Upon Waking Up

My earliest memories of Carly Henley date back to the blacktop of Marvista Elementary, when all the grades were let loose three times a day for the chaos of recess. She was a year younger than me, but her bright blonde hair is a light in the blur of my tunnel vision into childhood. We grew up together in the same community, playing the same sports, attending the same schools, hanging out at the same places until we became personally acquainted in high school, continuing the friendship beyond graduation, a mark of its genuineness. Carly became a valuable friend in the later part of my twenty-one years, and though I am deeply content and grateful for our history, I find myself wishing for more vignettes that include her standing in the foreground of my memories. 

I dreamt about Carly the other night, which isn’t a first, but it was the first time she was actually in it, and I woke up kicking my dream-self: Why didn’t I run up to her, hug her, push her around like I used to do? The dream version of Carly was dressed like the one I tangibly knew in a red zip-up sweatshirt with white drawstrings at the hood, the kind I envision her in whenever she comes to mind, and she comes to mind a lot these days. But Carly’s clothes aren’t the point, even though she loved that red sweatshirt. It’s what the clothing accents about Carly that remains freshly imprinted upon my waking mind: it’s the way her natural yet commercially perfect blonde hair shines golden against the apple red of her zip-up. That and her green eyes, the luminescence of her smile, and the way her blue jeans highlight the length of her legs. Needless to say, Carly Henley was the queen of first impressions, and lasting ones.

But when I talk about her, how bright her smile is, should it be how bright her smile was? I’m not always sure which tense to use these days: is it friend I had, or friend I have? I resist the connotations associated with the past tense; they speak of a distance and loneliness and fear that I pull away from. Yet the verb ‘have’ implies that Carly’s still mine to physically embrace, to throw my head back with as we laugh over nothing of great consequence, and ‘to have’ implies that I can still sit in her presence, which is a magnificent thing to consider. To think that we could sit across or besides each other, listening to our voices as we exchange questions, ideas, hopes, admirations, fears, absolute dislikes, random, unexpected facts, would-you-rathers, disconcerting secrets, lofty ambitions, frustrations, truths, wise sayings, encouragement… All pastimes now. The sheer wonder of the bygone reality that I could unconsciously reach out and touch her arm in mid conversation is now so grand a notion where it used to be thoughtless.

Whenever I’d make the drive down the curving hill in the direction of her house, I would always catch a glimpse of the shimmering surface of the Sound, a patch of sparkling blue between the green pines and rooftops. The dream was set at night, and cars were parked on the street outside Carly’s house, which sits on a corner minutes from Puget Sound, a salty inlet of the Pacific Ocean. We were at her house, just like the night of her memorial, same faces and semi-formal attire. Only her family and a handful of friends had gathered at her house following the service, and in my dream, like the actual night itself, we were kindly encouraged to start heading home, slowly but surely ushered out of the Henley home. It had been a long day, a long day for all involved. The weight Carly’s mom carried with her that day is unimaginable to me, as are the contradictions that had to have been constantly clanging within: the overwhelming disbelief that hits low and hard as you take in your surroundings and realize why the scene in front of you is happening.

I can think of no other feeling more devastating than hitting new bottoms with each realization that your beautiful and infectiously joyful daughter isn’t just out at a friend’s, that it is not only unlikely, but near impossible, that she will walk through the door you’re staring at. I say near impossible because the spirit needs the smallest of sparks to continue glowing so that it won’t be completely snuffed out, so all the poured out love, life lessons taught, hair braided, soccer games, tennis matches and concerts attended, conversations cherished, perspective shared, and the glorious time spent living and breathing together will retain their worth.
              I hesitate to write about how I would react as a mother who had so recently lost her daughter since I am neither a mother, nor do I have a daughter, but I do know one thing: I would prefer sharp and unexpected jolts of crushing, collapsing pain to that dreaded, aching throb of sorrow and numbness that crashes over and over and over again. At least when grief overtakes the body’s strength and one is reduced to an exhausted heap on the unvacuumed floor one has the reassurance that the well of tears will eventually run dry. But the ghosts of sorrow and shock are a perpetual ball and chain preventing any chance of feeling normalcy in the everydayness of life. When we do finally come up for air, it’s only to be forced below the surface again, to be submersed in confusion and anger and disbelief, and to wish the dark, unfathomable depths would swallow us whole.

