Yet another attempt at travel writing…
I find that visiting Florence is as close to time travel as I will ever experience in this lifetime. However, there is a paradox of time periods overlapping at once. I do not only envision a past when I gaze out at the city through my bedroom window, but a present and a future as well. How do you look at Michelangelo’s David, setting the example for a perfect male figure in 1504, and say he is not still the textbook image of male physique? I remember the hype surrounding my visit to see the David. “You must see him! You’ll cry when you see him!” This was all I’d been hearing since I announced my acceptance to Lorenzo de Medici a semester and a half ago. It’s true that my expectations were high. Especially since sculpture is by far my favorite medium and I do have quite a taste for tall naked men. Continue reading
I think you and I are as different
As a warm cookie and a cool glass of milk.
There is nothing similar about either of us,
We come from different ends of the kitchen.
You rest in the pantry and I chill in the fridge,
You are a solid and I am a liquid,
You crumble and I spoil.
We couldn’t survive together.
But above all of our differences,
And despite our ability to coexist,
We are an exceptional duo.
And one hell of a midnight snack.
Darling this city
Doesn’t do that kind of love
We do each other
~An Entire Bag of Potato Chips~
There is only a hand full of activities I would like more than to spend every moment of my twenty-four hour day writing… writing blog posts, snippets, poems, and even those little notes I like to scribble myself before bed.
However… when the writing task is mutilated into that of an essay or a case study, as I am hopelessly procrastinating from at this time, the intrinsic motivation has flown from my body and migrated south for the semester.
As I spend time writing this post, I ignore the fact that this paper is due on Tuesday… three days from this exact point in time, minus eight hours. I ignore the test I have scheduled for this Monday, you know, the one based on all those readings I neglected? I ignore the millions of letters, which make up the thousands of words I will have to skim – not read – that create hundreds of sentences inside tens of books I have barely dusted off from the bookstore.
What day is it? The nineteenth?! Has it really been three weeks?
I don’t usually get fan mail, and most definitely not in the form of haikus. But when your partner in crime writes you something so sweet, you post it on your blog.
A poem from my biggest fan, dedicated to yours truly.
You are my baby
You are my perfect woman
Can you stay that way?