Archives: February 26-March 4, 2006
February 26, 2006
We're a mess of tangled limbs, throbbing against one another. We've grown intertwined enough so it's impossible to tell whose sweat clings to either one of us at any of our parts. We breathe the same air, mouth to mouth, tongues colliding.
We're naked, but not making love. Though I writhe against her, I'm not inside her—at least not there. Our hands grow lost in one another and we move with such perfect coordination.
It's only then that I think of Emma.
And I look at my lover's face. Somehow, Veronica's hair shines, and she smiles just the way she did on stage.
I wake up. Emma's already awake and smiling at me, her blond hair spread all across her pillow. “Someone was having a nice dream,” she whispers.
“Oh?”
“Yeah—you moaned. And look,” she touches my forehead. “You're all sweaty.”
“I don't really remember what I was dreaming about,” I lie.
Emma slides her hand down my body, beneath the covers, and kisses me wetly. “Maybe I can remind you.”
February 27, 2006
Over the weekend, Alan Chilling stepped down as SA president and Larry Schmidt stepped down as the Editor in Chief of The Window. There was a very bare bones memo about Alan in every SA organizations mailbox. Larry left his letter of resignation in the newspaper office, where Sam found it this morning. I left phone and e-mail messages with each of them, looking for comments for my article. I can't say that I honestly expect either of them to get back to me.
We'll have no shortage of news this week, with the story that Larry didn't let us run last week, in addition to the news of the resignations, and whatever we get from the college police, we have material for pages upon pages of this story.
“The beauty of a story like this is that it spawns more stories,” Sam says, setting his feet up on his desk as we sit in the office. “We run the story this week. Next week we run a story about reactions from the student body. The next week we should have a story about the MTO's budget being reinstated. Then an article about the new SA president. Not to mention articles on whatever kind of legal action comes against the schmucks for what they did.”
“And lemme guess,” I say, “You'll have me doing legwork for all these stories.”
“You wanted bigger stories.” Sam smirks. “Besides, this is your beat, Presto.”
“I guess so.” I check my watch. “Speaking of which, it's about time for me to meet with Sal Rodriguez and get his thoughts on paper.”
“Don't waste too much time with him now. He'll have his front page story in a week or two. For now, all you need is a sound byte.”
February 28, 2006
“It's not a socialist message, though,” Nick says, sitting in our circle in Professor Jones's classroom. “She dreams about making a decent income because she's a great prostitute. She retains that capitalist drive—to out-compete everyone else and thrive.”
“But she says she wants for everyone to have their own niche, and be successful there,” Dave fires back. Of course he didn't do the reading, but in explaining this passage to him, I emphasized that the character saw all people having their own roles. The socialist reading is his own deduction, though. “So she's just seeing prostitution as her area of expertise. It doesn't say anything against other prostitutes, or people in other lines of work—just she wants for them all to provide their own services and all thrive. That's the backbone of socialism.”
“So if we go with the perspective of Natalie as socialist, where does the policeman factor in?” Jones asks, leaning back in his chair in our circle.
“He's just a tool of the man, tryin' to keep her down,” Dave says to some chuckles.
“He only reinforces her perspective,” I say, putting the pieces together and running with it. “Because as he's reprimanding her, she observes that he has his own role, and that he's just trying to provide his own service by stopping her—so they're just making different choices about how they serve the greater good.”
“‘A man's choices define his world.'” the professor intones. “Perhaps the same goes for a woman. And that's a good note for us to end on. We'll pick up on that line of thought next time. Remember, there's no reading for next class but your papers are due. I expect for you to spend the time you would have spent reading editing, so I don't have to read through typos.”
As the class around me packs, and ever-obnoxious Valerie whines to her friend about how she still hasn't even started her paper, I realize I'm in the same boat. I've been so focused on The Window as of late, that I've done the bate minimum of reading to keep up with my classes. Looking ahead, even tonight I have to finish up my article. I should have some time to start the paper, but most of the six to eight pages will come tomorrow, meaning there's a late night ahead.
March 1, 2006
“Come on, haven't you always wondered what goes on here in the office on a Wednesday night?” Sam voice comes through my cell phone. He is trying to convince me to come help with The Window tonight. In the absence of Larry, everything about the night before the paper goes to press is a little behind, and Sam is trying to help Carrie pick up all of the pieces the former editor in chief left behind.
“There is a little bit of a masochist in me,” I reply, “But I've got a paper due tomorrow and I'm barely started.”
“So it's gonna be a late night anyway. Why not come down here and give us a hand on edits, then go back to your paper?”
“Tempting, but I gotta pass. I'll catch you later,” I say and hang up just as Sam launches his next wave of an attack. If I listened long enough, he probably would convince me to come down, and there's no logical reason for me to give on this one. Hell, Dave is ahead of me on his paper.
That's not to say that Dave is much ahead of me, or that he has much interest in turning out a quality paper. His tendency to use papers to spout off about politics is more legitimate for this paper than others, though, given it's supposed to be about how the quote, “A man's choices define his world” applies to the literature and to contemporary news. Nonetheless, I haven't seen Dave crack open any of the texts yet. This isn't going to be research intensive for him.
Meanwhile, I pour over the texts, making notes about similarities and differences major characters in different texts. It's daunting to think about researching the news after this. The temptation is to depend on Dave to fill me in on current events, just as he relies on me for summaries of the texts. But there's little chance of getting an unbiased account from him. I haven't had the time to follow the news for myself for weeks, meaning I'll have to spend some time tonight.
But maybe not.
I think about the Alan Chilling and Larry Schmidt. It's news—it's big enough news here that Sam told me area news media have started snooping around for the reasons behind the resignations, and are supposedly waiting on my story to run tomorrow. It's pretty clear Chilling and Schmidt's choices are defining their worlds.
