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.
Since I know it is theologically unsound to pray for my life to be comfortable, I find myself praying that Paul will be safe, promote justice, and stay out of the news.
She took photos because it was something she had to do, because creativity flowed out of her and became her way of life. Because she had something to say.
O teachers! my teachers! your fearful year’s begun.
