It’s like an ink spill. A whole bottle of ink spills on some old white sheet and the optimist in you says, ‘wow, look at that new pattern.’ At some point later in the week or month or year, you realize your infatuation with the pattern isn’t a sign of its beauty. You put it in the wash, take it out, and realize that ink has in fact, fucked up the whole sheet.
Austin means warm winters, means that seasons aren’t distinguishable. They infest each other, graft onto each other’s decay. Fall rots into a sodden trail of grey highway horizons and road kill that bakes more slowly than usual.
She says tomorrow I quit smoking and she leans sideways against a white pillar, pressing her weight against it and playing with the loose splinters at the porch’s edge. I say Anne, you said that yesterday.
I’m writing about institutional shifts in culture when Dartmouth became coed in 1972. Specifically, I am interested in Dartmouth’s school song, which changed from “Men of Dartmouth” to “the Alma Mater” in 1988 to reflect the presence of women on campus. I have special permission by the Rauner staff to view original copies of both versions of the song. Two weeks ago, I made a historic discovery
If I were telling you the same old same old Dallas story maybe I’d talk about how the guys and I used to race to school every morning, not outta excitement but because we woke up a few minutes before the bell.
The corral is full of six month-old calves, shades of black and brown. They take turns lifting their tails and relieving themselves on each other, deciding that now, the only time of the day they don’t have access to thousands of acres of pastureland, is the time to defecate. The stench is overwhelming.