I am so used to being left behind that none of this really matters anymore.
I finally managed to see the layout for the yearbook primer and ohmygod I just want to huggle it ‘til it gets squished. (Not that Lex, my creatives and design head, would actually appreciate it, but still…) I don’t know, it’s just amazing that we are starting to get this project off the ground and it’s also amazing that once we start to get the ball rolling, I know that we might actually be the first graduating batch of CAL to have a proper yearbook in 15 years by the time we actually march down the auditorium in April. Good lord, yes, 15 years of non-yearbook-ness!
And I am totally impressed with my staff and the people who are working with me: both the Student Council and my Ed Board. I can’t help but feel that I have reliable people who will work their asses off just to get this done – and the true test of that will be this semestral break, when we start collecting write-ups and soliciations. (And I’m crossing my fingers that large companies will actually want to sponsor our college yearbook.) And even our publisher, Repro, seems to be excited about the project: we’re having this formal contract signing thing over dinner of Tuesday – and of course they’re the ones footing the bill. (Of course, as poor college students, we always jump at the chance for a free meal – we’re shallow that way.) And then by next week we’d have the primers out already, and the seniors’ assembly, and then the rollercoaster plunges from there.
Last evening, I was at Molo’s Grill (and later on Javi’s just across the street) with Gandalf and a couple of other writer friends and spent the night away talking about poetry and insects and other embarrassing situations. Good timing, too: I had written a couple of poems that afternoon and desperately needed some advice on how to sort that mess out. Also learned that centipedes have luminous blood, cicadas are beautiful, and that leeches can also be surprised. Oh, and a cockroach crawled up P’s leg and she was screaming the night away and we just had to hobble to the girls’ bathroom. Conversation was as follows:
Me: You’ll have to take your pants off so we can get the cockroach out.
P: Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod…get it out get it out get it out!
M: Just take your pants off and we’ll get it out.
P: (whimpers and starts unbuttoning her jeans) Ohmygod ohmygod…oh shit, I don’t have any underwear!
M: What do you mean, you don’t have any underwear?
P: I don’t wear underwear – I’m not wearing any right now – oh shit oh shit it’s moving!
M: (closes eyes) Okay, okay, relax. I’m closing my eyes. Give me your pants. (stumbles towards the door of the bathroom blindly with a pair of crumpled jeans in one hand, and shakes the dead cockroach out of P’s pants outside the bathroom – she was whimpering inside)
Sigh. One of the highlights of my night.
The cockroach, in fairness, flopped out of P’s pants pretty quickly. It was squished already, and you cold see the white goo spilling out of its brown body. It would have been interesting to show it to everyone else had it not been for P’s fear of the bloody thing. ^_^
Bought birthday balloons and comics for a friend this morning, and marched up the hill carrying them towards their house. I hope the surprise is still inside the book. Intelligence is always an option.
Things to Do:
3. Sit-in Mary Ann’s English 10 class (Tuesday) ->sa Friday na lang. Umulan kanina, e
5. CW 111 second short story (Wednesday)
6. Zena's story (Wednesday)
8. English 191 report -> this was moved to next Monday! Yey!
Expect this list to grow longer later on this week. And they tell us that the semester is about to end?
Prior to Beginnings
There is a craft to letting go -
consider your fists wrapped around the ropes
of a playground swing.
There is that first pull,
that insistence of tension as the line
is stretched taut, like a forced smile.
Fingers have a tendency to squeeze,
as if the hand cannot release
what the mind has already freed. Touch
is always important: consider the abrasive
texture of the twine, braided thick and strong
to hold the weight of a child. It digs
into your flesh, red welts the mark of a tight grip.
There is always the potential of the fall,
that moment before gravity takes over
and then the realization of flight.