Today, I braved the traffic and frightful parking lots of North Campus. Hauled my pasty, readily-sunburnable ass across town in the beating sun just for the company. I played hookie for the sake of it. Took a road whose destination I couldn’t guess, just to see if I could shave a minute off my trip — or if it would even take me where I wanted to go at all. (I couldn’t and it didn’t.) I made a promise that I knew was for my own good even though I’d rather have weaseled my way out of it. Bared my
Category: Whimsy
That New Book Smell
Writers of the past, take heed! I’m sending this message back through time, from a world that may be difficult to understand. Everything is different here. In my time, books are a dying breed. People don’t read books on paper; they read them on devices like this one in my hand. It’s called a Kindle, and this is one of the very first models, one of the very first digital book readers that I think was ever released, and it’s already thinner than any novel and probably about the same weight. It can store over a thousand books. No, really.
A Love Letter
Dear low, sloped ceiling, My head hurts just to think of you. If you could, tell the fluorescent light (full of bugs from 1989), and blue carpeted floor (as pristine as the day you were set down): I’m sorry about the things I’ve said. Dear dark corner, behind hanging shirts — button-down (a cat’s favored hiding place), and stacked boxes, all childhood packed away (and more money wasted on eBay than I’d like to admit): You guys too. But especially… My dearest cheap, plastic hamper, overturned more than once so I could sleep in a pile of dirty clothes (don’t
Deare Shakespeare
Sir William — Though ‘t be but pitiful mockery, I do In semblance of thy tongue address thee: Thou surely knowst my love for thee; All curses upon thy name uttered of late In heart of imprudence. Yet, hark — for others inquire in earnest: Sons and daughters of this, the Digital Age — They hath no remembrance of thee; or else decry thy “relevance” And hold as common relics thy work. But peace! Thy canon is great, ’tis certainty. Yet must I with pain admit: disquiet akin to this Have I voiced in weakness, among trusted allies: “Thousands of