unrelated comments of a happy nature

Now Playing: The Village soundtrack by James Newton Howard. Track 2.

Good spring music--I always think of the Fishers' house (before the renovations), the pale moon on a cloudy night, and damp early spring mornings over still-bare trees when I listen to this music.

The magnolias in the courtyard are blooming! The saucer magnolia trees are slowly becoming great glorious towers of deep burgundy flowers, and the star magnolias are decked with little white-veined-purple flowers that give off a thin, sweet smell.

Thank you all for your e-mails. I posted that comment at the end of my post awhile ago, and then a bunch of people sent e-mails (which was wonderful)--and then I got hit by a massive pile of schoolwork, so I haven't been able to reply to most of them. Please forgive me!

Petr and Shadow, your comments about the poems in this last post were quite right. The first one does deal with the way death affects not only people but the art they make.

So here's another poem, a bit more hopeful. The myth of Persephone, a Greek goddess, is that she was the daughter of the goddess of spring, and was captured by Hades, the king of Death. If she had managed to escape from his kingdom without eating or drinking anything from it, she would have been free, but she ate the seed of a pomegranate (or an apple, if you want Biblical overtones). Because she stumbled and ate the fruit, she was doomed to live half her life with Hades and half her life on earth with her mother. So when Persephone comes back from Death, we have spring and summer, and when she returns to Death, we have autumn and winter. I decided to rework the legend a bit, and give some hope for her release from this endless cycle....

Persephone Revisited
From Adagio con moto, Sonata in E minor for flute, cello, and harpsichord, by J.S. Bach

I watch the leaves fall on the rainy wind.
My land is mourning me, for in my death
Dies summer’s loveliness, sun’s labors lost.
Like candles for a wedding blown to smoke
The wind blows my warm year away. My art,
The strophes of the sky, the polished hills,
The jeweled gardens like embellished scrolls,
Are torn and scattered, blown to withered shreds.
The living towers of the trees turn black,
Flat figures on a brittle vase, the red
Of summer’s sunset fired to fragile clay
That crumbles, towers crushed to silver dust.
My own lips blow the summer’s candles out,
Myself destroying work that weeps with me.
Cursed by myself into the dark I go—
My weakness dooms both me and all I make.
Yet as the summer sets, the sweet rain falls—
These lips that blew their candles out still breathe,
Kept warm by the sweet kiss of life’s bright lord—
My poetries are safe between his hands,
The furling fields stored deep in fertile Word,
Where they shall sleep and then burst forth to grow
Called by this rain, his promise of a spring
When I shall make in him without a fall.

something to spice up the mix

Now Playing: Bach, prelude and fugue for organ in A minor

I've just returned from listening to a long and interesting lecture by a physicist from Caltech, Kip S. Thorne. We read one of his books for Honors class and were required to go to this lecture (for which I had to miss Bible study!). The great hall in the student union was packed, standing room only. (I couldn't help but notice wryly that when a rather famous poet came to campus to give a reading and talk, there were only about twenty people who gathered in the small faculty study in the library to listen to her.) He talked about black holes and warped space time and such things.

Anyhow, this is some of the stuff I've been working on for the past couple of weeks for an assignment for Lyric class. Not nearly so technical or earth-shattering as physics. But just think how dull life would be without poetry to make everything confusing once in a while....

(As though physics isn't! :o)

The poems I've used here are ones we read for Lyric class. When reading, especially the first one, keep in mind the Biblical parallel between humans and poetry: Ephesians 2:10, "For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works...." The word "workmanship" is in Greek "poiema", the same word as our English "poem". Also, the idea of mortality and transience, for art and for the humans who make art.

And after you've suffered through these, I'll post a couple more with some explanation, perhaps.

Enjoy! :o)

I.

From Shakespeare, Sonnets 106 and 107, and D.H. Lawrence, “Bavarian Gentians”

Our blazon calls. Down darker, darker stairs,
Go ladies blue and smoking, dark-blue knights,
Where moon shines through fresh ribs, the darkness rich
With mortal beauty, men like poems—white
Into the darkness winds the chronicle,
Pen-strokes and rhymes dropped, as their masters, join
All mortal men, down down into the dark.
Each rhyme lived once, but here their crowns are spent:
To speechlessness our songs fade, like blue gentians
In cold September sightless—we are swept
Invisible, lost rhymes into the dark.

II. journaling

The sunlight on the meadow where we went,
The wind like waves around our splashing feet—
We had our walk around the lake in March,
Ran through uncurling woods until the dark,
When sunset eddied out across the sky,
Left clouds like tide lines on blue beaches. I
Remember this now, sitting here alone
Beside the window in my darkened room,
Where I peer at this book, the lights unlit—
Loneliness grows strong from fellowship.
The grass has faded into blue, the day
Rippled back into the sea, all colors drained.
Yet as I read these rhymes scrawled in my book,
The curling cursive catches what evening took.
I rob my robber and restore the day
Between the leather bindings on this page.

III.: in the coffee shop

Our books and papers spread across the table,
Between our half-full mugs of orange clove tea.
People pass around us, faces in a fable,
Leave cups and crumbs, their shelled festivities.
The shop door opens. Smoke blows in, the brazier
Outside filled with hot coals against the night.
Along the ochre walls hang glossy pictures
Of London, Spain, New Orleans, black-and-white.
Sitting here with you, I try to hold
This evening in a frame of tea and faces,
A painted picture, bold with brown and gold—
The more I try to frame, the more it fades
To black-and-white, a sketch without an edge,
A blurry sentence smeared across a page.

