Worlds, words are slipping away from me.
And I can't seem to take the tired time to wrap my tongue around them and tell you what it tastes like. My time's been disjointed lately. Somehow it doesn't all fit together. There're too many degrees of meanings to make this angle right, square, fit neatly into 24 hours or one thought that will stand up on its own. Fitting corners together at crew Sunday afternoon when I should have been studying, writing lab reports when I should have been sleeping. Last night, I alternated hours of waking to write and sleeping to wake, setting my alarm for odd, unbalanced times like 3:09, and disturbing my dear roommate.
Boston's going to burn. But it's more than that. Everything's more or less alright. It's more wonderful than imagined but not less loneliness than expected. It's October oranges, mean reds, and blues. With the Fall, the big apple plucked down, there's doubt, it's never enough. I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do but I'm too tired to remember why I'm doing what I'm doing. All this is a long round-about, shortest way home way of saying, Ben, that it's not simple to tell you what I'm up to. Because nights like this, I'm not sure what I'm up to, why I'm up all nighters, and why all my worlds don't always make sentences that are light, jolly joking, and constantly happy. Incapable of too much joy or too much fear. I will escape in webs of words and grow seagreen and slowly die, in brininess and volubility. Here's what I'm doing:
I'm refluxing benzaldehyde for an hour waiting for it to turn pee yellow like everyone else's. But somehow mine's dehydrated, the phthalic anhydride, and it needs to get more basic, like Lloyd Dobbler, before the reaction occurs. After adding in base, it's simple, simply another hour and I take my pee product and form crystals from the dubious mother liquid. I leave lab later than anyone and walk down science hill. I eat dinner in a dining hall with goofballs who manage for one night not to talk about things like chicken fertilization, viagra, or cats in heat, at least not during dinner. It was lovely but not as luxurious as the lunch my parents took me out for this weekend where the finest, fanciest part was the luxury of having my Mom, my Dad, and my Jesse about. Right now, I'm reading 113 sonnets Spencer wrote for one woman who wasn't even queen. He really wanted her. What a way to woo. And then, when they were married, after he'd gotten his girl, he wrote her some more. And tonight I'm reading them all, studying for my midterm Thursday, going to the gym, sleeping some hours so I'll be fresh tomorrow morning when the kids get fresh and I get frustrated. I'll be rested and patient to teach first and second graders to spell as I learn to spell names like Anfernee or Quashanta. My job (America Reads) is less glamorous and earlier (8-10:30 am), but it is intensely interesting and excellent getting well paid to tutor some less well off. I'm off, but stories to come. I promise. On all the doings of the week to come, except on what comes that I'm bound never tell you.
Boston's going to burn. But it's more than that. Everything's more or less alright. It's more wonderful than imagined but not less loneliness than expected. It's October oranges, mean reds, and blues. With the Fall, the big apple plucked down, there's doubt, it's never enough. I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do but I'm too tired to remember why I'm doing what I'm doing. All this is a long round-about, shortest way home way of saying, Ben, that it's not simple to tell you what I'm up to. Because nights like this, I'm not sure what I'm up to, why I'm up all nighters, and why all my worlds don't always make sentences that are light, jolly joking, and constantly happy. Incapable of too much joy or too much fear. I will escape in webs of words and grow seagreen and slowly die, in brininess and volubility. Here's what I'm doing:
I'm refluxing benzaldehyde for an hour waiting for it to turn pee yellow like everyone else's. But somehow mine's dehydrated, the phthalic anhydride, and it needs to get more basic, like Lloyd Dobbler, before the reaction occurs. After adding in base, it's simple, simply another hour and I take my pee product and form crystals from the dubious mother liquid. I leave lab later than anyone and walk down science hill. I eat dinner in a dining hall with goofballs who manage for one night not to talk about things like chicken fertilization, viagra, or cats in heat, at least not during dinner. It was lovely but not as luxurious as the lunch my parents took me out for this weekend where the finest, fanciest part was the luxury of having my Mom, my Dad, and my Jesse about. Right now, I'm reading 113 sonnets Spencer wrote for one woman who wasn't even queen. He really wanted her. What a way to woo. And then, when they were married, after he'd gotten his girl, he wrote her some more. And tonight I'm reading them all, studying for my midterm Thursday, going to the gym, sleeping some hours so I'll be fresh tomorrow morning when the kids get fresh and I get frustrated. I'll be rested and patient to teach first and second graders to spell as I learn to spell names like Anfernee or Quashanta. My job (America Reads) is less glamorous and earlier (8-10:30 am), but it is intensely interesting and excellent getting well paid to tutor some less well off. I'm off, but stories to come. I promise. On all the doings of the week to come, except on what comes that I'm bound never tell you.
