Metaphors are to Blame

June 10, 1997  Tuesday

When I got up this morning, I still had two more hours until class, so I sat down to continue taking notes on The Apology.  After that I took a shower, and just as yesterday the floor was deserted.  It seems that people (at least on my floor) pretty much keep to themselves, and listen to music in their rooms.

The English prof, his real name is Dr. Frazer, said this morning that in addition to segments of poetry, fiction, and drama, it will also be reading Shakespeare.  Cringing because of his possible choice, my small fear was not without reason; he said would would be “encountering” Macbeth.  I really didn’t like it when we read it in Mr. Bere’s English class less than three months ago, but at least I will know what it’s about (sort of).  Today we also discussed the use of metaphors and similes in poetry.  If you didn’t already know, a metaphor is something that takes on special meaning, and then almost represents that emotion, like roses for love.  Before, I didn’t know the exact wording to describe why I came here, but metaphor is a capable term.  That is what drew my back into the words just last week. That is what brought me to the still-visible ashes on the outcropping.  Ashes–it all works.  I laugh as I write.  That is what makes it so hard to hear songs I would like banned from my general area for the time being.  It’s even what happened when I pulled into the Brimfield parking lot when I returned my baseball uniform.  Heck, even the parking lot my car sat on had become a metaphor for me.  I couldn’t be around these things–and other ones–day in and day out for three months.  I suppose that is price the I pay for having a romantic eye.

We spent the entire hour of philosophy trying to define the word philosophy.  I guess I should have expected that.  There is someone in the class named Hiro, who is an RA on the fourth floor of Olsen.  He seems pretty neat, and a little strange.  After class, I walked to the kinda close Hy-Vee grocery to get some juice and other things.  I suppose I bought too much, and ended up having to slowly trudge all the way back to Corbin.  I’m not doing that everyday.  Probably one of the problems with my day is that it’s pretty much over by one in the afternoon.  Describing this place as “quiet” would be a gross understatement.  It’s sort of neat, and endearing in that way.  And I feel like I’m on an adventure nonetheless that I beat everyone else to, the first in my class to go to college.  I guess the best way to describe it is this: half school and half sleepy vacation resort.  And that’s not too bad.

P.S.–As I write this that girl came by again.  She said her name was Kerri when I confessed I had forgotten it.  I didn’t feel that bad, because she had forgotten mine as well.  It is now four o’clock with nothing to do and all night to do it.

P.P.S.– I met someone (Again I could not remember his name five seconds after he said it) from Nepal, who had been raised in a Catholic school and had been in America only a few days.  Somehow we got on the subject of the movie Dead Poet’s Society, and he told me a group from his school would also run away from their strict school in the night, with the letters “D.P.S.” painted on their foreheads to read poetry around a fire.  His friends who came with him from Nepal were now in New York.  I asked him to summarize America in one word.  I thought he would have said “big,” or “fast,” but he didn’t.  “Lonely,” he said.  I have met a handful of people, and they have been really nice to me.  That’s nice to have again.  Still, I haven’t found a “best friend” type person; just several good and/or associate friends.  Sometimes I feel alright, now, and other times I feel a little bit lonely too, but then I think of a verse of a Blues Traveler song, entitled “Just Wait.”

“I ask of you a very simple question
Did you think for one moment that you are alone
And is your suffering a privilege you share only
Or did you think that everyone find completely at home”

P.P.P.S–On my dresser is the picture frame that sat next to my computer all of last year, loaded with everyone’s pictures.  It’s funny, but it seems as if all those years I spent with these people was just a dream.  In the photos I see frozen, smiling Colin, Emma, Sidney and more.  And that’s probably how I will remember them, hopefully, just stuck that way.  It’s like our senior year is a distant memory, like it was a different lifetime.  It almost is.  It seems so long ago since I last saw Les Rose, balding brow and all, or Reagan Potts.  At least I have the bruises on my arm to remember her by. Just now my mind wondered, How is everybody getting along, huh? and I pictured Reagan in a dorm room, studying somewhere.  But no, I have to remind myself that everyone is still back home swimming, taking trips, or working away the summer.  Sporadically, I wonder how several people are fairing, but it never fails that my thoughts revert to Sidney.  Let’s see…  right now she is probably asleep, awaiting the return from Rome to the U.S. tomorrow.  Now that I think of it, they might not get back until late.  It may not matter if I can send e-mail yet.  I guess it will be at least a week before I hear from her.  Remember what I said once, back in February, about “memories changing into mist,” or something like that?  I hope that her voice and face will not soon begin to get hazy.

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