IV.

From Psalm 90 and Dylan Thomas, “The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower”

Lord, you have been our dwelling place for ages,
From parents’ parents to the children’s children.
The days fly by across the earth like pages
Blown by the wind, and our young years are hidden.
We whirl away like words half-heard and fall
On silence, an eternal requiem
That echoes through a chapel’s crumbling walls,
Lyrics blurred to echoes ere their prime.
So end our days in darkness, like a sigh.
We cannot hold our loved ones or the light
Unfurling in the spring—the very light
That draws the leaves to birth draws them to die.
Now free us, save us from mortality
To blossom in your still eternity.

another day....

Now Playing: Sonata for flute, harpsichord, and cello in E Minor by Bach, "Adagio ma non tanto".

Today Rachel woke up early and went out. I dressed, did my devotions, ate an apple and a granola bar for breakfast, and wrote a large pack of e-mails to sundry and various people.

At nine-thirty, I walked over to Oliphant for Lyric. The morning was breezy and warm with glorious sunshine. In Lyric, Dr. L rambled on for awhile about "Lycidas". We finally talked a little bit about Shelley's "Adonais" (which has some amazingly gorgeous lines in it) and a short elegy by Charlotte Smith. After class, I practiced my flute in Tyrrell. Today I ditched my etude and arpeggios to work on this Bach sonata. I spent a long time working on this first movement, honing the shapes of the phrases and the top notes. I've been experimenting with a new embouchre, which (hopefully) will let my body be more relaxed when I play but also result in a fuller, more easily controlled sound--a sound that has better dynamic range. Dr. R didn't suggest it or anything, but I've noticed that my sound tends to be very tense and tight, so I've gone back to some of the advice Dr. Shin gave me in highschool, and am attempting to use that to loosen up some. It's paying off, at least with the first movement. The second movement, though, is insanely hard. I can just imagine Bach chuckling with glee as he wrote out the difficult arpeggiated chords. It's very difficult to maintain a full sound when your fingers are busy with acrobatics. I practiced for an hour-and-a-half, just Bach and tone. It was actually very satisfying and relaxing.

After, I went to the caf for lunch. Hamburgers today. Their hamburgers aren't too bad, though often a bit on the greasy side. I noticed Amy sitting in the best booth by the windows in the southwest corner, so I went over to sit with her. She took a break from studying organic chemistry to chat with me while we ate our lunch. As we left the caf, we met Nicole outside. I walked with Nicole into Lottie.

I studied for awhile and then went to Novels at two o'clock. In Novels, we had a brief class period. We've been reading Pamela, by Samuel Richardson--it's a rather annoying novel, in which the characters don't behave at all the way they should, and the plot is strung out with long convoluted emotional passages. To put our sufferings in perspective, she showed us a copy of Richardson's second novel, Clarissa, which is the longest novel ever written in English. It's a whopping three-inch tome, and the pages are large and the print is small. "You could kill someone with that thing!" I chuckled to Amanda. (Amanda, Crystal, Tara, and I always sit in a row at the next-to-last table, and in Lyric, Tara, myself, and two other girls (Jen and Rachel B.) always sit in a row at the same table--the "peanut gallery" of the class. :o)

After about twenty minutes, Dr. S walked us over to the library. This weekend, she's in charge of a fancy-shmancy conference that TU is hosting for the society of 18th Century literary studies, and as a highlight of the conference, she's put together an exhibition of rare books up in special collections. We got to preview it. It was something of a shock to go from the bright freedom of the sun and wind outside to the dark, dusty interior of the library--but it was well worth it. Special collections is up on the fifth floor of the library, and the exhibition is in the old reading room--panelled with dark wood from floor to ceiling, lined with tall cases crowded with books bound in old leather and calfskin. A couple of chandeliers, a-sparkle with glass pendants, reflected off the five display cases standing around the edges of the room. Dr. S explained to us the contents of each case. In one case were books from early in the period, from the 1660s and the overthrow of Charles II (a handwritten narrative, in beautiful brown ink, of the proceedings of his trial). In another case were copies of early novels, including Pamela and Clarissa in several water-stained volumes, a couple of cookbooks, and a book of jokes. In the third case were books relating to the Americas, including a gorgeous atlas with hand-tinted pages and sun-rayed compases, the rivers and mountains painstakingly mapped on the creamy paper. In the fourth and fifth cases were "classics": an enormous first volume of a dictionary; a translation of Virgil by Alexander Pope; a copy of Milton with splendid engravings; a Geneva Bible; watercolor illustrations by William Blake, in his idiosyncratically dreamy, fluid style; and a little octavo Psalter, the Psalms translated by Isaac Watts "with hymns". I stood bent over the cases, inspecting the fine print--the long "s"s, the flourished capital letters, the fine stamped gilding on the insides of the cover of a Book of Common Prayer, the careful details of the engravings.

At three o'clock, Dr. S dismissed us. I went downstairs and checked out a recording of Bach organ works and this recording of the Bach flute sonatas from the Media Lab, and then a copy of Dorothy Sayers's Unnatural Death.

