May all your days be gold my child,
sings Sparklehorse. Today was golden. Nature's last of the summer, first green of the semester is gold and glowing in my cheeks and cheekiness. As dawn goes down to day, camp Yale to classes at Yale, nothing gold can stay. But it's better than being so much frozen margarita immortality, greek gods. The holy grail's not meant to be found. We watched the Last Crusade and I'm appropriating Indiana Jones' theme song for my own and all the courtyard that could here it blasting from the oompaloompa size speakers.
We went to the beach today. Driving in the car, driver insisting he knew where we were the entire time as we tooled around winding residential roads in east haven, betrayed by mapquest recommending a route over the Ferry Street bridge that's been under construction for a year and a half. When finally got to Lighthouse Point with blue sky and puffy clouds picture perfect behind the charming New England lighthouse, a storm blew in from the east. The landlocked Tenneseean proclaimed we'd found the ocean when it was only the sound and the fury of everyone else expounding the differences between a bay, a river and an ocean. We set up towels and on cue drops of rain promptly began to fall. But we'd come to swim. (And don't worry there was no sight of thunder.) So we did. Dunking and splashing and mermaiding on the waves. Then tallest ones under the fake palm trees, beside the serpent's squirting mouth, and beneath the buckets filling with water to tip topple from great heights onto heads, ours the closest to the top, of all the kids running around the park. Return to roots was complete as pumped legs above tree tops, swinging feet from beach sand to burial in the sky. I dug my toes into the clouds before dropping down to prepare for an upswing. I'm still riding on an upswing. Rode it and spicy Indian dinner and perhaps a margarita made with ice and a blender and decent tequilla through an evening and an eventful birthday party. Who knew there were such sketchy boys and such nice ones, which may be more dangerous. And how and why I was rescued from the corner, trying to recycle bad karma, actually standing in the box for bottles, only by my saviours of suitemates, is a story of true loyalty and loveliness and wit to be retold another time. When I don't have registration at 8:30 a.m. to be followed by three hours of camping out in the English building for a British professor's section that better be best. By the glow of the screen and mostly full moon, golden goodnight.
We went to the beach today. Driving in the car, driver insisting he knew where we were the entire time as we tooled around winding residential roads in east haven, betrayed by mapquest recommending a route over the Ferry Street bridge that's been under construction for a year and a half. When finally got to Lighthouse Point with blue sky and puffy clouds picture perfect behind the charming New England lighthouse, a storm blew in from the east. The landlocked Tenneseean proclaimed we'd found the ocean when it was only the sound and the fury of everyone else expounding the differences between a bay, a river and an ocean. We set up towels and on cue drops of rain promptly began to fall. But we'd come to swim. (And don't worry there was no sight of thunder.) So we did. Dunking and splashing and mermaiding on the waves. Then tallest ones under the fake palm trees, beside the serpent's squirting mouth, and beneath the buckets filling with water to tip topple from great heights onto heads, ours the closest to the top, of all the kids running around the park. Return to roots was complete as pumped legs above tree tops, swinging feet from beach sand to burial in the sky. I dug my toes into the clouds before dropping down to prepare for an upswing. I'm still riding on an upswing. Rode it and spicy Indian dinner and perhaps a margarita made with ice and a blender and decent tequilla through an evening and an eventful birthday party. Who knew there were such sketchy boys and such nice ones, which may be more dangerous. And how and why I was rescued from the corner, trying to recycle bad karma, actually standing in the box for bottles, only by my saviours of suitemates, is a story of true loyalty and loveliness and wit to be retold another time. When I don't have registration at 8:30 a.m. to be followed by three hours of camping out in the English building for a British professor's section that better be best. By the glow of the screen and mostly full moon, golden goodnight.
