I wrote a letter to the teacher of a drawing class. I thought it would be fun to try art and see what would happen. Shortly after buying all the expensive supplies, I realized I was completely and totally out of my league. I'd gotten a C- on my poetry paper the previous day. The professor said, "look at what you did wrong" and laughed. I felt humiliated, inconsequential, and a bother from the others who were more worthy. I knew I wasn't as good as the other students, who were likely taking the required course for the rest of their art degrees.
"All I ask of you is ~when the summer nights are clear and the fire glows anew with another log~ that you sing those songs louder for me. Friendship has always been a very important to me. The solace of your voices drifting up into the night with the flames will tell me that you think of me and the past times, however good or bad. I've always thought that one could anything when another human loves you. When I'm gone, all I ask is that you smile and remember that you always crash land at reality airport. The river spirit flows on."
And, in the final pages of the notebook dated early 1981, grumbling about my college roommate, I wrote, "I think I'll be a plant always looking for a pot, transplanted from home, adjustment periods, growing by still lacking real root space."
|I enrolled in W.S.I anyway.|