After some time-consuming disappointments (which I will not detail here), I went to my room, dumped my things on my bed, changed clothes, and went running in the gym. I read Dorothy Sayers, which I thoroughly enjoyed. As I walked back to the gym afterward, I went slowly, savoring the afternoon. The lawn between John Mabee and Lottie Jane was strewn with knapsacks and jackets. People were playing ultimate frisbee and baseball, or sunning themselves on towels, or sitting and reading under the trees. I paused at the door of Lottie to admire the delicate black tracery of the budding oak tree against the very blue sky. In the room, I found Rachel just going out to run herself.

After another disappointment, and reading some rather discouraging things about life in Stillwater (Sarah sick, Laura sick, robot needing to be shipped tonight, my mother burdened with an immense amoung of work, etc.), I picked myself up, put myself together, and went to the caf. I threw a salad together in a box and came back to the room to eat and restore my bruised consciousness. In the room, I found Rachel, just having returned from her run. We chatted briefly about our days.

Rachel went out to take a shower. I sat at my desk, eating slowly, drinking orange spice tea, and reading "World" magazine. (I got two issues today: one from February 17, and one from October 10!). When Rachel returned, she and I sat quietly in our room, eating our respective suppers and reading. The windows were open, and a cool breeze blew into the room from the deep blue night outside. The sky was the deep shade that tea turns when it's steeped for a long time, as though the sun had steeped deep warm blue into the sky over the course of the day.

At seven-thirty, Rachel and I walked over to John Mabee for RUF. We found a crowd of other RUFfians standing outside the door, watching Kevin and Bob do pull-ups on the i-beam that holds up the roof of the little porch outside the door.

After the service ended, I hopped from conversation to conversation: Chatted with Alisha a bit, said hi to Esther and Nicole, listened to Syneva talk about her piano competition tonight with Carl, congratulated Tara on her improvisation on the violin tonight, laughed with Daniel about reading books. Jenny S. bounced over, gave me a hug (I always feel safer and stronger around her), and we perched on the back of a sofa together and talked about things. She shared chocolate mint patties with me to get both of us hyper. :o) Talking with Jenny was fun, getting strength from her cheerfulness.

When I returned to my room, I found to my delight that an e-mail from Sarah was waiting for me, kept company by an e-mail from Danielle and one from Logan. Ah, nothing like a happy ending to a long day! You all have no idea how much pleasure it gives me to get "newsy" e-mails from you all about yourselves and your doings--even if they aren't happy or full of good news, it's still encouraging to hear from you all.

Rachel and I are sitting and working in our room now. Bach keeps playing in all his beautiful intricacy.

I haven't been carried off by orcs, but it looks as though everyone else has....

Highlights from this past week:

Monday: Watching the RUF intramural boys' team beat the law school.

Tuesday: Sitting in a coffeeshop for almost two hours with Tara, reading and writing poetry and drinking orange spice tea.

Wednesday: Opening my mailbox and finding cards from my parents and grandmother. (Hooray for "snail" mail :o) Going to Tara's apartment in the evening to read poetry with Nicole, Amy, Rachel, and Tara. Introducing Amy and Nicole to "Jabberwocky", and reading our own parodies of "real" authors' poems.

Thursday: Listening to Syneva play the entire first movement of the first Brahms piano concerto for a select audience of Amanda, Tara, and myself in the empty Tyrrell recital hall. Beautifully poignant work.

Friday: Getting together with Alisha for a little chat, and going to the RUF rollerskating party. I was awful at rollerskating, but it was fun to watch everyone else. I did borrow Jenny H.'s rollerblades, and was able to get around fairly well on them. Afterwards, Tara came over to our room and watched half of a Dorothy Sayers movie while Rachel did homework. Then Rachel, Tara, and I went over to the Penthouse (the apartment that Jenny S., Alisha, and Tara share) to spend the night.

Saturday: Waking up in Tara's room and fixing pancakes for breakfast. In the afternoon, going to the Gilcrease Museum of Art with Rachel and almost getting lost on the way back to campus in the worst part of town. Visiting Syneva, Amanda, and Rachael for supper (we made kebabs and rice), and watching a movie with a bunch of girls in their apartment after the meal.

Today I went to church at Christ Presbyterian with Syneva, and ate lunch with Syneva, her sister (who's visiting), Rachael, and Amanda. Other than that, I've spent most of the day alone, reading, listening to a sermon my father preached back in December, taking a short walk, and sleeping.

I miss everyone in Stillwater! No one has posted on their blogs. *sigh* :o)

May God be with you all this week.

that groundhog must've seen his shadow....

This is very strange: The sun is shining, and it's snowing so hard outside that I can hardly see the skyscrapers downtown.

Today is Valentine's Day, right? Some people don't like it, but I think it's a good day for saying how much I appreciate y'alls' friendship and encouragement. As Christian brothers and sisters, you demonstrate Christ's love. So a very happy Valentine's Day to you all! :o)

*drumroll please*

Pictures from last weekend are up on photobucket for your amusement.

fun and games.... (part 2)

Eh, well, this post is prohibitively long and wordy. That's because it's mostly unedited (mostly).

Saturday, February 10, 2007

This morning I woke up at about eight-thirty, pale morning sunlight seeping into the room. Jenny was lying asleep on her bed with her arms spread out, snoring quietly. I lay in bed for awhile and then crawled out, tiptoed around the room, and got dressed. I went downstairs at about nine o’clock. Stephen and my parents were the only ones up. Stephen and I joked around with the comics. I made myself a cup of tea. Laura came downstairs a bit later, and the two of us sat at the table, eating cereal and talking. She decided to make cookies, and brought down a whole collection of cookbooks for us to look through. We decided on chocolate-dream-delight cookies (or some such thing), though we didn’t have the requisite peanut butter and white chocolate chips. So we scavenged the cupboard, when we’d finished our oatmeal and cereal, to see what we could find. Our search resulted in four bags of chocolate chips, marshmallows, and half-a-dozen M&Ms. Laura went to work with what she had, and soon the smell of chocolate cookies was coming through the house.

