Eavesdropping

As I sat at an empty desk in the library, thinking about what I should write for my creative writing class, my mind touched briefly on dragons and sorcerers and evil villains, but I remembered that fantasy was never my thing.  I listened as the voices behind me discussed “critical numbers” and “the second derivative” and “relative minimum,” and I realized that I want to learn their language.  I imagined being able to speak that language—the things I could describe—things like infinity—

What can I do now to describe infinity?  I can say that infinity is the waterfall that goes off the edge of the earth, and where it falls.  It is the boy off to the side of the classroom that twiddles the pen between his fingers—back and forth, back and forth.  It’s the man coming back into his house from the mailbox, holding the letter from his son, reading and re-reading the name written on the envelope but paying closer attention to the handwriting.

It’s the math tutor that sits behind me that stops speaking that language for just a moment to talk to the student about his future.  He says, “What is your major?”  The student, not native to this country, doesn't have a major.  He’s thinking about business school.  The tutor says, “Let’s get you into business school.”  Then he goes back to talking about “plus or minus” and “critical numbers” and “x.”  

“Don’t erase that,” he says, “Write that down.  Write all that down.”

The Year That Autumn Lasted

I watched last year—
As winter left its icy mark—
And decided for the year to come
That autumn then
Would last

Quero Aprender Seu Falar

Quero aprender seu falar
Pra falar mais como você
Porque fala palavras diferentes
Que ninguém já falou

Quero aprender seu andar
Pra andar mais como você
Porque anda em lugares novos
Onde ninguém já pisou

Quero aprender seu sorrir
Pra sorrir mais com você
Porque sorri com um resplendor
Que nem o sol já brilhou

Quero aprender seu ser
Pra eu ser como você
Porque faz coisas maravilhosas
Que jamais alguém já fez




(Translation:

I want to learn your talk
To talk more like you
Because you say different words
That no one has ever said

I want to learn your walk
To walk more like you
Because you walk in new places
Where no one has ever stepped

I want to learn your smile
To smile more with you
Because you smile with a radiance
That not even the sun has shone

I want to learn your being
For me to be more like you
Because you do wonderful things
That never before has anyone done)

I Remember from the Top of the Stairs

I remember
From the top of the stairs
When I saw you there
Talking to my mother
About the science fair.

I remember
When we went that night
With my hair combed over
And my shoelaces tied
And I saw you from the hallway.

Then the year
The first of middle school
When you played trombone
And I played bassoon
And our moms took turns driving us there.

Then the day
In the afternoon
When I waited at your house
Before your soccer practice
And you showed me your brother's bedroom.

I remember
When you lost your mouse
And your mom was scared
But you were not
And we laughed till our throats were dry.

I remember
The year I didn't grow
But you were three inches taller
And your mother said
I should ask you on a date.

When we sat
At the top of your house
And you talked about
The shapes of the clouds
And I saw your hand was empty.

Then in March
Five weeks from prom
When I made that cake
Then I heard in math
You had just been asked by Daniel.

And the summer 

That I joined the team

And I had to spend

My Saturdays

Lying in the weight room.

Then the spring
During your family trip
When my parents had me sit
In the living room
And they cried when they told me.

I remember
On the fold-up chairs
And you were there
In the hospital room
When we practiced graduation.

I remember
At the flower store
When the words of the nurse
Repeated in my ears
That maybe you could hear me.

As I stood
Just inside of the door
And your mom hugged me
And your dad sadly smiled
And you laid there like an angel.

I remember
When they left the room
And your eyes were closed
And your hand was opened up
And I cried just like a baby.

Then the moment
When I wiped my tears
It was almost silent
Except for footsteps in the hall
And the soft sound of your breathing.

Then the day
It was sunny outside
And my hair was combed
And my black shoes tied
Your face was whiter than the casket.

When they laid
You in the ground
And our faces down
The dirt was soft and brown
And green hills were all around.

As I sit
At the top of my stairs
I remember
What we did those years
And my heart fills up with gratitude.

To The Place Where No One Has Been

There is a certain feel that transcends all that seems lowly and pale.  There is the elevator of the spirit that takes people up to a place where no person on the entire planet has ever before visited, and yet everyone can reach it.  No one has ever been there, and you can make it there every single day—to reach the skies that haven’t been walked, to sit on a star that hasn’t been touched, to walk across a new moon where the snow is freshly-laid and free of any footprints.  You can visit the bear’s den there, where the cubs are gently sleeping and you can go in quietly and sit down, and then lie at their side without them stirring.  You can climb the tallest tree in the forest and the eagles will come down to perch on the neighboring branches, and you can visit their nests and feel the warmth of their eggs.  You can swim to the bottom of the ocean and feel the warmth of the cracks in the earth where the floor is growing, and where the lava is constantly being cooled by the deep, dark blue—where the fishes' eyes glow and the squid are constantly escaping in the clouds of ink that dissipate into the blackness of the deep.

On the Harbor, Off the Bay

With the melting tide
The sun is changing like the reef
Horizon's window shade
Folds and swallows aged belief

September sailed in strong
Flagging signs of good ahead
September soon sailed on
Taking back its goods unsaid

The cunning half-lit moon
Seemed to speak new promises
Until the light of day
Revealed in fact its silences

With its half-born light
I could have sworn I heard it say
The sails it vowed to send
But now I see the light of day

Before nightfall, it's gone
Leaving naught but watery track
As the ship sails on
Reef now dams the passage back


Such white sails that came before
Reflected sweet the moon's soft glow
But while so nice it was to see them
Better it is to see them go

Thursday 12/16, 11:00 PM

I am writing an essay at the moment, but I just wanted to take a second to say that I LOVE WRITING. It doesn't make sense; I am doing something that I should be hating—I am at the library at 11:00 at night, re-writing the introduction to a 10-page research paper the entirety of which needs to be re-written. I am writing about an author I love, but of whose novels I have read none. The library closes at 2:00 in the morning. The paper is due tomorrow at 5:00, but I have a flight out of Utah to catch at 6:00, so I won’t be able to procrastinate to the last minute even if I wanted. I just completed the introduction (and by “completed” I mean that I said in my mind “Ok that’s enough for now”), and I have the glorious rest of the paper waiting in front me to be pieced together with white school glue and popsicle sticks—and I feel like I’m on ecstasy. I don’t understand why, but I honestly can’t get enough of it.

I should probably calm down. I think that good writers first need to get over writing about how wonderful they feel when they write before they can become good writers. It sucks to read about writing all the time. I bought a “Best Of” book of American essays from 2009, and a good third of them were written about writing. It was pathetic. Sure, they were good—most of them—but who wants to be reading about writing all the time? We know that you love writing. That’s why you’re a writer! Now tell us about something we don’t know. Tell us something interesting about the world we live in. Or at least articulate the things I already know but have never had the words to describe.

Okay, that’s been a good breather. It’s 11:06, and now I’ve got to plunge back into the ice-cold pool and get this done. But I just have to say, this is SO exhilarating!