Late posts #4: Noel

Knowing my love for cows, she drives us past a little haven of magnificent Brahma bulls, little calves, and several other great additions to the sum of all joy in the world. Being with her, I remember a girl I met ten years ago at camp, days early in my faith, before I liked poetry, metal, before I'd ever dated anybody or really made my own decisions, and days when folding people into my world with pen and paper was a fond dream practiced only by us as we traded ideas over a long, electric correspondence.

Strange to think of how similar we are, in our opposing Florida water towns on either coast, and how we can be old enough to have a relationship of a decade when I feel I've only lived, as my own person, for the past four years. She's going back to college and will finish in 2011 with dreams of owning a bookstore in the colloquial shade of North Carolina, connecting people with a slower form of literature, one with margins and other spaces to step in and walk among, without the special effects and cuts of film, a medium that requires you to work at it, to dive in with part of yourself.

As much as I love film, I can't ensconce someone as well with it as one can do with a novel or choice poetry. There's just something about those empty spaces, with no need for surround sound, although popcorn helps, and, as always, we should pay close attention to our consumption of Sour Patch Kids, you know, for our teeth's sake.