10/25/07: Into autumn
So we meet again. 
4/13/07: Anew
Dearest Po,
So, here you are. Somewhere west of me, somewhere south. Experiencing night, darkness, the moon’s light unhindered by an ever-insistent sun. Purchasing, perhaps, twinkies (While I know this is not true, I have, instantly upon writing the words, conjured up a fable - a tale of the secret Po that slinks off in the middle of the night for a sidewalk-vended sausage, several candy bars and full-strength coca colas, topped off with a few individually-wrapped doughnuts to save for the morning, to be eaten quietly in bed, in case someone should come in and you need to pretend, doughnut beneath the covers, to be still asleep) or beer from the Great Lakes Brewing Company.
I attended orientation yesterday. Worked Thursday, drove 6 hours (5.5 without good old Chicago traffic), slept in a cozy little ‘each room is privately owned, personally decorated’ condominium hotel, woke, orientated for 8 hours (met my faculty advisor who appears to be one more Michael Beery in my life… Beery being my boss at Interlochen who was a real Renaissance man, knew something about everything, always kind, but couldn’t get a damn thing done… then came my boss at Panera, knew a little less but same kindness in large size, and now Tom Walker, who probably knows as much but *does* get things done… I’m thinking I’ll allow myself to take his History of Books and Printing course this fall), drove 6 hours (thanks, Chicago, really) back to Ann Arbor, slept again, and now I’m on break here at work.
I sat down in the basement lecture theater of Bolton Hall, a few minutes late because I’d driven around campus like a 40-year old parent of an undergrad, unable to discern where visitors should park, sipped on my 10% juice drink offered free, other hand lightly on top of the big Orientation binder they’d handed me moments before, and looked up. I was in school. Again. A student. And if I were alone in that classroom, somehow sure that no one would arrive for an hour or so, I think I may’ve had a good cry. Thinking back I’m not sure exactly which of the possible reasons I was feeling at the moment - likely a mixture of them all: I’ve spent the last few years doing things I Was Not Designed For. I was finally going to make it my work in life to better myself (again). I’d somehow managed to pull myself out of the rut and drive my ass to Wisconsin to make it all real. And I was surrounded by people with similar stories, most of us green, wide-eyed, unsure.
I still haven’t been able to fully convince myself that it’s real. I figure I’ll get a phone call on monday informing me that, actually, I don’t qualify for any loans, they re-read my transcript and found that my 3.2 GPA in Ohio is equivalent to a 1.4 in Wisconsin, the entire faculty of the School of Information Studies has gone on sabbatical for the next eight years.
Back to books for an hour. Then home to wine, packing up our apartment, perhaps giving you a ring if I can get the phone charger out of my broken suitcase.
So it’s been a few days now… it’s Wednesday. Your email waiting for me when I returned home after writing that first part informed me that you were on your way west. I thought better than to call you on your newfangled cellie during your journey. No strings attached, no rubber bands stretching. But, I shall finish this letter now (I’ve found reading, hilarious as it is, does not work while on my break at the library - 15 minutes while eating sandwich is just too short). So there you are. In your new home. I’m finding a new home for my brain. Something tells me this year is going to be a trip - I tend to believe a good one. Soon it’ll be warm enough to ride my bike to work. Soon I’ll be buying overpriced books and realizing that I won’t need a netflix membership while I’m a student. You’ll be… what? What the hell are you doing out there? Being one more friend I lose to those unnaturally-pretty surroundings? Opening up a new nonprofit bookpublishing firm? Learning to hunt bear?
I don’t know, but it’s going to be a good year. I’m turning 27. Can still run 7:00 miles like clockwork (well, a short-lived clock anyway). But it’s time to start playing again.
Ah. And thank you for the paperwork. I’m not sure that you realized it, but the running book was co-written by bill bowerman, Steve Prefontaine’s coach and the guy who started nike (and don’t be upset, that was when nike was revolutionary, created in his garage with rubber compounds in his wife’s waffle iron).
So, onward to more books. And more books. They never stop, Po. And I suppose that should be at least one glimmer of hope and faith in those people out there, breathing our air.
As ever,
Tim
