Thursday, June 26, 2014


Renee, what do our thoughts prove?
What motions cause a swelling tide
flung by one receding shore to embrace
the safety of another?

You cannot scrape the stars for evidence
of your life, or microscope memory dust
from the moon. You haplessly slip
from the arms of your lover.

Still she is caught as I am caught 
here in reverent orbit,
ever illumed, ever an action determined
and determining. Like vision through

marbled panes: the glass cool and solid,
unseen by the fevered cheek, pressed and feeling
in the night. Therefore I am, therefore I Am.
For every name by which you are known

there is another.
You are the slippery honor of my tongue.
My proof is quantity quantified,
a thing spoken of by many other spoken things:

like pudding laid out in a darkened kitchen
bowl-shaped in its bowl, beside it a dark spoon,
scooped out of the shadows.

You do you not care for pudding.
I wait for you in the darkness all the same.

Thursday, June 19, 2014


We waited five weeks. It was the judicious thing to do. But Mr. PNU decided yesterday was the time that being 100% transparent was both safe and appropriate. 

When you are a student dating a former professor, or a professor dating a former student, one (okay, two) must be careful about who knows and how they find out. Because at some point in this, even though we say we don't care who knows anymore, it's bound to feel somewhat awkward. 

Like when I take classes from my Greek professor in the Fall and now he gets why I wouldn't drop the Ethics TA job when life got rough last Spring. Like when Mr. PNU takes me as his date to the Philosophy department opening social. Like when we walk up to each other in the hallway and rather than unspoken longing, we hold hands, or maybe even share a discrete kiss. 

When we're around friends/faculty/students it's going to be weird for a while.

In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out how I could have been so fiercely attracted for a year and a half to someone I didn't actually know, and how he could be so admittedly human and prone to foibles, but all the same ineffably perfect for me. The puzzle piece I've been searching for in the pile. A best friend. The person I can be completely myself, unabashedly, unrestrainedly open and out, as the nerdy and corny and spiritual and cerebral and poetic and scientific and childlike and defiantly adolescent woman I can be, and that he loves me completely. 

I refute hard determinism. I disdain the idea of "The One." I think the miracle is that this is happening, and its wonder is that it was all subject to chance.

I apologize for gushing.


Suck it up. I've rarely if ever been this happy.

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Smart love is about timing

So let me briefly explain. Three weeks are up. I'm in this brand new relationship that's going extremely well, and I'm entering week four. I'm trying to find balance between children, Greek, philosopher boyfriend, and a very, very small budget. Luckily philosopher boyfriend is in a similar situation, vying for balance of life details and budget. It's yet another point on which we can relate. So I bought a student train pass for $70 which expires the end of August, in order to save gas between Happy Valley and the Valley of Salt where Mr. PNU is located much of the time. The train ride is just short of an hour. Theoretically, the two hours to and from my home I am allocating to reading and Greek. The time in Happy Valley I allocate to children. The time in Valley of Salt I allocate to philosopher boyfriend. Then there's phone time, and gym time, and Church time, and therapy time, and mowing the lawn time, and driving kids to social gathering time. At day's end, there isn't much time. Mathematically, the plan is to keep this up for at least 49 more weeks, because a year of old fashioned dating is crucial to know whether you actually like someone enough to think about dating them more seriously, longer. This is a comfortable, smart, mutual plan, and for at least 33 more weeks it will be accompanied by heightened levels of dopamine. The result should be 16 weeks of "what it's really like." By that time both of us should have the balance figured out—analytically speaking. Continentally, we've only just arrived at a place where we're capable of getting through phone conversations without significant mush, but we are indeed capable—and as of tonight that fact is empirically supported. 

Friday, June 6, 2014

Senior. Portrait.

After 17 years you stop asking them to smile.
The real beauty is what comes floating to the top.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014


I apologize for the hiatus. I apologize for the hour. I apologize for silence. I apologize for my fear. I apologize for my aptitude for ironic timing. In music this is called syncopation; in the heart, arrhythmia.

I spent half an hour reading back through this blog, to the early days, the beginning—January 18, 2013—when I first confessed that I had noticed the gravitational tug, off centered from the core of the earth.

For nineteen days I have wandered in a surreal haze. I forget how many of those we dared called this thing love, but they are replete with a tangle of emotions a year and a half long. My only wish is that I had his side of the narrative to accompany mine, so that when we clarified the movement from two centers of gravity to one you might understand the power of the mechanism that overcame point (a) and brought us to the wonder of point (b). 

Every evening for these past nineteen days I have said goodnight to Mr. PNU, and in return he says goodnight to me. There has never been a prologue to a story quite as rich and sweet.