I'm back in Seattle, back in my apartment, and back in school, all of which I am more than thrilled about. I'll give the extended rundown of my classes another time; suffice it to say that all my professors are white men over the age of 60, that I adore each of them, but that I'll be doing more homework than ever before.
In honor of my return, a poem I rediscovered while unpacking:
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
September drags on slowly here. The weather has turned cold and miserable, and my summer friends have moved on to their fall homes. I'm stuck here at my parents' house cleaning my room and watching TV reruns.
I can't wait to move back to Seattle, with Sarah, Kathleen, and Bilbo. I can't wait to start school again. Summer has dragged on too long.
Please make way to allow me to drive my John Deere Gator full of ice around the fairgrounds. It is hot and the ice is melting, which makes my customers upset. No offense intended, but you are not my customer.
Please do not stop suddenly when you see me coming, then dart across my path at the last possible moment.
Please do not push your toddler in front of the Gator. I know you're trying to hustle him along, but it is a fact that small children walk slowly and unsteadily. It is also a fact that given a collision between a tractor and a toddler, the tractor wins. Every time.
Please do not touch or sit on the ice. It is a food product, and ends up in people's drinks. Think about where your hands have been. Would you drink that?
Please do not scream and run away. Honestly, I'm not trying to run you over.
Please do not interrupt my deliveries while the ice is melting in the back to ask me for directions. It's not a large fair; try looking around or asking at an information booth. If you insist on asking me questions, don't be upset when I don't know where they sell barbecue turkey legs or what time the next lumberjack show is. It's not my job to know this trivia.
Do not ask me to collect garbage. Not only is that not my job, I don't even work for the same company as the people who collect the garbage. And no, I will not go track down the garbage train to come pick it up, no matter how many bees are flying around the trash can. Relax and get out of my way.
And for the love of God, don't even think about yelling, "Ow, my toe!" as I drive past. It's not funny, not even the first time, and you are the fifteenth person this week to say it. Get a life. Try graduating from high school and getting the hell out of this podunk town.
