The will

Just one word, I think to myself, just write one damn word and then you can go to bed. But not before. 

Anthropolowhat is a constant thought in the back of my mind. I mean for it to continue until the end, because this blog has a purpose, and this blog has a place and this blog, and this blog's author loves you very, very, very much. 

May 8 After Midnight

The fog was so thick we drove about ten miles an hour the whole way home from the movie. But we made it, 'cause we are used to it, 'cause it gets foggy like that all the time out here in this swamp land.

The thought of you returns to me when I am standing on the front porch of my parents house. The fog rolls across the path of the floodlight in slow, heavy waves. The air is so full of moisture my lungs strain to take in the heavy condensation.

The moon is nearly full and the night brighter than usual, the light diffused among a million, billion drops of water suspended in the atmosphere. The moisture carries the scent of the lilacs, clean and sweet, on top of the smell of the rain, new grass and fresh dirt.

There are a few frogs--two, if I can hear it right--arguing with each other back in the woods. A few miles away on Leo-Grabill there's a bit of traffic rolling slowly down the road, but it's nothing much.

For a fleeting moment my heart shakes, because the enormity of the moment is too much for my mind to handle. I am not used to such tranquility.

My heart is breaking because I wish I could show it to you, because I love you and this night, these sights and this place are all very important to me.

But my bones are built from this river clay, and with age I have become practical. I know that in the morning the fog will be gone, and with it, my dreams of you.

In the Spring

I can never be accused of thinking too much. My mind murmurs with a low hum, a tongue that articulates ideas only occasionally.

I walked out of the grocery store tonight around ten o'clock. At the front of the store they have boxes and boxes of flowers, fresh flowers ready for the planting in yuppie gardens surrounding Lockerbie Square.

The scent of the flowers is intoxicating, overpowering. The cold air preserves all of the sweetness that is lost in the heat, that heat which pulls the smells from the sewers and in between the cracks in the acrid blacktop. My mind is pulled out of its dissonant haze and my lazy tongue attempts to articulate the moment, this overpowering sweetness in this chilly air.

No, reeks isn't the right word, I think to myself. But maybe redolent is right.

Yes, I think to myself, staring at the flowers. Redolent.

Satisfied, I fall back into a haze and walk to my car.

The cashier continues smoking his cigarette on the other side of the building as I drive away.

Dana is a Daffodil

The daffodils are at critical mass;
their scent resonates through the wind
even on this, a cold and dreary day.

My mind is spinning from the scent of the
daffodils, the sweet pull of wet mud and mulch,
and fresh rain against the blacktop.

These are the flowers that pull the sun
out from behind the slate grey clouds;
they remind me of you.

Today he died

It's important, I think, to remember that there are many martyrs in this season. And while I don't follow the gospel I think that this man, this man makes me want to believe in the King he said came back from the dead to save us from sin.

The things I have seen #1

She will bring him up occasionally. She tells me she's still in love with him, and the worst part is the way I can see it in her eyes. Her heart is still so wrapped up in lies it's like looking at someone possessed.

Because my heart is breaking for her and my heart is mad at her because she is in sight of the promised land. She is in sight of the promised land, her feet will carry her there. But as for me and my broken legs out here in the desert--I have been slamming this staff against the rock for three days and it would appear, my friend, that tonight we will dine on sand.

The end of language

"The problem was, we made ourselves a literate society, and now all these kids are changing the rules. The attention span is shortened because we got too much technology. But you were the ones that taught them to read, so you can't help that all these words are a part of them now. And they're gonna be changing things, is what I'm saying. And don't go down that road about how you gotta uphold standards, 'cause we get along without standards. Its been arbitrary from the start and you're scared--yes, you're scared because the kids are changing things. But that's fine and like I said, this is all kind of your fault anyways, if you think about it."

He was arrested after this.

"The problem with my condition," he said, "is that I really don't require any more than four hours of sleep. I try to keep it in the nighttime hours, you know, when its dark. But it's hard. I would prefer to sleep during the day. There's less people at night, and so there's less potential for trouble."

"It didn't used to be this bad. I used to need about eight, hell, sometimes ten hours of sleep. But then things fell apart, and I just didn't like wasting all that time."

"The first day that it started, I remember looking at the clock and it was a little bit past one in the morning. And I knew I should be tired, and I knew that I should go to bed, but I just couldn't.  Not after what happened, not after I let her down."

"Next thing you know we're here. You'll be arresting me, I guess, but yes I know about that Mr. Miranda and I'll tell you this, I'm as guilty as they come. I'm guilty, I guess. But I had to do something to fill these nighttime hours, you know?"

Dr. Flynn

It's so hard to write about Sir Agnes because he slips away so easily, falls away from my mind and my thoughts in favor of characters I find more personally compelling.

I see shades of Elliott nearly every day. Julie and Matt sat behind me at lunch today, acting out their own personal tragedies, unwittingly providing me with ideas for the next saga.

But Sir Agnes? He is that sadness, that space in your soul that opens up only after times of great disappointment and tragedy. His is life well spent in dutiful dedication, only to implode in on itself in a spectacle of abandonment.

Sir Agnes is the anthropologist that gives the blog its name. He left two years ago, left his wife and his child and disappeared. Then, in some time I can't remember, some time ago he returned. He returned in the rain with his hat in his hands. No explanation.

All I know about Sir Agnes is what I can see. Tonight he is awake, sitting at his old desk long after midnight. He has been home for a few months now, but things are strained. He does not sleep in the same room as his wife, but sleeps on a cot in his office. He has not contacted the University to tell them he's not dead.

Most days, he just sits and rearranges his papers. His desk is covered in maps and notebooks and loose pages covered in line after line of careful cursive.

I cannot tell why he left, I cannot tell why he acts the way he does. His is an untouchable distance, a kind of isolation I cannot even begin to imagine.

But his wife loves him, and his child loves him. Elliott loves him and maybe there's something I'm missing.

He's so damaged though, you know, that it's hard to be anything other than terrified.

Where we are today

"Four weeks until the end of the semester," she said.

"Yeah," I said.