Yet there we were in my dream, several of us old friends from high school leaving Carly’s house, meandering and talking as we shuffled to our cars, some of us stopping on the dashed yellow line in the middle of the road to finish our farewells, stories, and plans for getting together the next day. We all lingered beneath the night sky, dotted with stars dimmed by the waxing moon, a few nights shy of being full. None of us quite wanted to return home, so the car keys dangling from our hands were subtly pocketed one by one as we lingered in the street, chatting in twos or threes. Sensing that the night somehow wasn’t finished, or rather, that she wasn’t finished with the night, Carly, in her red sweatshirt and long, golden hair, outstretched her arms to the star-pocked sky and twirled around in circles, reveling in the brightness of the moon. With a smile bordering on mischievous and her undeniable laugh distinct in the quiet of the night, she beckoned us to do the same.

“C’mon guys. Why would you go home,” Carly scoffed. “We’ve got the whole night!”

Though we had started to head toward our cars, she had voiced our desires to stay together a while longer, maybe all night if need be, so we inevitably drifted to the middle of the street, where we huddled against the settling chill of an October night, reminiscent of that same October night we stood outside the Henley’s, in the vacant street, circled up for a short-lived silence, reminding me of Zoë Akins’s poem This Is My Hour:

“The dusk grows deeper, and on silver wings

The twilight flutters like a weary gull

Toward some sea-island, lost and beautiful,

Where a sea-syren sings.

‘This is my hour,’ you breathe with quiet lips;

And filled with beauty, dreaming and devout,

We sit in silence, while our thoughts go out –

Like treasure-seeking ships.”

And so we stood there with hunched shoulders, shrouded in wool jackets and pea coats, as our breaths vaporized in dragon-like puffs. We stood in the middle of that street simply because it was the right thing to do, it was good and much-needed to do nothing but stand in each others' presence. I forget how powerful presence can be. The dream ends there, but it speaks of a very real truth. I’m hungry for Carly’s presence, and the more I repeat those five words, the more I’m tempted to call her phone to hear her voicemail greeting. She doesn’t say anything particularly unique, but that’s just it: it’s Carly’s voice on the other end, no one else’s.

Within 24 hours of receiving the news that Carly had died, and in fact, had taken her own life, I sat down with someone who could do the talking, because I didn’t know how to. I don’t remember the conversation well except for the final question asked of me. As my wise friend posed the question, he gestured to the empty chair angled toward me, and then gently inquired.

“If Carly were sitting here, right there, what would you want to say to her?”

I had held it together fairly well until this point. The tears were hot and sudden, no more than three or four of them as I was determined to rein them in and repair the wall so nothing else could spill over. I didn’t get very far in my answer, but my answer’s the same now as it was then.

“I’d just want to have a conversation, a normal conversation. And I’d just want to know how she’s doing, and talk like we did the last time she was right in front of me. It would just start with, ‘How you doin’?’”

30 Nov 2010: Vahni Capildeo

The place of martyrdom.

Now that the last few weeks of the semester have kicked into gear, I am thinking back on the Oxford days when finals didn't involve Scantrons, #2 pencils or really uncomfortable chairs. Instead, they amounted to an oral presentation, where we presented the culmination of our entire term's work in front of fellow students, professors, and our individual tutors. Not only was my audience extremely intelligent, but there was no way I could B.S. a single ounce of information. Oh no... not when your audience includes people employed by Oxford University Press, are published writers, respected world-class scholars, men in tweed blazers who always maintain a raised eyebrow... you get the picture. (And lest you forget, these people have English accents, making them sound all the more dignified and brilliant.) As intimidating as this final presentation was, it was among the greatest final I've ever had to prepare for, if not the greatest I've endured. It took place in a creaky, old room a floor below the bell tower of St. Mary's Church, tucked away upstairs from the main sanctuary through a wooden door on heavy hinges, a narrow passageway, and several flights of sagging stairs. In other words, I was giving my final presentation at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. St. Mary's stands at the physical center of the city, marking the midpoint of when the old Roman walls were still intact and surrounded Oxford. It's quite the historic place.