I add a column in my notes factoring in how the news I've already written relate to the quote, and how Taylor College's power players compare to the literary characters.
Suddenly, I'm getting somewhere. This is a story I know.
March 2, 2006
When Emma opens her door to me, I head right inside and sit down on her bed. Her roommate's gone for a long weekend at home, and ordinarily, if I made this sort of beeline for the bed, I would have less than pure intentions. But tonight, all I want to do is sleep.
A moment after I sit down, Emma sits and hugs me from behind. She kisses my cheek. “I read your story today. I thought it was great,” she says, running her nose up my neck.
“Thanks, baby.” I've had folks compliment me on the story throughout the day, and heard even more heard people talking about the news, oblivious to my part in it. I wish I could offer more of a reaction, but I've been exhausted all day. work on my paper for Jones, I didn't finish up until about 4 in the morning, only to get up at 8:30 so I would have time to print the paper at the library, and get to my first class.
Of course, Sam told me to quit my whining. They didn't leave The Window office until 4:30.
“How did your assignment turn out?” Emma asks, moving so I have room to lie down. I stretch out facing the wall, and Emma sits back down at my side, rubbing my shoulders.
“It was okay. I ended up tying in the books with this whole SA mess. Made it a lot easier to get the ideas together—even if it took forever to get it all written.”
“But it's done now. And now you can relax.”
“That's true, baby,” I say, yawning. I'm gonna fall asleep with my clothes on. Perhaps realizing the same thing, Emma lifts my arms, one by one, at least pulling off my coat. I could do this for myself, and it occurs to me it's almost comical for her to have to do it for me. “How was your day?”
“It was okay,” she says, tossing my coat somewhere. “The guys next door were being loud all afternoon, so I had to go to the library to get work done. Helped me focus, though. Actually finished some research.”
With all of my projects, there are times when I forget how busy Emma is. She's working on a research paper for a music industry class, about the legality and ethical issues of downloading music. It's interesting stuff and she's passionate about it. I don't think about that often enough, even when she knows about so much of what I'm doing, and takes the time to read all of my articles.
I want to ask Emma more, engage her in conversation. Her pillow is only growing softer and warmer, though. It smells like her. I fall asleep while she's still talking.
March 3, 2006
Emma and I wake up too late for either of our Friday morning classes. She squints and scrunches against the light sneaking in through the blinds, before hiding under the covers. I meet her under there and kiss her nose. “You know, natural light can be a good thing,” I say.
“Oh?”
“Yeah I hear it can be good for your complexion.”
“Blah.”
“And your disposition.”
“What's wrong with my disposition?”
“Nothing at all,” I say, and kiss her mouth.
“You know the sun can also cause skin cancer.”
“And blindness if you look right into it.”
“Exactly. So why would anyone want to get out of bed if they don't have to.” She kisses me again, this time open-mouthed and our tongues swirl around one another.
We stay in bed until one, at which point Emma leaves the room to take a shower and I sit down at her computer to check my e-mail and mess around with the sites I usually visit—a couple of friends' blogs, a news site to scan the headlines, a sports site to catch last night's NBA scores
I don't bother showering. We leave to hit up the dining hall for brunch—which, in terms of food, is really just lunch, so I open my day with a pork chop, mashed potatoes and corn, while Emma grabs grilled cheese and soup. I've grown accustomed to the oddities of eating in a dining hall—meals at odd times, surrounded by others, some clad in pajama bottoms and hoodies, others bright-eyed, fully awake, their days well underway as they take their lunch breaks. It's always loud, with a mix of chatter and the rattling of dishes and trays, people moving around.
Emma and I part ways after lunch. My best friend from home, Matt hit the road to come visit after his last class of the week, and should be here within the hour. Emma likes him well enough, and vice-versa. Matt and I have been friends since the fifth grade, though. She understands that we need some time on our own—guy time, if you will. She heads back to her place and I go back to mine, to wait for Matt's arrival.
March 4, 2006
Emma and I wake up too late for either of our Friday morning classes. She squints and scrunches against the light sneaking in through the blinds, before hiding under the covers. I meet her under there and kiss her nose. “You know, natural light can be a good thing,” I say.
“Oh?”
“Yeah I hear it can be good for your complexion.”
“Blah.”
“And your disposition.”
“What's wrong with my disposition?”
“Nothing at all,” I say, and kiss her mouth.
“You know the sun can also cause skin cancer.”
“And blindness if you look right into it.”
“Exactly. So why would anyone want to get out of bed if they don't have to.” She kisses me again, this time open-mouthed and our tongues swirl around one another.
We stay in bed until one, at which point Emma leaves the room to take a shower and I sit down at her computer to check my e-mail and mess around with the sites I usually visit—a couple of friends' blogs, a news site to scan the headlines, a sports site to catch last night's NBA scores
I don't bother showering. We leave to hit up the dining hall for brunch—which, in terms of food, is really just lunch, so I open my day with a pork chop, mashed potatoes and corn, while Emma grabs grilled cheese and soup. I've grown accustomed to the oddities of eating in a dining hall—meals at odd times, surrounded by others, some clad in pajama bottoms and hoodies, others bright-eyed, fully awake, their days well underway as they take their lunch breaks. It's always loud, with a mix of chatter and the rattling of dishes and trays, people moving around.
Emma and I part ways after lunch. My best friend from home, Matt hit the road to come visit after his last class of the week, and should be here within the hour. Emma likes him well enough, and vice-versa. Matt and I have been friends since the fifth grade, though. She understands that we need some time on our own—guy time, if you will. She heads back to her place and I go back to mine, to wait for Matt's arrival.