Goddess of Weaving
Or maybe I was right to be scared. Maybe my parents only told me giant spiders weren’t real so that I would let my guard down.
Or maybe I was right to be scared. Maybe my parents only told me giant spiders weren’t real so that I would let my guard down.
I’d personify the pigeons that crowd onto the narrowest of ledges on the building across the street, their plumage flashing psychedelic green and pink.
I’m not allowed to comment on the items that patrons check out, so I try not to pay attention.
It is in the repetitive ritual of opening and closing the house each day—unrolling the broken shade by hand, wrestling with the deadbolt on the warped front door, seeing age—that I find inexplicable revelations.
So, in order to commemorate these tenth Gay Games, I have decided to pen my very own over-the-top, saccharinely sincere Pindaric ode. Let’s hope it’s not, well, terrible.
What I’ve keyed into is the difference between learning as a victim and learning as a perpetrator.
All I know about the donut scene in Champaign, Illinois, I owe to a man named Pete.
The people I know with whom I’ve recently played chess are similarly much better than me. When we play, I view it more as a self-esteem boost for them than a real contest.
“Sì sì sì sì,” he said. The letters had rearranged themselves in Italian. This is how we would communicate.
And then—after all that hectic activity—all I had to do was drive. For five hours. On the same road. Beside a repeating pattern of corn and soybeans.