The Old Library of the University Church of St. Mary's.

By the early 13th century (the 1200s) St. Mary's had become the seat of university government, academic disputation and awarded various degrees, yet still functioned as a parish church. It's also famous for being the place of trial where three Anglican bishops were tried for heresy, two of which were martyred... or burned at the stake. The cross in the above picture marks the place of martyrdom on Broad Street on 16 October 1554. It was a surreal moment to stand in the Old Library before tutors and fellow students to share my term's worth of knowledge with them, the thinkers and writers and curious people that I had come to deeply admire.

Vahni Capildeo.
At her own poetry reading in Trinidad.

Although our final presentations focused on our primary tutorials, there is no way I can mention my experience at Oxford without also mentioning Vahni Capildeo.  A Trinidad-born poet, lover of the spoken word, speaker of countless languages, and my tutor, Vahni truly redefined the way I approach and read poetry, no matter its author, literary era, structure, theme, rhyme, or lack thereof. My weekly assignments with Vahni often included close readings of a single poem, which I would read over and over and over, analyzing the poem down to the individual syllables within a single word of a single phrase within a single line within a single stanza, etc. As tedious and mindnumbingly dull this may appear to some (and I was skeptical of these so-called "close reading" too at first), I soon found this method of analyzing to be unbelievably enlightening, if not necessary to really pick apart a poem and discover how layered a poem's meaning truly can be. It's amazing what concentrating on a single syllable can reveal, or how the etymology of one word can completely change your perspective on the poem's entirety. To say the least, I am overwhelming indebted to Vahni Capildeo for her sheer brilliance and patience in putting up with a mediocre mind like mine. Her observations of effective writing are unparalleled. And once we got business/academics out of the way, she had a wicked sense of humor. By wicked, I mean both exceptionally cool and unexpectedly offbeat. She always surprised me with the way she caught my attention: after making several scholarly and analytical statements, said in a serious tone with a serious expression as I just nodded and tried to keep up, she'd make some offhand remark about Victorian sexuality and how thankful she is that she doesn't have to act the part. Hah! She'd then go into detail about the subject of Victorian sexuality, providing plenty of examples regarding proper Victorian sexual behavior. The best was when she would realize how serious she was talking about Victorian sexuality, and she'd glance at me to see my reaction to all she was describing, and we'd both just smile, and I'd kind of laugh because some of the things she mentioned (which I won't) were just HILARIOUS and we both knew it. After we got the awkwardness/laughter off my chest, she'd look at me and say, "But really Kelly, I'm serious," which made me want to laugh all the more. Which made me respect her all the more for having such a depth of knowledge of all things Victorian.

One of the highlights of studying under Vahni was her passion to close the books and learn through firsthand exposure to history and art itself. Although it was required that we only have five official tutorials together (since she was my secondary tutor), we both agreed to meet for a sixth time simply because we could. She suggested we explore the renovated, newly opened Ashmolean Museum, which started as a small collection of paintings and portraits in the 1620s and quickly grew to be one of Britain's most respected and prized museums today. The Ashmolean was completely redesigned and reconstructed inside, with the addition of a swanky, rooftop restaurant that served some, if not the, best roasted vegetables I've ever had. Needless to say, the reopening of the Ashmolean was a big deal. How do I know this? Look who decided to don a hat and show up...