I sat upstairs with Stephen, who was playing Freelancer on the computer in the schoolroom. Small noises had begun to come from my room and Stephen’s room—it was ten-thirty, and the girls were just beginning to wake up. I sat on the sofa next to the computer, teasing Stephen for his earnestness about the game, and admiring the gorgeous graphics depicting unknown galaxies and solar systems. We weren’t trying to be very quiet. Eventually, Tara came pattering out with a hairbrush. She curled up on the sofa next to me, a bit bleary-eyed and sleepy. I got Curly out of his cage and let him run around the floor. He crowhopped and chuckled, chirping happily at us. Alisha came out and joined us, and then Jenny emerged from my bedroom—she still had her pajamas on, so she’d wrapped herself in her sleeping bag. She flopped down on the schoolroom floor, bundled in the thick blanket, laughing.

Eventually, everyone got dressed. I asked the girls if they wanted to go for a walk to San Born Lake—we had about an hour until lunch. Going downstairs, we found that my mother had just returned from her weekly grocery shopping trip. The kitchen was full of plastic bags. Jenny wanted an apple to eat, so I grabbed the prettiest Jonagold from the refrigerator. Alisha and Tara asked for granola bars. We invited Laura to come with us, and the five of us piled outside into the pale winter sunshine. Jenny produced Tara’s sack of chocolates from the back seat of the car, and we marched down the street, sucking chocolate, while Jenny munched her apple. We walked out to San Born Lake, climbing the hill and coming out suddenly from neighborhood to open field. We walked at a leisurely pace around the lake, slogging through several thick mud spots. We went down to the beaver’s dam, crossed the little stream where it ran through thick mats of cattails, and climbed the bank on the far side to look down at the small pond, thin ice covering the shallow green water. Our coats were smattered with fluffy cattail seeds. Jenny and Laura ran out into the field on the other side of the bank. Alisha climbed halfway up a big mulberry tree. We all ran into the field, bounding through the thick grass. Tall stalks crunched under our feet and waved over our heads. The grass was springy underfoot, golden roots and leaves from summers and summers piled in the warm bowl of the meadow. We explored the remains of an old house under the bank, chunks of concrete, strips of metal, rusted mattress springs, tyres, an old oven. A clean north breeze blew under thin silver clouds over the pale blue sky. All colors were pale, bleached, thin blue shadows etched on the trail as we climbed back to the trail. As we walked up onto the dam over silver cottonwood leaves, we saw a heron fly over the upper pond, its huge grey-blue wings beating strongly over the water. We crossed the creek on the little bridge, and, coming out of a juniper wood, Tara spotted a dead raccoon sprawled on the ground. Its skeleton was grotesquely twisted, a tuft of striped fur still clinging to its tail, its lips drawn back in a snarl.

Alisha decided that she wanted to do more exploring, so we plunged into the woods again. She led us through the thick juniper thicket. Needles whispered under our muddy shoes. Whippy branches sprang back in our faces, and little poky twigs poked our heads as we bent under the low branches. The sunlight was almost gone in there, filtered out by thick dark branches. When we finally came out of the woods, we played around for awhile in the parking lot, standing on the posts along the edge of the parking lot and taking pictures. Someone was fishing on the peninsula and listening to the radio. “We could have a dance party right here,” Jenny joked. Laura grinned at Jenny’s silliness. We walked up through the meadow again. It is refreshing to me, body and soul, to come out of a gully and see the great sky arching over a broad open field.

Back at home, we scraped off our shoes at the back door and bundled inside, flopping down in the living room, our cheeks red from the cold air. Jenny and Alisha talked on their cellphones while Tara and I caught our breath. It was lunchtime. After lunch, while Laura brushed her teeth, the girls drew funny pictures on the whiteboard: big-eyed people from Tara(like beautiful Anime characters), funny little pigs and puppies from Alisha, a silly sketch of our basketball game by Jenny. When Philip and Laura were ready, the six of us crammed into Jenny’s car. She drove us, with Philip’s guidance, out to the Markums’ house, where the robotics team works. Philip sat in the front seat and piloted us while Laura, Tara, Alisha, and I were crowded in the backseat. Jenny and Alisha decided that my siblings needed to be culturally educated, so they turned on MaryMary for a couple of songs. As we turned off the highway onto the dirt road, we drove through a cloud of aromatic smoke where some men were burning the junipers next to the road. Dust puffed over the car.

