Hi, people. So, I did a lot of walking today. About 5 or 6 hours to be not that precise, which is a lot for a big, out-of-shape man. So, this’ll be a condensed multi-media post. Basically, I walked with my class to the University of Cambridge’s library, which is a legal deposit library, which means that it has every book published in the UK since God knows when, which means there are millions of books in this humongous, premier research library. And I get to use for 5 weeks on a research assignment. Pretty dope. Second, I walked in the rain to the Cambridge Botanical Gardens and while the weather wasn’t great, the flowers, smells, and pictures of the flowers were pretty grand. I’ll attach them to the end for your viewing. Third, I went to the King’s College Chapel to witness an Evensong service, which is where the King’s College choir sings throughout most of the religious service in an ancient, beautiful Gothic cathedral. It was excellent, and they were one of the best choirs I’ve ever heard in my life. That smooth of a blend in such grand acoustics was honestly a bit transcendent. I wasn’t allowed to take photos of inside the chapel unfortunately but there’s an outside pic. Lastly, I’ll leave you with a poem of a (Florida) beach I wrote previously, which isn’t ideal for new content but hey, it’s never been published and I’m tired. Peace out, scouts.
Beach, his or her own
There the children stand in the sea with
beers, kids of their own, the past fifteen years:
a blur of waking, working, chasing Billy away from jumping in polluted puddles, and
whatever had to be done in the blazing sun
to get through the day.
Old sweaty wrinkled children
Dull eyes and cracked lips on tan creases
chatter chatter chatter chatter
amidst the waves and weathered boulders,
homes and memories built on sand.
They want the ice cream that snaked sticky lines down their arm,
the flinging of time’s grains from their stomping feet as they ran and played catch,
the green cool aloe rubbed on their inflamed, painful, tight, dried watermelon-red skin,
the ocean being endless, horizonless, ageless,
everything in front of them.
The chair rails are encased with sand leaning on the yellowed white stucco wall
while the twins trail sand everywhere throughout the condo rented for $8000 a week and Cheri won’t stop e-mailing about the contracts and meetings and deadlines they all ran away from and Mom is in the hospice wanting a visit because they don’t know when she’ll pass and
The old man stares at the ocean
in his glass as he leaves a $20 on the bartop,
waiting for the river of bikes, children corralling wildlings, dogs, carts, pedestrians to part and flood him with measurement:
two worlds tethered by salt water and piers
and the time lost,
buried under sand.