Yes, HRM the Queen of England herself. Oh boy. On 02 December 2009, at the very tail end of my term, Queen Elizabeth II visited Oxford specifically to celebrate the new Ashmolean. Notice the black glove she wears to shake people's hand. She kills me. Although I didn't visit the museum on the same day as HRM, it was still amazing to walk through the artistry of each exhibit. It was particularly exciting to have Vahni as my personal tour guide, an expert in literature and art history. (What doesn't she do, really?) Vahni could identify the people in each painting, the artist (whether notable or obscure), the era of art, and knew the artists' biographies, inspirations, and styles, and explained to me the significance of a tuft of color on so-and-so's clothing. (I generally just listened to her commentary rather than ask questions since, by this point, I knew that even if I could manage to say something semi-intelligent, it would pale in comparison to Vahni's next thought.) We moved through the galleries rather fast since she had a train to catch, and as we parted ways outside the Ashmolean for the final time, we quickly embraced, knowing this was probably it. I think about her often, wondering what she would have to say about my writing now, the poems that've caught my eye, and what project she's currently working on. I can still hear her voice in Hertford's common room, glowing in the dim light of sconces and firelight, reading and rereading "The Lady of Shallot" or Gerard Manley Hopkins aloud, letting the words linger in the air, magically articulating the meaning of each poem through the power of the spoken word.

Oxford's Ashmolean Museum. On Beaumont and St. Giles St.

28 Nov. 2010: Port Meadow

 

Although I've been outside the borders of the U.S. several times, from Canada, the Caribbean and Prague's Old Square to the coastlines of Ireland and Italy, no city has captured my attention quite like Oxford. I'm aware that this is a biased claim to make since I've spent more time in Oxford alone than all of the above combined, but there is something completely unique about it. No other place can reproduce or emulate the character and quality of Oxford, and it's difficult to explain exactly why unless you've wandered the alleys, streets or river paths yourself. When I wasn't holed up in the third floor stacks of the Bodleian Library, ferociously typing away, or escaping to the pubs after mental exhaustion, there was nothing better than slipping on my Brooks and going for a run along the Thames (as seen above). When I first heard that the Thames River (pronounced temz) ran through Oxford, it took me a few days to realize that the gently flowing waters I ran next to were actually the same as the grand Thames of London, which is much wider, making the Thames of Oxford look like a trickle in comparison. Though Oxford's Thames, also called the River Isis, is much smaller in scale, I'd argue it's much more impressive than its London counterpart. As gorgeous as London is by night, when the city's lights are mirrored on its dark surface, the urban Thames lacks the vivid natural expanse that Oxford's banks provide. I've walked the banks of London's Thames, in daylight and dusk, passing the Tower Bridge, Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, and watching the looming spindle of the Tower of London cast its history over the cityscape, and yet I can't help but think how sad and unappealing the city's Thames is. There's no green color brightening its shore or slender, polished riverboats tied to its banks, no swans gliding its surface, tree branches reaching over its waters, old men smoking pipes, fishermen casting their lines in the gentle current, small footbridges to cross, or best of all, Port Meadow (below).
 

I'll never forget the moment I first ran west along Oxford's Thames, when I turned off the pavement of Botley Road and heard the crunch of gravel beneath my Brooks as I ducked beneath a willow to start a new route. At any given point in my run, as I gulped in the crisp air, I could see about fifty feet ahead of me, although there were plenty of blind corners, unforeseen turns, and narrow, one-person wooden bridges. I had no idea how far this path went, so I decided to run as far away from the reading and writing that awaited me at my flat. Anything but more deep thought and comprehension and contemplation and confinement. I needed freedom, nature, wind, space, sky above; I craved it. It was thrilling to be running out of breath, to have no idea where I was headed, to pass rickety house boats built with plywood and painted like a patchwork quilt, to peer inside cozy, floating homes of artists and eccentrics, to get a glimpse into the life of these wandering, river people. Candlelight would often flicker against the boat's walls as bikes precariously rested on deck. Bottles and vases lined window ledges, music drifted out of open doors, occasional bits of conversation could be heard. I was lost in thought, really wanting to befriend one of these older, wandering people who called this kind of floating plywood home, when the thick woods and brambles that bordered the other side of the path started to thin. The dense woods began to look different, alluding to the wide open space I hoped for after days inside. I watched my feet rhythmically hit the gravel, hearing its faint crunch beneath me, as Coldplay sang on, drowning out any thought I tried to hold onto. And then my heart s.t.o.p.p.e.d. For the first split second, terror coursed through my veins, because something large and alive and stunning was blocking my path. I stopped dead in my tracks, for this beautiful, white creature was waiting for me around a hairpin turn.

