I sent communiqués to
As I was leaving to go meet her for lunch, my grandmother tried talking to me in her usual stoically plaintive tone, "It had been a while since I'd seen that little friend of yours--Trisa?"
"I awnno," I half mumbled as I tied my shoes--
"Is she a girlfriend or just--?"
"Just a friend," I said.
"You can't talk her into it?" pried my grandmother, her voice without mirth but instead weighted with gossipy intensity.
I merely grunted negatively and dismissively in reply, supremely irritated that her nosy, shallow inquisition should strike so near the bone.
"Well, don't give up hope," she said, making me want to strangle her directly.
"The earth had two moons, and this team of scientists gave me a garage door opener that hooked onto my belt. When I pressed its button, it made me jump as high as I liked. They wanted me to jump from earth's old moon to the new one. Which I did.
"On the new moon, I met a ninja whose black clothing was coated lightly with glitter. We had a pleasant conversation despite the fact that neither of us spoke.
"Then he abruptly took me prisoner and placed me in a cell without a roof. Its iron bars were all vertical, and very tall. In the cell with me were a bunch of random earth people. I asked a couple of police officers how they'd been captured. When they refused to answer me, I jumped out of the cell.
"The evil moon men chased after me as I bounded across the pale dusty landscape. I grabbed the glitter ninja and dropped him from a terrific height before making my final jump back to the other moon.
"Only I miscalculated my trajectory, and began to burn up in earth's atmosphere. And suddenly, Julia Ormond and I were underwater together,"
What I didn't tell
I understood very little of what
"I'm sorry . . ."
"It's okay, you didn't know," she said.
But it was a question that haunts me even now. What was it about what I'd posted that she did not want the internet to see? She seemed to become visibly irritated when I pressed the issue for curiosity's sake, so I dropped it. Yet the intrigue has deepened now that I've noticed, with astonishment, that she actually went to the trouble of deleting my posts.
To-night's class was stimulating, I thought. This is the Views of Death and Dying in Literature
So it was I watched her walk into class, and got the opportunity to watch her make an entrance.
On the other hand, almost everyone seems innocent to me for one reason or another.
The class was almost a cacophony of intellectual discussion. I could not reproduce it all here if I tried. I will say that our text book, Escape From Evil by Ernest Becker, is incredibly fascinating and I recommend it.
At the end of class, the teacher asked us to spend two minutes writing a description of our own death.
"The pain, in every aspect, every portion of me, had been so overpowering just moments ago--the little customary, usual aches had suddenly pulsed into such a blinding crescendo--that I became completely incognisant of the ditch.
"Then I was barely cognisant of either pain or my surroundings,"
He then asked us to write about seeing ten thousand people die;
"With a deep, vast, amorphous rumble, everyone was made to fall down.
"Everyone. More people than the human mind was meant to completely process--moments before crammed so tightly together--all simultaneously fell . . . as if pressed by a tremendous, invisible hand.
"I was unable to even think to ask, 'Why?',"
Finally, we were asked to write about witnessing the death of someone we care about more than our own life. Guess who I chose.
"Her eyes, it seemed, had fluttered slightly moments ago. It had seemed to me that they had, despite the fact that I knew they could not have.
"That machinery had abruptly and totally cancelled her life in an instant was irrefutable. Yet I found that I had to fancy the brief flutter of her eyelids . . ."
After class, I found her talking to a guy she'd taken something of a liking to who's also in our British Lit class. As I approached, she was talking about her own speculative death. She'd seen herself killed by disease, which I suppose was more likely than what I'd chosen.
The guy she was talking to was kinna tall and had this kinna interesting segmented blond ponytail. The only thing I gathered the courage to contribute to the conversation was, "Fortunately, I'm enough of a masochist to have enjoyed writing all three, in a weird way,"
To which he'd replied, "There was a time when I could have enjoyed writing about the death of ten thousand people, but not now . . ."
I didn't win
It put me out of the conversation anyway.