Then we turned off into the Markums’ driveway. Philip hopped out to open the gate for us. We drove down the muddy driveway and parked next to the Parnells’ car. The yard into which we had pulled was a scrappy place: old machinery sitting here and there, clumps of juniper and oak trees, a low heap of gravel on which some kid had left some old rusty Tonka trucks, a couple of large, flop-eared goats tied under a tree, a camper, a mobile home, some piles of hay…. We walked past a shed where three horses were standing, shaggy in their winter coats. One of the horses trotted out of the shed and cantered past us. A big hound sniffed my knees, and another large dog barked at us from under a tree, wagging its tail. We walked down a plywood boardwalk to the big workshop, shaped like an Army quonset hut. Philip opened the small door, and we found ourselves in a dark room full of machinery and oddments. The workshop itself was built as a room inside the quonset hut—there were things stored on its ceiling under the belly of the curved roof. The workshop was crowded with machines, tables, shelves, sawhorses, etc. A couple of windows let in light on the smeared white walls. Everyone inside the room stared at us: a contingent of scruffy-looking boys and men (Mr. Markum and his sons, Sam Parnell, Mr. Brown and his son, etc.). The robot was settled on a couple of sawhorses in the middle of the room. Philip went straight to work on the electronics. Laura showed us around, leading us over to their two old robots, stored in a corner under some insulation. Sam and a couple of guys were busy working on the mill. Laura pointed out the two lathes and the molds for pouring plastic gears. Metal shavings lay piled everywhere, glittering underfoot and heaped on the floor with gritty red dirt. On one wall, between the windows, hung a whiteboard covered with design scrawls. Jenny talked with Mr. Brown a bit, and we looked around before leaving Philip and Laura to their work. Jenny, Tara, Alisha, and I trailed out of the room, squeezing between the equipment, out from the smells of gasoline and metal and hot plastic, into the cool afternoon air. The goats baaed stridently at us as we went to the car. Alisha, Tara, and I all rode the gate open so that Jenny could drive out.

We drove back into town. We took Main Street south into the downtown area and parked by the bank. The four of us took our knapsacks out of the trunk and walked down the sidewalk to Aspen Coffee, the coffeeshop close to Mr. Parnell’s office. As we stepped up over the creaking wooden threshold, the door tinkled shut behind us. Jenny and Tara went to the counter to buy drinks, while Alisha and I settled down at a table. All of us were pretty drowsy. Jenny asked for a quarter to buy some coffeebeans, so I made little stacks of quarters on the smooth tabletop. She returned with a handful of glossy dark beans. Alisha sucked them appreciatively. Tara and Jenny both sat down with Styrofoam cups full of coffee, creamy foam fluffing over the edges. Jenny pulled out her Spanish homework. Tara read, and Alisha wrote in my journal. I booted up my laptop. A guy in a black cowboy hat with a neat grey goatee sat by the windows at a table, working the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. An older woman with short silvery hair sat at a high table in the corner with the light from the window streaming down onto her open Bible. We sat and studied quietly. I rubbed Jenny’s back, and we chatted about classes and things. We spent a quiet hour in the coffeeshop, the murmur of conversation and the bitter smell of coffee making a warmly familiar atmosphere.

At about four-thirty, we packed up and left. We drove through the downtown area, past the library, and over to the Seretean Center. We parked in the old lot between the Seretean Center and the firehouse. Then I took us on a short tour of the east side of campus, at least as much of it as we could comfortably see in half-an-hour. I pointed out Old Central with its “Darth Vader” tower covered in weatherbeaten green shingles. I pointed out the art building across the street from the Seretean Center, with the grey-white-blue metal statue pointed like a breaching whale on the plaza outside it. Then came Morrill Hall, the English department, with its Classical front: the long flight of Roman steps, the line of elegant columns, the arched windows. Then the Business building next to it, all three of these across the street from us. We walked past the language building with the two saucer magnolia trees on either side of the door, the two trees covered with fat waxy buds. Past the Classroom Building, past the Student Union, past the clock, out onto the long lawn below the library. Clear sunshine shone warmly on the Classical and Modern brick buildings. Edmond Low Library stood at the north end of the lawn, magnificent with its long banks of windows. The bell rang from its high tower. “Can we go to the library?” Alisha asked in excitement. “Can we take pictures on the stairs?” Tara inquired. Jenny, Tara, and Alisha ran up the sandstone stairs to the balcony above the patio on the Student Union. I ran through the formal garden, following the path between the carefully-patterned beds full of ruddy nandinas, to take a picture of the girls on the balcony. Then I ran up to join them. Alisha and Jenny sprawled on a bench, pretending to be thinking about life. Tara and I laughed at them and took pictures. It was warm in the sunshine despite the cold. Campus was very quiet—I think we only saw one person the whole time we were on the portico.

We ran down the broad curving staircase and skipped along the sidewalk to the library. We had to go around the library to the north doors, shivering in the shadow of the building to get to the doors. We went exploring through the building, running up the narrow central staircase that runs in a tight shaft through the core of the building. Our footsteps echoed in the stairwell. We tiptoed through the silent study area on the fourth floor to peer out of the Venetian blinds. The good dusty smells of books and old carpet made my nose itch. After our brief tour of inspection, we pattered downstairs again and out into the sunshine. As we crossed the lawn, Tara took a picture of Jenny pointing in delight to the model oil derricks on top of the old petroleum engineering building. Tara, Jenny, and I sprinted back to the car while Alisha brought up the rear.

After further adventures, we drove back to my house. At home, we found that Grammy had come for supper. The girls introduced themselves to her while she set the table. Supper was spiced up by Jenny’s presence, of course. My grandmother asked them their majors. “Guess,” Jenny asked. “You’re… a drama major?” Grammy asked. The four of us burst out laughing. “No, no, I’m petroleum engineering. Sorry. I really do like it when people can’t guess my major,” Jenny said as the laughter died down. Grammy asked the girls about their schooling, and the girls in turn asked her stories about her own life. It was enjoyable to listen to the personalities bounce off each other, the friendly laughter and silly stories. “Hey, have you ever chewed tinfoil before?” Jenny laughed. That brought out my father’s story about lighting aerosol, etc. After desert, Jenny, Tara, Alisha, and I went upstairs to watch Glory Road on the upstairs computer. Jenny had to do some research on the internet for her Spanish homework before we could use the computer, so Alisha drew a unicorn on the whiteboard while Tara and I played with the guinea pig.

