Friday, April 15, 2011

Poetic you is me.

The wind swirls around you, its trajectory ostensibly affected by your presence, leaves curling from the Quad's straight shot around to get to Sunday classes. The grass bends. A hippie barefoot pedals, happily singing nonsense syllables lost inside his mountain beard. A little kid playing games like the ideal son of a university man. There are ways that one could live in a rural setting, if one were happy with other exigencies therein. You hesitate to admit to yourself how - what - with whom - you could comprehend such a dramatic shift in your sense about that place, hesitant to mark it down, hesitant that even your hesitancy has reified it beyond the acceptable.

There are moral choices; there are existential crises. Homer, when she was here for the weekend, said that my life is absurd. She said that I am ridiculous. You fear she might be right. You know.

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