No one believes it. I didn’t believe it, until I grabbed the bumper, tried to lift, and realized I didn’t even know how to grip the thing. I’m writing about an experience I still don’t fully understand, and the sharing of it is even more incomprehensible.
Even though I said last semester that I was going to cut all my extracurriculars to make time for some of my own projects, I didn’t actually manage to quit anything
The whole town’s milieu has changed from German trampers and the Asian tour bus multitudes to people who can’t seem to survive without a beanie on their head.
It’s fun and flirtatious, but even after a couple months of practice, I still haven’t gotten the Cuban motion, the foundational movement and feel of salsa, right.
Mondays & Wednesdays 3:30-4:30, and by appointment, my syllabus says. It’s as if I typed it in my blood, signing a pact with my students.
It is a story about power and colonialization, but also a story about bananas and our insatiable appetite for them, as many as twenty-seven pounds per person per year.
As I finished one lady said, “Me too.” The room felt warmer, somehow, after we had all spoken. Our teacher explained more about mindfulness, how it could help with stress.
“Do you recognize this man?” One of the officers held out a picture of Jack. His toothy smile was unmistakable, although I noticed, even in the low-quality mug shot, an unfamiliar wildfire in his eyes. I nodded.
It is that stillness I search for in the transcendental north. The quiet amidst the buzz of living that I haven’t discovered in the nooks and crannies of my own hum of days.
A friend confessed that she could easily pour all her money into eating at GR restaurants. Another, smiling wryly, said quickly: “I couldn’t. I’m not sure I have the wardrobe for it.”
