The Sonnet that Says it All

June 12, 1997 Thursday

Before I go to philosophy, I will tell you about my about my day so far.  It is a gray day, and is even more quiet than usual (is if such a thing is possible).  In English we used the theme song to Gilligan’s Island for an example of ballad metre.  Afterwards, I came back here to my room to call Sidney.  I told her about college, and she said a few things about Europe, when I pried it out.  They lost the first day of the trip when, because of storms in Philadelhia, they had to turn back to Pittsburgh.  Anyway, she said some older French guy told her her liked her smile and wanted to go back to American with her.  Sheesh.  After that there was really nothing to talk about.  I wanted to make her think I’m great, of course, so I told her some people had just come by, and we were going to eat before class .  It was the first lie I ever told her.  Though I guess she sort of told one too, when she said, “Talk to you later.”

My poetry book fell to this sonnet this afternoon, and thought it apt enough to stand in for my inadequte writings:

Time does not bring relief; and you have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain
I miss her in the weeping of the rain;
I want her in the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,–so with her memory they brim
And entering with some quiet place
Where never fell her foot or shone her face
I say, “There is no memory of her here!”
And so stricken, so remembering her.

Now that the rain has stopped and the skies have cleared, it’s a pretty nice day.  Tonight I need to finish my work on Plato’s Apology so I can give my essay to Davenport tomorrow.  Before I continue, I have to back it put an hour.  You see, Lisa is a girl that works the at the information desk in the lobby, and she is extremely nice.  Anyway, I was about to go to class, and somehow we got at the subject of what we want to be, and I said I might want to be a writer.  As I said that, I remembered a had a copy of a poem I’d written in my bag, so I gave it to her.  When I got back at one, she was already gone, but she put the story in my mailbox along with a note.  The note said:

Will–

Great poem!  You will make an excellent writer!  Have a good weekend at home!  I’ll be working Saturday from 9-1 so come down and visit with me!

Love, Lisa

That was nice of her.  So far I have a small group of friends.  There’s Hiro from Tokyo, my roommate the football player Mark, and Kerri, and then their friends, and then of course the Nepal guy I see around the floor, who lives on the far end of the hall from me.  I saw him again in the social lounge last night, watching the Bulls game alone; I remembered how I had felt watching it alone, so I told him my room number, and to drop by any time if he wanted to do something.  Tomorrow around 6:30 Mom is coming to pick me up.  I has been a good week, all things considered; I have slightly suppressed my thoughts of Sidney, yet I still can’t forget.  Truly, I don’t think I ever will.  Usually people wish for things that are out of their reach and can’t have.  They wish because it’s all they can do.

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Fragments Two

June 16, 1997  Monday

Friday was an historic day for the Chicago Cubs.  They played their first interleague game ever, against the Milwaukee Brewers.  The American League must not understand non-DH strategy or logic.  For example, the Brewers had their pitcher hitting in the number three spot!

Friday afternoon I also had another long conversation with Kerri in the lounge.  Over the course, of, well, quite a while, I have finally related almost all of my own twists and turns. She also has someone she is trying to forget, but Alaska (where he is stationed) is a lot further away than Fullbright Estates.  I hope she finds someone so she can be happy.

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