After I regained my sanity and realized this was not a bear or enormous dog or beast of my nightmares, I put Coldplay on pause. I was no more than five feet away from this beauty before I realized he was even standing there, grazing away. And he wasn't alone. There was his GIANT friend, seven feet tall to his shoulder alone, shaking his mane, and down the path a few more feet, even more friends. In shades of pure black, white, brown... some seemed friendly, others annoyed by my sudden presence, but most were disinterested. It was then, and only then, standing there in awe of this magical white horse, did I realize what lay before me: Port Meadow. A gorgeous, green expanse of pasture, where horses and cows dotted the bumpy terrain, grazing alongside each other and the Thames' muddy banks. And so I stood there, completely alone, catching my breath, in disbelief of such surreal surroundings that were mine to soak in... To be running along a gravel path, the Thames on one side, dense woods on the other, and to be so unexpectedly hit (almost literally) by the presence of this magical white horse, who, like I, paused what he was doing to take me in. We just stared at each other, his glossy brown eyes reflecting branches and green grass, unblinking for a moment. I know it was just a horse, whose main concern is gorging himself on greens and running free around the meadow, but there was something undeniably unique about him. I guess it was the fact that it wouldn't have surprised me in the least bit if he started talking. I almost expected that he would. And then to look up and discover I was in the midst of farm animal heaven: quacking ducks, grazing geese, lazy cows and a herd of horses in all shapes, sizes and colors, meandering in the endless meadow. How was I the only one witnessing this? Did I really witness this? To this day, I'm convinced I've found a way into Narnia. Or at the very least, I got a glimpse of the outskirts of Heaven.

23 Nov 2010: The Big Bang

Got a pen and paper, or a Sharpie and the palm of your hand? Good. Here is an address you'll want to jot down: 124 Walton Street, Jericho, Oxford OX2 6A. This place has more than just a little sentimental value, for it's where I spent one of my last mornings in Oxford sharing an incredible, slow-going breakfast with my flatmate Antonio. All term long, we had been talking about experiencing The Big Bang for ourselves, and since it specialized in gourmet bangers and mash (sausage and mashed potatoes), we knew we couldn't leave the isle of Britain without a visit to this gem. Take a stroll down Little Clarendon street, right off of Woodstock/St. Giles in the city center, and you'll find yourself in the quaint neighborhood slash restaurant quarter of Jericho. Thanks to the boutiques, cozy corner cafés, independent bookshops, and small groceries that line Walton Street, it has a bit of that Notting Hill morning market feeling since it really picks up on weekend mornings. From the coffee-craving mum-and-dad show with kids in tow to the snuggling, touchy collegiate couple who want nothing more than a glass of freshly squeezed oj to sip as they gaze into each others' eyes, Walton Street's the place to be on a Saturday morn. Just a bit further down, where Walton meets up with Little Clarendon, you'll find the Oxford University Press, or as I like to call it, the brains of the entire world, upon which our intellectual and literary future seems to rest. If you work for or are published by the OUP, consider your life complete. Right next door to the OUP is an absolute treasure, particularly for those (like myself) who get intoxicated by the smell of books, ecstatic at the sight of densely packed bookshelves, and desire nothing more than a red armchair, a steaming cuppa, and a good read. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you The Albion Beatnik Bookshop.

