Lesson #1: Fleece jacket + Rain Coat = Much Better

It's the first blustery day. Can we say forty three degrees (with wind chill thirty six)? Yes. Yes, we can. It was raining, and windy, and cold. A great welcome back to the semester after a beautiful fall break.

I am going into Chicago for Thanksgiving and am deciding whether or not to bring a duffle bag or a rolling suitcase...which one screams "I'm tough, don't try to mug me, I'm friends with Jason Bourne AND Bruce Wayne" more? I don't know. Help?

Two guys from my brother floor were stuck in an elevator for thirty eight minutes, and it was sort of the most exciting thing that happened all day besides the weather. That's the kind of day it's been. But, I learned a lesson:

Layers. Layers. Layers. I originally just wore a fleece jacket. Fleece jackets don't keep one safe from the biting wind that seeks to destroy any warmth left in your body. Think dementors. That's right. They're real. But, when you layer a rain coat over the fleece jacket, you are semi-protected from the rain/wind/cold. But generally, you will still be overjoyed to get in doors.

Much love,
Emilea

Hello, Again

Um...

hi. It feels a little strange to reinter this small world a dear friend and I made when we were thirteen so we could be like our poetry teacher. And here I am.

So, I've been writing like a crazy person lately, and one of the hardships of leaving art school is the people that understand me and my work are no longer with me to say "False." And/or "Good, but work on it harder." Or "Buck up." 

So this is an attempt to let those people (and whoever else) to comment on my poetry as able and I might talk about how cold it is in Chicago sometimes (because being from the South, I've never experienced a real Fall or Winter. The other day, people were complaining about how hot it was outside. It was 85. I was rejoicing in the coolness.) 

To the CWs:

I carry your heart (I carry it inside of my heart). My heart misses you a lot.

A Final Hooray

An egyptian cotton bed with fourteen of us piled on top,

a nest made of hearts too heavy to talk about it. 

All we could do was breathe each other in, eat bagels

with apricot preserves. There was a dog 

more like a bear, the gentlest bear you’ve ever seen and even he

knew. The eyes told you so.

There was that moment, the next day, next to a rose bush or outside

a book store where we finally admitted to each other.

The pavement was hot and the highway dusty. At night, we squealed

through sprinklers, pretended to be younger. It was field day

and the popsicles last forever.

But we were not younger, 

and laid down. What else to do at the end,

except be with loves and say it is finished.

Thoughts? Much love,

Emilea