When Jenny finished, she betook herself with her books and papers to Stephen’s room, where she sprawled out on his double bed to study. Alisha, Tara, and I sat in the schoolroom. Alisha and Tara both had studying to do, while I worked on today’s journal entry. We all thoroughly enjoyed the movie. The movie was about two hours long, so it was nearly ten o’clock when we finished. Time for the girls to leave. They packed up their duffle bags and knapsacks and said their good-byes. Laura and I walked them outside to the car. I sent Laura off for a shower and waved them good-bye.

fun and games.... (part I)

Now Playing: "Come Away with Me" by Norah Jones. Track 6, "Shoot the Moon."

These posts will be long, but they're for Tara, Alisha, and Jenny, so go figure....

This morning Rachel and I ate breakfast in the caf together, which was pleasant. We talked about Honors and other things. After breakfast, I studied Music History for about two hours, until it was time for Music History class.

After class, I walked over to Zink Hall to pick up my Poetics portfolio, which has been languishing in the office since last semester. I was so happy to have it in my hands again! A warm reminder of those last three weeks of school, sitting in the Penthouse making little designs to illustrate the poems.

I ate lunch in a booth by the window, reading Pamela. Only when I was nearly finished did I realize that Alisha, Tara, Mary, Daniel, and others were sitting across the caf at a long table. So I picked up and joined them. Rachel and Asher showed up, too. For awhile we all sat around, talking. As Tara and I left together, Tara said, "E--, would you like a short break from studying?" "Sure," I said. We drove off campus, our goal: to buy flowers for Alisha.

Stepping inside the store, we were met with two large carts full of flowers. Thanks to Valentine's Day, we had no trouble finding enough flowers to choose from. Big daisies in yellow, white, and purple; baby's breath; lavendar; asters; gladiolas, their tall green spikes bearing cream-colored flowers. Along the florist's counter was a bank of other flowers, roses in all colors, tucked into lucious bouquets with lavendar, baby's breath, ferns, etc. There were tulips in pots and cut tulips, their buds half-open and waxy. It was comforting just to lean over and smell the flowers, to touch the silky petals lightly, to admire the delicate veining on the curved petals of the roses or the glossy sheen of the fern leaves. We chose three bouquets for Alisha--one of yellow, one of white, and one of purple daisies. Their long, thick stems dripped as we carried them to the cash register. As we left the store, a fat old Black lady with very bad teeth laughed at us. "Aw, you brought me flowers!" she crooned. "You can have one if you want," Tara said kindly. "No, no, honey. Have a good day!" the lady laughed.

Back on campus, we ran up to the room to write notes for Alisha to go along with the flowers. I pulled out my colored pens--kindergarten colors, bright red, blue, green, and yellow--and then Tara left. I studied for a couple more hours, until my brain felt as thick as oatmeal, and as lumpy. :o) Rachel came in halfway through, and we sat at our desks, studying. Eventually, I decided to call it quits, and lay down on my bed for awhile.

Rachel and I went running. I showered and then wrote e-mails to people. Six o'clock came sooner than I wanted it to. Right after I'd turned off my computer, the phone rang again. "E--!" Alisha said on the other end. "I know, I know! I'm running out the door right now," I said, somewhat out-of-breath. "Don't run out the door just yet because we're just leaving, and we have to go pick up Tara first," Alisha warned me. This whole adventure is like a comic strip! I leaned back and laughed. Rachel and I said good-bye to each other. I gave her a ridiculous little poem that I'd written during Lyric class when I was bored (a completely useless piece of verse, except if you want to laugh). She laughed, "Maybe if you got bored in class more often, you'd write more amazing poetry!" She went off to eat supper, and I sat alone in the darkened room.

The phone rang again. "Hi, E--," Alisha chuckled on the other end. "Can Tara come up and put her violin in your room so that she doesn't have to drag it around all weekend?" "Sure," I said. I ran downstairs to let Tara in. Then the two of us went outside, where Alisha and Jenny were sitting in Jenny's car in the Lottie parking lot. I piled my things into the trunk, shoving knapsack and little red bag on top of knapsacks, sleeping bag, coats, and duffle bags. I clambered into the back seat next to Tara. We had a brief conference on where to eat supper, which resulted in us driving down 15th Street to Qdoba, a new Mexican restaurant.

Never having been to this place before, I asked Jenny's advice on what to get. She suggested the pesto burrito, so Alisha, Tara, and I all ordered one--Jenny just had queso and chips. The restaurant is set up like a Subway sandwich shop in some ways. You get to watch the people make your food. A brisk little Hispanic woman, chatting away with her two comrades in Spanish, smacked rice, pinto beans, pesto sauce, and sour cream together on a big, leathery tortilla, wrapped it all up in foil, and put it on a plate. The four of us sat together in a booth, talking and eating. The burritos were fat, the flour tortillas almost as leathery and sticky as sushi seaweed. But they were deliciously good, too. The restaurant was mostly empty. A couple of TVs, tuned to the sports channel, played on either side of the front door. The walls were bright yellow, red, and green, in typical Tex-Mex fashion.