The name alone exudes how cool this nook is. After browsing the poetry section for a bit, whose selection of American and British writers was impressive, the owner and I started chatting. He asked me why I was interested in American poetry when I had come across an ocean and was smack dab in a world-class city that embodied the best of English thought and writing. Point taken cheeky fellow, point taken. Nevertheless, I had already settled on a collection of Robert Frost. Really looking forward to revisiting this gem to browse the American poets to see what he'll say this time around. But I've got to hand it to the owner: he really knows his stuff. His selection of material is eclectic yet thorough, from creative, entertaining-based print to the classical, serious stuff. Whether you're a born-and-raised Oxfordian or a gawking tourist with the Nikon strapped on, Albion Beatnik is worth a good browse, followed by a late breakfast at Big Bang. As Antonio and I discovered, the organic ingredients of the bangers and mash are carefully paired to compliment each other, and no choice on the menu is a let down. The sausages are locally sourced from farmers and artisans whose passion it is to create a surprising array of dishes with unexpected twists. Moroccan lamb sausage, definitely on the spicy side, and vegetarian sausage, to rose-infused mashed potatoes with bright purple cabbage on the side. I had the Basil & Vine sausages, served over their rose mash... SO good. Antonio and I stopped in a bit late on the breakfast side of the day, but they graciously served us, and with French accents no less. By the time we had finished, they had closed for the afternoon to turn the place around for dinner, but they told us to take our time and asked if they could whip us up some more espresso, which is insanely strong French espresso. In the meantime, I have to shake myself from further reminiscing and finish my senior paper. Dear Azusa, I cannot wait to leave your concrete jungle for blustery winter weather and cobblestoned streets...

When goodbye really means hello...

A year ago. Say those three words and my mind begins to go into tunnel vision mode. I am falling back 365 days to this day in the year two-thousand-and-nine, when I found myself traveling with an unlikely group of people: Betsy, Joe, Katie and the affable Mr. Robert Parks. I met these four incredible, eccentric, unforgettable individuals in Oxford, England, where we all were studying various subjects at various colleges, yet through the same study abroad programme. And so, after three weeks of strolling on cobblestoned streets beneath crisp September skies, and weaving down twisting lanes and unlit alleyways to meet for pints (from The Bear to Turf to The White House), we found ourselves planning a trip to Ireland, to all of Ireland (practically all of Ireland).

A year ago. Three words that propel me back to rich accents, the abundance of Gaelic spoken in Cork, the harbor town of Kinsale with its remaining Roman streets, the hostels and Temple Bar district of Dublin, the history of Bloody Sunday as we meandered the streets and maiden walls of Derry, industrious Belfast, Carrick-a-rede Bridge, Dunluce Castle, Giants' Causeway and the misty morning spent climbing the pastoral foothills to reach Celtic ruins more ancient than the pyramids of Egypt... and that's just the tip of the iceberg. So as I'm making my way to class last Friday morning in temperatures nearing the triple digits (yuck!), I couldn't help but reminisce, for the landscape and people of Ireland and greater Los Angeles couldn't contrast more. I've come to realize lately that Ireland, particularly Oxford, redefined what I would call "home." My sense of home is less certain than it's ever been before, and yet, I am surprised by the joy and reassurance I find in that statement. There's an element of even greater things to come in not knowing where I will find myself next, and it is in this mindset that I received an e-mail from the one and only Deepak Mukhi, the director of the Oxford Programme in Oxford. Deepak was replying to my flatmate Antonio's e-mail regarding a lost parcel (package) from ages ago, and to my last postcard. Needless to say, as I'm pondering where I'm headed when college is all said and done, this gloriously falls into my Inbox. Deepak may or may not have brought tears of unbelievable joy to my sleep-deprived eyes when they scanned this gem. And so, with no further ado, read on...


Greetings Antonio,
...But I was rather looking forward to seeing you here together with the others. Had a nice post card from Kelly the other day so I'm copying her, thank you Kelly! Why don't we get together for a meal or something? In fact, and this is a rare offer, 107 will be free for a bit in December so if it fitted in with your collective plans why don't I invite you all to use it for a week either just before or just after Christmas? I'm sure you would take good care of it and keep it ready for the new lot arriving early January.  Think about it and let me know!
Trust you are all well and in good spirits.
Deepak

Antonio (flatmate), Mr. Deepak Mukhi, Diana, Justin (flatmate)

Yes. I have officially been extended an invitation to spend a week back in my old Oxford flat, 107 Botley, along with my three old flatmates. (a;lsdfj;alksdjf;a!@$ASDFa;lksdfj;[]\) Little excited, just a little. Who knows who'll turn up, all I know is I finally have a place where I'm headed, and that place is home. The place where life was so full in countless ways. Where I'll wrap myself in scarves, shove my feet into red wellies, walk with my head down against the winter wind as I cross the river Thames, one foot in front of the other, until those spires come into sight. Ah, life is abundantly good. SO deeply, satisfyingly good.

