Apple Harvest Diatribes

I’ve been feeling low recently.

The last month or three.

I seem to have to sacrifice the things I want to do to make time for the recovery from things I’m made to do.

 I’ve somehow forgotten how to write when I have to rely on someone else’s expertise.  So much for my plan of being so well-versed in everything so as never to need to read specifically for a given paper.

I could follow in my father’s thumbprints;

As a boy, he read the encyclopedia.


I’m tired of school, tired of the sense of inferiority to my graduated contemporaries.

I miss Pai Lum.  I miss lifting weights.

I miss sleep.

Most of all I lament missing the seasons;

to me it is still summer, though a cool one, and the leaves await my emancipation to start their charge into my favorite period.

They’ll burst and shift only on the days I can walk in the dry cold; denim and flannel, seed-collecting satchel on hip, sneakers not boots; and each day the transmutation will be visible,

grass growing as if on speed,

so as to catch up with the chronological date, to catch me up to the where I should be instead of literal of where I am,

sitting inside,

at a computer,

half blinded by the sun,

only so close to nature as windows and potted plants afford.

I haven’t hiked in months. I haven’t camped in years.

House dust accumulates on my Thoreauian intents.

I promise myself that a master’s at thirty-two is more respectable than a bachelor’s at twenty-nine and that I’ll feel real once I have the latter. Or maybe a doctorate will be the counterirritant to my insecurity.

I shalln’t hold my breath.

Just as well, the lung scarring makes my chest tickle when I try and I’ve been told my child-like giggle is “cute.”

One shudders at the applied descriptor.

I went to the National Apple Harvest Festival Today.  I only got lost once:

on the way there,

and on the way back.

The in-between at the fair was fine.  Overcrowded but the weather was pleasant.  They’d run out of apple-fritter before I’d arrived. That made me sad.

I was reminded of the Moreauvian dangers of making men of beasts.

I’ve often mean-spiritedly marked to friends on the problems apparent in the interbreeding between my neighbors’ ancestors and their livestock, evident in the intelligence and demeanor of the latter in the bodies of the former.

People bump into me a lot.

They always do.

I willfully attribute this to my stealthiness rather than my stature.

I’d make a killing as a ninja, I’m sure of it.