After supper, Jenny drove us out to Broken Arrow, a drive of about twenty minutes along the expressway. The place we were looking for turned out to be a sprawling megachurch complex: GraceChurch, complete with a flashing signboard out near the highway. We fumbled our way through a maze of parking lots in the dark. Jenny dropped us off at the door (she had been invited out to supper with one of her other friends) of one of the big buildings, and Alisha, Tara, and I went inside.

We found ourselves in an atrium, and going through that, in a spacious activity room. The size of three basketball courts, it had a battery of cameras and lights hanging from the ceiling, focused on a stage on the middle basketball court. On the far court an elementary school basketball game was going on, but on the court closest to us, the TCS girls were playing the Grace Eagles, and losing by about twenty points. We paid for our tickets and had our hands stamped in red ink. We clambered up onto the bleachers in front of my mother, Stephen, Daniel, and the Parnells--the usual peanut gallery.

After the game ended, the boys played. This game was a lot of fun to watch: Grace's boys' team is fairly good, but TCS is better. Tara gasped as Ben seemed to shoot and miss, though in reality he was tossing the ball at the basket for Josh to leap up and dunk in. Josh's tow-colored head appeared for a fleeting instant head-and-shoulders above the tall post players as he jumped up and caught his brother's pass for a successful basket. Philip got some good rebounds. It was amazing to watch the boys weave through their opponents' defense.

At half-time, Alisha called Jenny. Tara, Laura, and I walked around a bit. We tried to take pictures, but Laura made funny faces. The game ended with TCS winning by about twenty points. After the game, everyone left pretty quickly. Alisha called Jenny to see whether she was coming any time soon. Alisha, Tara, and I stood around in the atrium, waiting for her. The people in charge of the gym walked by and asked if we were alright, so we assured them that we were just waiting for our ride. We took silly pictures of each other—Taraheld her camera up so that we looked as though we were making fish faces, and we practiced our martial arts kicks. When Jenny finally did show up, being chauffered by her friend, she realized that she didn't have her keys. Thankfully, she managed to find them. We got on the road laughing.

We stopped at a little gas station on the edge of the highway. GraceChurch is on the edge of Broken Arrow, and the gas station was surrounded on three sides by woods. Black trees loomed up, a stark wall against the fluorescent glare of the gas station lights. We went in for a bathroom break and so that Jenny could get some caffeine to keep herself awake. Alisha, Tara, and I admired the extensive selection of chocolate bars. Alisha gave Tara her coat to hold, and Tara stood on one foot with her arms out and a huge grin. “I’m a little teapot, short and stout…” she started to sing. “Sorry, but the stout part doesn’t work!” I laughed. Alisha bought a package of Skittles, and Jenny filled a Styrofoam cup with English toffee and French vanilla coffee. As they made their purchase, they asked the woman at the counter, a fat Black lady named Peaches, if she could give us directions back to Highway 244. “No, honey,” she chuckled, “but I can ask.” She dialed up someone on the phone and handed it to Jenny. Just then, an older man came in. “Hey, do you know how to get to 244?” Peaches asked. The chap was a truck driver with very brown skin and at least two days’ grey stubble on his face. His sleazy jacket and jeans added to his air. I turned my face away and laughed quietly at the incongruity: The four of us, college students, girls, in our heavy coats, standing in the sleek, brightly-lit gas station, asking an overweight Black woman and a greasy truck driver for directions. “Drive safe, y’all!” she called after us as we left. We got back onto the Broken Arrow Expressway, which joined up with Highway 244. Jenny’s little car zipped along the smooth curves, streetlights flashing on the dusty gold. Inside, we were warm, listening to MaryMary and “All American Rejects” and who-knows-what-else. Tara produced a box of chocolate-covered graham crackers and some dark chocolate candies. The citrus smell of Alisha’s Skittles mingled with the warm bitter smell of Jenny’s coffee. As we passed the exit for the university, four or five people in a white car pulled alongside us. They rolled down their windows, shouting and waving at us. “Do we know those people?” Alisha asked in disgust. Jenny let them pull past. We drove across Tulsa, the car’s shadow gliding across the concrete, and came out in the dark fields on the other side.

We got into Stillwater at about eleven o’clock. Jenny was talking about all the things Spencer had told her about. “He said that there’s this war monument that glows psychedelic colors,” she said. “I know where that is,” I replied. “Really? Can we go see it?” she asked enthusiastically. “Won’t your parents be worried? Do you want to call them?” put in Alisha with concern. “Probably not. They’re probably in bed,” I said slowly. I guided us through the dark streets, down the long curving back road along Boomer Lake, and over to the pier on the east side where the new war memorial was put up last year. The small parking lot was dimly lit, and there was an empty car parked in the lot. “Hmm…. Looks shady,” Jenny said. “We’re not actually going to get out, are we?” asked Alisha. “I am,” I laughed. Jenny and I hopped out, and Tara and Alisha followed more slowly. When the car doors opened, cold air blasted us. The night was freezing cold. An Arctic north wind scoured over the lake, whipping the flags on their metal posts down the pier. The water by the pier was frozen, and sleepy geese floated on the edge of the ice. We ran down the pier. The weights on the ends of the flags’ ropes clanged against their metal poles, the silk cloth flapping in the stiff breeze. The war memorial is at the end of the point, past the flags and benches. A statue supposed to look like flames, carved out of polished granite, is the war memorial—a stone platform with these flame-like things coming out of it. Lights were set in the platform, glowing different colors as they shone up on the flames. “Oh! It is psychedelic!” Jenny laughed. She hopped up on the platform among the “flames” so that the constantly-changing lights glowed on her. “Looks like an 80s dance floor,” she joked. Tara took a picture of the two of us standing with the memorial. Then we scurried back to the car: the night was bitterly dark and cold. As though air and water were all congealed black ice.

