So Young, So Young
Junior. I'm a Junior. We're Juniors. Finished fourth final this morning, turned in last assignments this afternoon, overturned the year, turned over a new leaf. Leaves glowed with the glory of a good essay as I emerged from the exam. The green and I shone with warm aura of amazement and accomplishment. Old Campus looked like an infared photograph. Love of lit theory laced its fingers around the trees and curled about bright branches. My state of sweet exhilaration hung in the bluest blue, white puffs of breath suspended in the most beautiful day like de Man's reader suspended between the rhetorization of grammar and grammatization of rhetoric. I swung back and forth moving from part to whole and whole to part like a text breathing through its readers.
Its the last days that here is home. Writing Revelations of Ezra Stiles Room 2946, but mostly we're just stunned. Surrounded by displaced pieces of year on all sides. Where did spring go? Into the closet, up on the roof. The season spent itself faster than a thermite reaction. And so it is, just like we said it would be. Boxes bring home our liminal state. Going home is a strange signifier for the concept of leaving this place. Unhomeliness, Homi Bhabha's idea and we're making our home in it. Inhabiting it in the interstitial space between wise fool and junior. As uproot self for summer, know a cycle will bring us back. No tragedy but resistance to leaving the multiplicity of Yale. Against the arborescent, it is rhizomatic. Put down radicles in courtyard soil, in a row of desks in the stacks, in people, but the radical thing of these roots is they can be easily transplanted across Atlantic for some of summer and back to New York.
In news as significant as finishing this year, Kevin Brown pitched shut out baseball yesterday. After his other outings, stonings by shots thrown back at him in the first couple innings, it was a miracle. Matsui's bat is back too. And Tino's short sweet swing hit a second homer in as many days. Who knows how hitters go into slumps and how they come out of them. It's a mystery to me, but lining drives of joy in the mean time, in the between time is where I want to be.
Its the last days that here is home. Writing Revelations of Ezra Stiles Room 2946, but mostly we're just stunned. Surrounded by displaced pieces of year on all sides. Where did spring go? Into the closet, up on the roof. The season spent itself faster than a thermite reaction. And so it is, just like we said it would be. Boxes bring home our liminal state. Going home is a strange signifier for the concept of leaving this place. Unhomeliness, Homi Bhabha's idea and we're making our home in it. Inhabiting it in the interstitial space between wise fool and junior. As uproot self for summer, know a cycle will bring us back. No tragedy but resistance to leaving the multiplicity of Yale. Against the arborescent, it is rhizomatic. Put down radicles in courtyard soil, in a row of desks in the stacks, in people, but the radical thing of these roots is they can be easily transplanted across Atlantic for some of summer and back to New York.
In news as significant as finishing this year, Kevin Brown pitched shut out baseball yesterday. After his other outings, stonings by shots thrown back at him in the first couple innings, it was a miracle. Matsui's bat is back too. And Tino's short sweet swing hit a second homer in as many days. Who knows how hitters go into slumps and how they come out of them. It's a mystery to me, but lining drives of joy in the mean time, in the between time is where I want to be.
