by Brendan Cavanagh
I didn't have time today to sit down and write a cohesive post of appropriate length, so here's a collection of things I'm thinking right now.
I had to make a five-minute presentation about my progression through any childhood, cognitive theorist's theoretic stages of development. Basically an excuse to show five minutes of baby pictures and cute c0lLeGe pix. I hastily assembled the video at the last minute, and added some music to the beginning to make it more dramatic. Needless to say, it went well. Nobody knew I was the sibling of triplets, so that portion of the video got a lot of attention. Nice! Easy-A. But anyway, looking through my childhood pictures, I just felt so old. My innocent, childhood self even looked different than me. I felt like a corrupted, distorted version of that boy. Not that I hate myself or anything, but I guess I just can't fathom the amount of significant change that has taken place in my life since then. I mean, we have iPods and cell phones that are ten times smaller than Zach Morris'. Our President is an African American! Look how far we've come.
Speaking of Saved By the Bell...let's talk about that. You know, when I first started watching it, in junior high, I despised it wholeheartedly, but watched it every day before school for an hour anyway because it was the only sitcom on at six or seven in the morning. Over time, as I watched it for several years in a row before school each morning, I grew to appreciate its ridiculousness, like the time senior year when Zach tried to prevent a frantic Jessie from popping caffeine pills before the big video shoot.
I already appreciated the Joker playing card before The Dark Knight came out.
More saved By the Bell...check out this parody, about A.C. Slater's life after Bayside High.
I'm sad that my poetry class is over for the year. It really kept me motivated in writing poetry, and I felt like I was expressing myself more articulately and artfully than I had in a long while. I want to keep writing poetry and honing my skill. Here's one that I've written that I'm proud of:
Lady Rose
Again incapable of speech I watch
as across the windswept street
shuffles the nerve-wracked Lady Rose
bearing and untidy assortment of empty letters
the black ink bleeding upon faded-yellow sheets
reminiscent of the wrought-iron gate impaling
a pool of fallen leaves outside
her isolated mansion existence.
She wouldn't let you know it
I know it
after many years of keen observation
from my post along the wide window
at the corner coffee-house
beside the post office
but she once lived a life of luxury
as evidenced by the floral French fragrance
stemming from the neck of her beaten frame
and which wafts to where I sit still speechless
at the cafe's only outside table
in the first merciful days of April.
After her husband passed
hardly any of her ample inheritance
could save her home, like her countenance
from wilting into sun-dried disrepair.
I was there.
I watched detached as always
while her husbands life spilled out
in silent streams from his thick neck
as he mouthed helplessly
"Rose...Rose."
I knew then that I could make my lady happy thereafter.
Each subsequent Friday afternoon
she passes my post to deliver her post
where I sit still and aware, always aware
that I'll never be able to reveal
my unspoken deed of unrequited passion
forever doomed to murmur weakly
"Rose...Rose."
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