wind, and briefly think of the god i asked to bring more waves upon the boston whaler off bar harbor in the early 1990s, also the wind that supported me on the beehive last summer.
i dig my hands out of my pockets and they are bitter cold at my sides. the wind strikes them faster, until i extend my arms farther out to catch the growing gusts. i float and try and fall against the wind. i turn and the sky has grown clearer. the wind bubbles against my back and i run down the hill towards warmth and writing.