I've taken to writing again. A red leather book of blockpaper does not contain the space I need. So I am typing out into cyberspace, casting myself into the unknown-- of which I do not have, and could never gain, the knowledge of the ways these words will make as I type them. It is much as the spoken word, in that the speaker does not know whose ears are listening, or what the effects of their speech will be, as each syllable comprises a message that departs from the mouth of its creator, unleashed upon the world.


There is drumming coming up from out of the trees on the south side of campus. Night is falling, but I can still see the forms of people walking, running, congregating. I cannot see but an edge of the gathering, the crowd must be wild; I can hear the noise they make. Also visible, is the dim reflection of my face and hair in the soft mirror of the window, backlit by my desklamp. If I had the power, I would go down the cement stairwell, one, two, three stories and make my solitary way across the darkened parking lot.

The best thing about this campus is the way it looks at night. A string of circular lights, like glowing pearls, shine suspended on invisible black poles, wrapping along the length of the pond and throughout the winding tree-lined paths. Unlike streetlights they are short, standing six or seven feet high, and their circular globes create a magical effect.

Grandfather, an old university vice president, talks to me with shining, weathered blue eyes, cup of coffee held halfway between the table and his mouth. He speaks to me about the press of the students and the professors, the directional current in which the whole environment flows.
I feel like a stick wedged upright in a stream, deliberately withstanding the tug of the rushing waters.

It is dark now. I am tempted to press my ear against the windowpane, to make out the words of the concert playing on the evening air.