The false spring

There were green shoots among the dead leaves, far too early--a missed cue.

I wanted to tell them to wait, to have patience, but this warm weather, this uncannily warm weather--not even the night's chill is enough to rattle your bones in the way November should.

We have moved farther away from the sun, I guess. But not far enough.

Not far enough, I guess, to keep things as they used to be.

My selfish heart, my thin skin, does not miss the cold, and the sting of Winter.

But it should be here.

It should be here.

Lyrics

"The melody is the heart of the song. The melody is the point--the definition of a song, I guess. But the melody can only take you so far," he said. "The music speaks to your heart, but the lyrics, I guess, the lyrics speak to that part of yourself that knows that words, too, can be beautiful."

"The lyrics speak to that part of yourself that knows that speech is always a song, even if the voice is the only instrument," he said. "And I guess, I listen to the lyrics because I believe in the resonance between the melody and the words, that double-layered mess of meaning, and I think we live somewhere in that space between what is spoken, what is felt, and what is understood."

Julie in the Indian Summer last week

Weeks of cold air and the Fall apologizes, gives us one more day together. The air is sweet and clean and I drive with the windows down, feeling the car shake because I'm playing this music too loud, trying to understand it all.

My head is mostly empty other than for this song. My thoughts contain nothing more than the sensation from the the speakers. Amplified sound shakes the steering while while the wind tugs at my hair.

I fall out love accidentally, like some kind of leaf finished for the season. I think there's something to be said for seeing the evergreen, and I keep finding these seasonal loves too specific for what I'm after.

Monday

"I think he likes girls that dress nice," she said.

"Yeah," I said. "That makes sense. Oh well, so it goes. I gotta read Evidence before Magda's argument tonight."

Thursday night

"I like you," I said, looking down. I reached out to his chest to steady myself. "I mean, I really like you. You're the only reason I came to this thing."

Steve didn't say anything.

Grant took me by the arm and led me out of the place.

It came in an e-mail (Last Tuesday)

"Apparently Professor Mary Mitchell passed away early this morning from liver failure."

The Holding

Damnit, I give up.

I can't do this right now; no, not this homework. I am going to tell you a story. I'm going to tell you a story because I'm tired. I'm tired, and I'm cold, and all the other stories I want to tell you are just too transparent for this space, now that I am old enough to know better.

So I'm going to tell you about the holding.

In every case--that is to say, in every court opinion, there's something called the holding. It's what the case stands for, the legal principle that can be drawn from the case and used in subsequent cases. The holding is the heart of the case--the holding is what is important. Held: indigent defendants have a right to counsel. Held: a ban on interracial marriage is in violation of the Constitution.

You get the idea.

Sometimes the judges put it up front. Sometimes they say "we hold that in this case, X is the outcome." Others are a bit more ambiguous. But regardless of whether it's plain or obscured, it is the task of law students to tease out these holdings, and from these holdings, to learn the law.

The holding is the heart of the case, as I already you. Everything else is called dicta. It cannot be used to make subsequent law. When the judge waxes poetic, it's all just dicta.

Now, here's the problem with holdings and dicta--this is what I wanted to talk to you about. See, cases are complicated, because cases arise from actual facts from actual life. In fact, you can't even get a damn case up into the court until you have a "live case or controversy," until you have a leg to stand on and about a hundred other things.

So when a judge is making his or her decision, there may be more than one issue. And that means there might be more than one holding.

And you know, there's multiple levels of review, right? We've got the trial court, we've got the appellate courts, and hell, we've even got a Supreme Court.

And all these different levels of review, well, sometimes, one judge's dicta is another judge's holding.

What the hell is a law student to do? It all seems important.

It all seems so important. Why else would you say it?

And I just got to thinking about life, you know. And I got to thinking about how life is just all so complicated, and there's all these issues.

And I guess it's easy to be confused.

None of it seems important.

Consolation, Part II

"How you doing?" the barista asked, leaning against the counter.

"Not so good," I said. "Not so good."

I run a hand through my hair only to get it caught in the tangles. I pull the change out of my back pocket and start counting it out. After a minute I stop, and stare at the counter.

"Yeah," I said, "I'll just have a small coffee then."

A moment passes.

"Put your money away," she said.

"Get her a decaf," the other barista says.

"Thanks," I said, taking the warm cup. "Thank you."

Consolation

"I mean, he's thinner than you," she said.

"Yeah," I replied. "Yeah, you're right."

"And he's a better dresser too," she said. "Better than you."

"Yeah, yeah I know," I said. "You're not really helping."

"Oh," she said, surprised. "When I think about that kind of stuff it always makes me feel better."

"That's crazy," I said without exclamation.

The car continued down Meridian towards my apartment building.

About 30 days we've been gone

"At night, all sight is deliberate," he said. "I mean--shit I didn't mean to rhyme like that, but what I'm trying to say is that it takes effort to be seen. Life is more deliberate, and the extraneous is left to the shadows."

"During the day, you can't help but be seen," he said. "You can't help but look at things yourself. An accidental exhibitionist, an unintentional voyeur. But at night? At night the world is more limited. Things make sense--nothing more than the next few feet of road, a few buildings here and there. Life is reduced to its essentials, just enough information to not bump into things."

"Painters often try to capture the golden hour, that time when the light is liquid, when the light just pours over the landscape in that beautiful copper glow. But there is something to be said for this hour, painted only with the dirty streetlights."

"Sir," the waitress said, "did you want to place an order?"

"Oh yeah," he said. "Um, cheeseburger and a Coke. Thanks."