unversed

i was sitting in my american poetry class on the very first day of all the days of class during the fall of two thousand thirteen.

the professor was asking the people sitting in the room with me (in such an endearing way) what his or her favorite book of the summer was. my fellow classmates began sharing.

within five minutes, i realized how little i have read.

 i have always been all over the place in every area of my life. because of this, though i read tons in high school and early college, i would read one novel or memoir and quickly move to the next one. i wouldn't pay attention to if it was a classic or contemporary or written by a genius. my method, although it covered a lot of ground, left some very huge gaps in some very important areas.

thus, i have begun a quite overwhelming mission to investigate all those words and thoughts and ideas in all those books in the library i have never opened. Ginsberg, Williams (William Carlos and Tennessee), Hart Crane, Capote, Vonnegut, and many others have been (and will be) keeping me company where ever i go.

i once heard that you really have the most time to do superfluous reading in college. as ridiculous as that sounds, i think i'm going to cling to it and make it my motto or something.

all that to say, i have been reading a lot. and i plan to read more. and it's always nice to share thoughts about what i read. so i guess i'm warning you that posts may be lengthy and frequent and completely selfish ways for me to share an exhaustive version of my opinions.

as i sit here

as i sit here, on my couch, i am perpending the sensations of wonder that have come during the days that most recently passed (for they have been beautiful days). the sounds of the approaching night are wandering in through the screen door and my mouth tastes of honey-sweet coffee and dark purple muscadines that only arrive at the conclusion of summer.
nothing monumental has been done today, but the momentous nature of the day weighs upon me. i remember feeling an intense fear for the first time this day. i was a small child, still unable to grasp many of the dark emotions that seem to dominate this world. i did not know what hate really was, but i knew, while watching that square television screen, what hate looked like. i didn't know what grief really was, but i knew, while watching my mother cry and hearing my dad's distorted voice on the phone, what grief looked like.
it's crazy to think about the freedom i have on this earth because of the multitude of people that have ended their stories and slept forever for this country.
it's even more bizarre to realize that the physical freedom i have right now, on this couch with my friends so near and the lovely trees outside my window and the satisfaction of a day well-spent, is so pale and small and tenuous compared to how free i really am. one man, who was also God, who was also man, died and felt alone and lived a life despised by many (if not all) people, for this soul of mine. for that soul of yours. and for the two thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-six souls that found themselves without bodies on this day, twelve years ago.

i am free.
you are free.

but we aren't quite yet to the true "sweet land of liberty."
so hold fast.