In a momentous turn of events, gentle reader, I found out from Di that World Market carries authentic White Rabbit candy. After I purchased my requisite two bags from the store, I proceeded to hand out pieces to Brand-o and Tim. Brand-o started chewing on his–correctly, I might add–and Tim promptly misunderstood the “edible wrapper” concept and took a bite out of the exterior paper wrapper.
I’m now on my fifteenth piece, you know, and I feel a trifle queasy. What a day! And tomorrow? Tomorrow will see the Dining Crew’s triumphant march into McDonald’s. And the day after that? I’m looking forward to supping with CEO Lisa. And this coming Friday? I will have penned my final final paper. Gosh, I love college.
Our neighborhood bookstore moved into a new building recently, gentle reader, and I thought of you while browsing its shelves today. I want to share this passage from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin with you. If you saw the atrocious movie, don’t let it deter you from reading the book, nor anything by de Bernières for that matter. Brownie points too for locating a copy with its original cover; there’s something about a glossy cover with Penelope Cruz and Nicholas Cage swapping spit that just seems unsettling.
You’ll find this paragraph on page 281–pagination is uniform despite the different covers, I believe–when Dr. Iannis advises Pelagia, his daughter, about love.
“And another thing,” so begins the doctor.
“Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because that is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don’t blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being “in love,” which any fool can do.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and it is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.”
Pretty interesting shiznit, don’t you think, dear reader? I also recommend that you read Senor Vivo and the Coca Lord, another fine yarn spun by the same author.
I write to you, gentle reader, at a very late hour, my mind filled with tiredness, my belly full of food from a midnight run to Omega Restaurant. As this school year draws to a close–a final close for me, please realize–tradition dictates that I wax metaphysical about friends, advice given, advice taken, opportunities lost, and chances seized.
I have thoughts on all of these things, but I won’t go into them now. It would simply take too long and it would bore you. Besides, it would be uncouth for a CEO of a major media powerhouse to drone on so.
Instead, I believe the tennis I played with Intan this past Thursday demands articulation. For me, the outing was a recent condensation of all things collegiate and passing: the weather, spectacular and crisp; the game, enjoyable and spontaneous; silly, impromptu grins all around. And when the 90 minutes passed, we agreed to one final round, five balls each. Ten balls probably shouldn’t have lasted very long, gentle reader, but sheer joie de vivre–tinged with that sad nostalgia popular for seniors at this time of the year–extended the round almost indefinitely.
The sun lowered and the wind grew more biting, but it didn’t matter. I hit a few, she hit a few, and we picked up balls that had dropped “conveniently” close by and not too near the net. Then the inevitable question arrived.
“Last ball?” she asked.
“Sure,” I answered.
The last ball turned into two, three, and the sun continued to set. And when the game finally ended, I left feeling exhilarated yet sad. The music hasn’t ended just yet, thankfully, and I think I shall savor the last few refrains fully and calmly.