CvnHnge
Time: Moonrise, Mabon
Place: Bug City Diner, back porch
(Musie said bring Candy)
I was doing something else just a moment ago, something much more important than anything I’ve ever done here, something that felt precisely like what I was meant to be doing but somewhere else. I feel like I should be cleaning up and getting back to work. It’s that time of year. ‘Tis the season. I feel like I should be packing books into a satchel or wrapping them in a belt with an overstuffed folio of papers and rushing off, after carefully choosing sweater vest or cloak from the rack, across The Commons to instruct or learn–instruct and learn, always both. But I never became that professor and I don’t leave the office much these days, except for when I’m crowded out by commas or I have to go barf after reading a committee-writ memo full of sentences with verbs and objects but rarely a subject to take any responsibility for the verbs, which makes memos extra wordy and makes me dizzy and leaves me nauseated by all the circular and passive aggressive ad nauseam but reading them upside down and backwards often makes more sense and soothes the stomach again and if it doesn’t it can be folded into a bag.
A bag. I was carrying a bag, or emptying it, wherever I was a moment ago. I now feel like it’s time to get back to class, to get back to the real work. For some of my classes, such as The Moral Philosophy of Literature and Rock-N-Roll, I’d always be on time, early even, prepared and neatly dressed, usually in a white collared shirt (absolutely no button-down collars, but crisp white shirts with point or cutaway collars, sometimes an Oxford band collar) tucked into a broken-in pair of Levi’s 505 jeans, and impeccable shoes. If I were a professor I’d have the finest collection of shoes and art, and probably some sublime socks. I’m no cobbler so I’d shop for the shoes but I’d create and procure the art. I’d have an Oriental rug under my desk or under the place where I most often lecture, like a drummer. Things would probably be as they are now except the shoe collection would have more wing-tips in it, black, brown, reddish leather, some heavy brogue oxfords, cap toes, and a fresh, puffy, silent pair of Adidas Superstars for the terms when we’d cover the PUSA catalog, just to see if anyone is paying attention. I’d write Chris letters in code and invite him to guest-lecture sometimes, with his two-string of course. We could have class outside on the back porch so we could speak in full tones and tongues, clams and clouds, without confusing or distracting the other departments.
But for Literature and Ancient Literature/History (Man’s not even a half-grown infant yet and he uses the word “ancient” – HahaHa) I’d be consistently disheveled, wear more tweed and wrinkled, mismatched ensembles, often unrelated socks, and maybe even a button-down collared shirt, but without the buttons of course, in order to augment the dishevelment. I’d be late half the time and I’d always forget which works we should be covering because they’re all so damned good and they all overlap, like notes in a chord if you have any understanding of your own relationship to Time. If a student from my Philosophy class met another student from my Literature class they wouldn’t even guess that they’re speaking of the same professor unless one had both classes in the same semester, which I would never recommend, especially to anyone who does not know the definition of the English word “eternal” backwards and fore. But of course no one would ever speak of our class about Time because it would be unsanctioned as it is in our original language, true and sacred, and so it would be taught in a different secret location each time but in the basement of the library and on the observatory steps would be our favorite places, provided that we bring good tea and cakes and fine coffee in a thermos, preferably a large picnic thermos with a spout and one of those little red thumb-buttons that are ever so satisfying to push. Everyone should bring their own favorite coffee cup as outlined in the syllabus which would always be cached in its secret place behind the face of the most heretical clock on campus.
The leaves are flying. I feel like I should be dressing in a crisp white shirt today and jeans and my favorite wing-tips or my gray Superstars for an early stroll to class in the headphones while reviewing the day’s lessons. But alas I am here and I have a letter to write to my mother which is long overdue. Well, not that long, her birthday was yesterday and I had already promised her a letter. She knows I deliver. She’s known better than anyone, since before I arrived here, that I’m always late with the good stuff, the very best stuff, which makes it right on time. Mom said the best peaches come right off the tree and ain’t never even heard of a can.
But still, I wonder what it would be like to help remove peaches from tin cans and see them become what they were meant to become. It must be glorious to see a froggy leap out and dance for the first time… Or to see a spider step out of its dune buggy and discover its other six legs… What a wondrous thing it must be to be a teacher, a good one, like a freedom fighter armed with a concealed opener in a canning factory downtown. We’d free us some peaches and dance alright. We’d rock. If I were somewhence else I’d be heading off to class right about now with a hot cuppa coffee, a padded tactical gig-bag for Pitchfork on my shoulders, cargo pants for the extra pocket space, and a helmet to go rock some worlds but there’s always time for dancing later, as earlier, but right now, in this time, I have a letter at my desk and a fresh, heart-felt note of love to send ahead for the chords of another time.
Happy (belated) Birthday, Mom! We love you.
Blessed Mabon, Witchies. See you at the door.
Obi says nothing to see here, only Vandalism & Love & French Dressing. Ça plane pour moi.