You know you've been at the library too long when...

[This might just be the most pathetic thing you'll read...]

1. You resort to Photobooth for a distraction.
2. You no longer worry about the looks you're getting from the intelligent-looking girl on your left as you're taking Photobooth pictures. See below.**
3. You start making playlists in your iTunes for at least five different people simultaneously.
4. You dribble Earl Grey tea on your brand new laptop and shrug it off.
5. The most brilliant idea you have is to blog. And the best you can do is write about being bored out of your mind.
6. The desire to just throw your papers in the air and dance on everyone's desk is tempting.
7. You start humming to the song playing on iTunes just to get a rise out of someone nearby... to no avail.
8. Everything is suddenly funny... like the guy that just walked by who looked like a young, long-haired version of Dwight Shrewt.
9. You wonder what the college cat Simpkins is doing at the moment... curled up in the Porter's Lodge? Getting a catnip treat? Exiting the college through his personal door in the main door? Hmm...
10. You consider leaving all your belongings in the library for a pint of Oxford Gold at Turf. Or when hanging out with Simpkins sounds pretty promising.

**You can vote for your favorite photo in the 'Desperation' series by visiting: savekellyssanity.com. Votes must be cast before she pours the remainder of her Earl Grey tea over her keyboard. 

I told the librarian I needed to read some Gerard Butler. So he searched for him... Gerard Butler's that buff, shirtless Scottish actor from 300.

You and me. We're a lot alike. Here's why... you probably haven't heard of a man by the name of Gerard Manley Hopkins until now. So when my tutor, Vahni Capildeo [a brilliant Trinidad-born poet and Rhodes scholar] assigned me an essay on how Hopkins's poetry and prose manifests voice, I said, "Sure." In my head, I was thinking something along the lines of "What the ____." I'll leave it up to you to fill in the blank. But after reading Hopkins's works and doing some reading on his background, it occurred to me that this Hopkins guy is brilliant. We've all had to skim some Robert Frost in high school, or read Whitman's "O Captain, My Captain" in history [it's about Lincoln's assassination], but this Hopkins fellow was completely new to me. When I think poetry, I have a tendency to think "Grrreat. Emo stuff. Red roses. Yuck." Meet Gerard Manley Butler: the most refreshing, intelligent, honest poet I've come across while being 'forced' into reading him. I feel I owe him an apology for writing him off as another sentimental poet, and think he's one man worth knowing. Before he wrote his poetry, he traced the origin of almost every word he would use, which can be easily overlooked, since (a) words like 'sillion' and 'vermilion' aren't commonly used and (b) who really takes the time to understand the history or connections of such words? Answer: not me. So when I had to take a closer look at his works, I was blown away. Not only do the words 'sillion' and 'vermilion' rhyme, but their original definitions parallel each other. Sillion = an arable plot of land. Vermilion = a brilliant red color. Yet 'vermilion' comes from the Latin word vermis, meaning 'worm.' Thus, 'vermilion' and 'sillion' rhyme, but it's much deeper than that. So in case you've been wondering what I study for hours on end, it's the abstract details of random writing that actually matters much more than I realized, like the Latin word for 'worm.' Now that I've completely succeeded at sounding like I have no life outside of studies, I'll leave you with this little gem of Gerard's to satisfy your poetic craving.

THE WINDHOVER

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-

dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his

riding

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

As as skate's heel sweeps smooth on bow-bend: the hurl and

gliding

Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird, -- the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

Buckle! and the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous. O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.