What are Smith and Crosby doing?
Has anyone ever wondered what exactly our teachers do when they are not teaching. I've heard very little of it and I would love to hear what you think.
Questions to ponder:
How does Smith have such big guns?
What's the deal with Crosby's social life and who is this coca-cola man?
posted by Spencer Z at 4:51 PM
4 Comments:
I think that Smith has big muscles from picking up her child and carrying home heavy freshman essays. Regarding the deal with my social life, let me just say that I deeply appreciate your concern, and when I get a social life, I will be sure and let you know.
9:14 PM
Crosby probably hides out in her house talking to her leaf blower and watching Commander-in-Chief. I don't have any doubts that her social life is nonexistent.
As for Smith, she probably works out with her superhuman Wonder Woman mother and plays secretly for the Minnesota Vikings.
5:46 PM
Talking to my leaf blower . . . hmmmm now there is an idea! I did use it the other day. FUN! And I do have a dog and no, I know of no 93-pound hippies. Interesting theories however!
10:53 PM
The Glevond Forest
The smooth rumbling noise of the occasional car zipping by reminds me that I am only footsteps away from returning to society. I feel my heartbeat quicken and a smile flirt with my lips at the prospect of this adventure. But always I feel the melancholy comfort of knowing that at any moment this could be over. Even as a small child, I, in some way, appreciate this duality.
My first bouncing steps into the Glevond Forest, as my sister and I call it, are ecstatic. Pine needles crunch softly beneath my feet. The sun splashes color over in pallet in the sky with beautiful hues of pink and oranges as shadows on the ground lengthen. There is a fresh smell here, the smell of nature, the crisp, natural smell that they can never quite bottle up, no matter how hard they try. I fill my lungs with it, carefully tasting each cool breath, and my body instantly releases all tension. A cool breeze, whistling and ruffling through the leaves reminds me that, even though there may be nobody around, I am not alone. As I sit, I run my hands through the thick carpet of pine needles covering the ground. They are soft but sharp, gentle but always reminding me of the harsh reality of life. I pick berries and apples, feeling their gentle springiness between my fingers. I collect a small pile of hard pine cones, the only currency I’ll ever need in this place. Occasionally, I take a bite from one of the little apples and taste the mild sweet and sour fruit wash over my tongue. I eat it not because it is delicious, but because I can, because it tastes real.
The trees make me feel small; they are as giants to my then tiny frame, and I look up at them with wonder, caressing the rough bark, staring as one does at someone whom they both fear and admire. A few large smooth rocks stick out of the ground covered in pale green moss. Running my hands over its contours, I take a seat on that favorite rock, and in that moment I feel connected. In this perfect little place, I am neither young nor old, foolish nor wise, cowardly nor courageous. For one brief moment in time, I just am. And I smile.
As I step back there today, I realize how… small it looks. Though this might have disappointed me, it does not, for it reminds me that somewhere, however buried it may be between that subtle mix of sagacity and cynicism that they call age, the capacity for wonder remains. Pine needles can still be a soft carpet; a patch of untouched land can be an adventure. Like Don Quixhote, I can see giants. As I walk around this small patch of land today, I smile again, for I will always see the giants.
8:13 PM
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