Oh how I recall the burnished summers at Cambridge! Amid the groomed lawns and gothic architecture we went in search of labrynths of flesh and stone, of book and brook.
There great halls had sprung from the fertile earth and we felt at once unworthy and assured: the scaffolding that might suffocate us, supported us. We were here after all, and would not be if not among the chosen. Our lives were given meaning by it, the sanctity of them affirmed paradoxically by our feeling of smallness, of our walking where centuries of ghostly giants had tread.
Sentiment was an ever-present danger; we were terminally and retroactively nostalgic. We wept at small things, like the sound our shoes made while walking down the long, marble floors or the band playing the fight song. We wept over sunlit garden paths and the gloomy, candle-lit corners of our own imagination, over the scholar's domed banker lights (how could we study in such surroundings!), the semper fidelis dining hall and our cast-iron stomaches, the craggy stones and arches - ever we trundled over and under and through arches.
My roommate and I scoured the catalog for exotic courses and familiar activities and ended up taking familiar courses and picking exotic activities. We walked by the archers daily on the way to the parquet floors of the squash courts before the afternoon math classes.
Our voices would lift unbidden at Heorot, singing of alma mater. Filled with mead, we sang of the great quirst, a mingling of quest and thirst, trying to describe our brief time. For the air pulsed with cusps, with only the edges of known words, and was certain with possibilities and probabilities for which we could assign no numbers nor labels.
April 24, 2007
Short Story Tuesday
Posted by TS at 7:44 AM