Opponents On Your Journey
Fellow on campus with a clipboard: is he with a movement, will he want me to sign something, or is he just studying the local ecology? Hide.
Tuneless “funky” song at Andronico’s, lasting the entirety of my ten-minute shopping trip, which narrated the revision of a belief about the world from ~∃(Santa Claus) to ∃(Santa Claus).
If you ask me point-blank whether I am to become a professor, the answer is surely not. I’ve been keeping busy remembering that I know how to do other things: putting together some Oil and Water CDs, adding Latin verbs to the sphinx, building a new computer from mail-order parts and sending short stories to the gatekeepers of letters. Retuning the piano and getting it right this time. In a dream I was histrionically shouting at people that my life was over because I was thirty, but no one was buying it.
It’s fine now; for the last few years it’s always been fine, or better, risotto and beer and poetry, who’d spurn it. For those who don’t know I’m getting married this summer; that is better than fine. You want answers, you want to be put in a small soft container. Who are the opponents who make you feel naked inside a warm house.