We drove to my house through quiet streets. As we climbed out of the car in the driveway, I heard an owl hooting in the woods down by the creek. We unpacked and walked up to the front door—it was unlocked. We tiptoed inside, and I escorted our troop upstairs. For four girls loaded down with stuff, we were amazingly quiet. Everyone in the house was asleep, of course. Tara and Alisha put down their things in Stephen’s room, and Jenny and I dumped our stuff in my room. We changed into pajamas and sat around in my room for half-an-hour or so. Jenny flopped down on the airmattress on the floor, lying on top of one sleeping bag and pulling her own sleeping bag over herself. She snuggled down and went to sleep. Alisha, Tara, and I sat on my bed. We looked at my books (made fun of Elsie Dinsmore, which Alisha and I despise, and Jenny likes) and at my scrapbook. Jenny lay under her sleeping bag with her blond hair sprawled all over the pillow, one tanned shoulder sticking out from under the blanket.

It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when Tara, Alisha, and I decided to go to bed. We said good-nights, and then the three of them went over to Stephen’s room to sleep. I crawled under the covers on my own bed—the bed still warm from the three of us sitting on it—and went to sleep quickly myself. The orange street light shining through the window over the shutters patterned the white wall with black branches.

basketball

Last night at nine-thirty the RUF corec intramural team had a basketball game. We used the middle court in the gym, so we were all crowded along the sidelines, players and “cheering squad” alike. At first I thought that we were going to be playing the Newman Center, and, as Andrew mentioned awhile ago, “Reenacting the Reformation.” But when it was time for the game to start, the Catholic team moved to a different court, and instead Team ABC started to warm up. I must admit that I trembled in my boots at the sight of them. Team ABC is probably the best team in the corec league. They’re all Black players, men and women, strong, self-assured, experts at playing basketball, with baggy shorts and dewrags to add to their insouciant air. As usual, RUF had a larger “cheering squad” than our opponents (RUFfians are like hobbits: they like to socialize, and they like to eat, though there was no food involved at this event), but as the night went on, more and more people showed up to cheer for ABC—mostly basketball players on the TU varsity team. When the tallest post player on the TU varsity team showed up, everyone on both sides laughed and cheered. “Hey, check in for us!” Joanna shouted, and he grinned down at us from across the scorekeeper’s table. Kevin, Asher, and Daniel were there. Andrew hobbled along the sideline, giving instructions. Leslie, Joanna, Alisha, Nicole, Crystal, Jenny H., Amy, and Eleanor all came. Eleanor sat on the floor with her eyes half-shut, just watching. Our actual squad of players was about as large as it’s ever been: Brandon, the Davids, Spencer, James, Tara, Jenny S., Hannah, Jessica, and myself.

The game started with ABC getting the tip, of course. As the game progressed, it became more and more ridiculous. ABC obviously could have whipped us, as the saying goes, but they didn’t. Instead, they joked around, flashing big grins at each other, tossing crazy passes, going up for silly lay-ups. When they actually used their skills, they were impressive: smooth three-point shots, sleek lay-ups. Our team actually played pretty well, though we had some pretty silly stunts on our part as well. Tara has really improved her defense and was almost fearless playing against the huge muscular Black guys. Hannah, with her lean, swinging stride, swept around to shoot on the wings. Between Spencer and Jenny S., we amassed quite a few points under the basket.

Everyone was just having a good time. Joanna stood on the sidelines and laughed and laughed. The Black girls were all pretending to be lazy, lounging half on the court when they weren’t in the game, and complaining of being tired. At the end of the game, Jenny S. managed to put in a couple of sweet little under-the-basket shots, which put us ahead two points to win, forty to thirty-eight. Both teams were cheering—the RUFfians in amazement, ABC hooting in mockery, joshing each other for letting us win. As the buzzer went off, everyone erupted in cheers and shouts. We all poured out onto the court, teams mixing and mingling—there was plenty of back-slapping, hand-shaking, and high-fiving. The RUF girls piled onto Jenny S. for a group congratulatory hug. The big Black guys whacked her shoulders companionably and grinned down at all of us. The girls slapped our hands and cheered, “Good game.”

After ABC left, we stayed on the court, talking, shooting around, playing three-on-three. Spencer declared that he wanted to celebrate with mead, a scop, and an epic poem to make it all complete. “You should write an epic poem about this!” he suggested. The announcement that the gym was about to close went off, and he said under his breath, “And be turned into a meadhall!” Kevin and Joanna and I laughed at him. We all hung out, celebrating and having fun. Andrew sat on the ground next to Eleanor. “That was weird, almost surreal,” he said, shaking his head. “They so totally gave that to us. I don’t think they meant for us to win. They were being really nice to us.” It was ten forty-five, and I was tired, so I said good-bye.

It's snowy outside, so...

... I'm seeing WHITE RABBITS this morning!

:o)