folks, if this is you’re first time tuning in

Hello, readers.

This one time, in French, I had to write a poem. The poem I wrote was about the ant and the grasshopper. Do you know the story of the ant and the grasshopper? In the story, the ant stores up food for winter. Grasshopper does not. Grasshopper, in the story, dies. In my poem, this did not happen. In my poem, ant collected the food. And told Grasshopper he would be sorry. And then, though, a storm came, and washed away the ant hill, and killed all the ants, and the Grasshopper collected the food from the wreckage. Possibly, I said something like, “Sometimes things happen. They usually do.”

I don’t remember. What I remember is working really hard to think and write in French and enjoying writing something absurdist in French. When my professor handed the poem back to me, he wrote, in red pen, something along these lines:

Ceci comme le Colbert.

Which blew my mind. My French professor watched the Colbert Report! And he thought of it while reading a poem in French!

Which is all to say, Colbert said goodbye last night, and I thought of this poem, and that class, and the people around me at the time, that aren’t around me anymore. This is what always happens at the end of things. You start thinking about the beginning. And the middle. And everything in between. And you begin missing everything. It’s very Catcher in the Rye. Except with less pretending you got shot, or ducks. Really, very much, far fewer ducks.

Here’s a link because links.

Also. Well.

NIne years. That’s what we got. Where does the time go? Nowhere. Time stays still. We move through space. It’s science. Somewhere out there, this boy with a blog is, was, will be, twenty-five; in love; writing poems in French; and sitting on a living room futon, watching a very silly man be very silly. It was a blast.

On se reverra, je ne sais pas où, je ne sais pas quand,
Mais je sais qu’on se reverra, un jour ensoleillé.

See you in the future, readers.


all of our wars are belong to us

Hello, readers.

Thursday. Camera Obscura. Memories of being too excited to sleep before Christmas day. I had this radio beside my bed. Same model my dad had. Lot’s of soft, grey, squishy buttons. A few well-tuned sliders. On Christmas eve, when 8 hours felt like forever, and clearly the fastest way to get there was to fall asleep, but the terrifying prospect of joy ahead wired my eyes wide open, I would pop in a cassette tape into that clock radio. On the tape, there were stories of some kind. Seems like they were Christmas stories. Rudolph. Frosty. Christmas villages here and there, touched by magic, by hope, by men that might melt, and reindeer that might fly.

On Colbert’s last show before his last show, Phil Klay talked about his national book award winning book. Redeployment. In his interview, he said that the war in Iraq, that all of our wars, are belong to us. He maybe didn’t say it that way. But that’s what he meant. Even if you don’t pay attention. Especially if you pay attention.

Here is a website listing books discussed on Colbert.

What I remember about waking up on Christmas morning is silence. That moment when you open your eyes and outside your window there’s a maple tree and grass covered in frost. Soon, you’ll be up. You’ll be checking on your parents to see how sound they’re sleeping. You’ll be checking on the manner and shape of boxes arranged on the christmas skirt. But, really, the first thing you’ll do. The very first thing you’ll do is stay in bed, after all of that excitement and wonder if you’ll ever sleep, and you’ll enjoy the moment you woke up.

And then you’ll go wake up your sister.

That was my plan.

Happy Thursday, readers.