So summer is so nice and lazy but at the same time I feel the danger of it. I should promise myself this week to finish this long-overdue paper. Or at least something. I can feel the summer slowly slipping, dripping away, and already vaguely dread yet another school year–#7. I guess that’s not completely fair: Friday’s interview was deeply encouraging in terms of the possibilities presented by good leadership at the new school. One more year before I jump ship.

I feel these entries have gotten all to straightforward, not with none of the old glib incisiveness. Or maybe just that things were always better way-back-when.

And there is hope

David pulls into the driveway and turns off the ignition, gets out of the Camry, wishes that he had fewer keys: this ring has too many for tuxedo pants. He approaches the door he’s approached before and rings the doorbell he’s rung before, and waits, waits for Mr. Caldwell to appear refracted in the beveled glass, before he is recognized, before the door is opened, before he enters.

He steps into the foyer, and shakes Mr. Caldwell’s hand firmly, though this is a first in all thse years. “Mrs. Caldwell is still upstairs, helping Jane get ready. They’re almost ready. Come, have a seat, David.”

He smiles, and follows Mr. Caldwell into the living room, which despite the occasion is in its usual disarray, magazines open on the coffee-table, an ashtray with a few butts and a smouldering cigarette quickly, apologetically stubbed out.

They settle in, Mr. Caldwell in his armchair, David on the sofa, the corsage on the edge of the coffee table. They discuss summer plans before the move to college in the fall, that freedom that comes only between accomplishments, that separates achievements: a gradual goodbye to this way of life, though campus is only two hours away, routines will change, will fit, are unimaginable with any accuracy, but accuracy is not the point.

They are still talking when they hear the muffled steps on the beige carpet upstairs, two pairs, somewhat out of synch, a purse that’s dropped and picked up again, the contents replaced, the zipper secured. The steps pause when they reach the top of the stairs, then first a right step, then a left step, each now alone.

And there will be college, just two hours away, but far enough to feel free, rooted enough to friends who will go with, but things will change, and things will grow, and we will take our friendship with us, though we will not need to pack it now, it will ride equidistant between our cars, and we will start out in the same classes together, and we will still spend hours together in the lab, joking as we do. At first we will knock, but then we will just come in, for all reasons, and for none. And we will laugh, laugh at old jokes we have brought with us, and at new ones we would not now understand. And we may fight, and we will reconcile, and we will support each other, as we grow, and we will stay up late, and one morning we will watch the sun rise, and we will put our arms around each other, and shiver slightly in the cold before dawn, but neither gathering dew. And some night we will begin taking turns sleeping, as we complete our problem sets, and then we will stop taking turns. And we will eat together, not every night at first, and still not every night by the end, but often. And at the end we will look back, together, as if it were just the blink of an eye, and we will continue.

Right step, left step: followed by Mrs. Caldwells, two steps behind. And David can see now from the sofa two powder-blue shoes.

So the Post is still a goldmine. Today, re: the gay high school thing, a 35-year-old sheet-metal worker from Westchester is heard to remark, “There’s enough segregation in society as it is. What are they going to have next black and white school? It’s ridiculous.” I guess that’s all I need to say…

I’m skipping classes today. It’s not a big deal, though, as all my work is done, yet again. I really should find some fun project in Assembly to do in my spare time, except I don’t actually have an assembler at home and hafta schlep an hour and a half to assemble my code. So I should find something fun to do, though I’m tempted to just do some more math, strangely enough: looking up all manner of old work, and hankering to do some writing again.

I’d made great progress on this one short story And there is hope quite some time ago, but I have made little progress since and it’s not yet clear that my protagonist is a chinaboi. Hrmm….