Higher Learning
Speaking of college:
Many years ago, i was sitting in my dorm room and my friend Jim walked in and said, "Hey Roy! You wanna hear a poem I wrote this afternoon?"
This surprised me as Jim was not only a large intimidating jock, but, also, one of those loud Carolina crackers who was fond of such phrases as, "Are you eyeballin' me boy?" and "I'll snatch you bald headed." There was nothing about him that said depth or poetry. Was Big Jim really feeling the need to express himself metrically? Was he trying to illuminate some corner of existence, some heretofore obscured pocket of his human experience, by eschewing the literal and re-painting the stark obvious with the alternate reality of art? I was fascinated and terrified by the prospect. What if his efforts were clumsy, trite, heavy-handed, or grammatically embarrassing? Would i be the wicked (and subsequently dead) messenger who had to tell him that the words pulled from his heart and chiseled by his torment ... sucked? But what if he was brilliant and his vision was life-changing; perhaps he was another Frost or Salinger. I couldn't risk missing that. A lifetime's muse might be pivoting on this very point of time.
"Yeah, Jim. I'd really like that?"
Moments, nay, nanoseconds after the words left my mouth, i realized the degree of my error. Seizing my cue, Jim smiled, leaned sideways ever so slightly and released a loud lingering baritone fart. A fart borne probably of a dozen non-compatible processed foods stirred and simmered in a cauldron of tragically defective digestion. Jim was the Louie Armstrong of flatulence.
The process of my education took a large stride forward. This one brief collegiate moment had made me exponentially smarter.
Many years ago, i was sitting in my dorm room and my friend Jim walked in and said, "Hey Roy! You wanna hear a poem I wrote this afternoon?"
This surprised me as Jim was not only a large intimidating jock, but, also, one of those loud Carolina crackers who was fond of such phrases as, "Are you eyeballin' me boy?" and "I'll snatch you bald headed." There was nothing about him that said depth or poetry. Was Big Jim really feeling the need to express himself metrically? Was he trying to illuminate some corner of existence, some heretofore obscured pocket of his human experience, by eschewing the literal and re-painting the stark obvious with the alternate reality of art? I was fascinated and terrified by the prospect. What if his efforts were clumsy, trite, heavy-handed, or grammatically embarrassing? Would i be the wicked (and subsequently dead) messenger who had to tell him that the words pulled from his heart and chiseled by his torment ... sucked? But what if he was brilliant and his vision was life-changing; perhaps he was another Frost or Salinger. I couldn't risk missing that. A lifetime's muse might be pivoting on this very point of time.
"Yeah, Jim. I'd really like that?"
Moments, nay, nanoseconds after the words left my mouth, i realized the degree of my error. Seizing my cue, Jim smiled, leaned sideways ever so slightly and released a loud lingering baritone fart. A fart borne probably of a dozen non-compatible processed foods stirred and simmered in a cauldron of tragically defective digestion. Jim was the Louie Armstrong of flatulence.
The process of my education took a large stride forward. This one brief collegiate moment had made me exponentially smarter.