Actually, wisdom(s) from the mouth of a former professor.
The class? Forms of Poetry. I’ve been meaning to post this for a while now. I figured a couple semesters removed was appropriate.
the notetaker? Rachel. She is at least half the reason I made it through that class without throwing the biggest tantrum known to mankind.
(of course these are not notes, these are just random sentences spout out from the depths of melancholy and despair)
I have rearranged the snippets she copied into various "subject" matter(s) and will present them this way. Remember that these were from throughout the semester, and as random as you could ever imagine!
~Carl, you’ve just taken the door off the doorjamb!
~The poems aren’t written for the podium or the soapbox.
~We’re all the way back at the station of the metro with Ezra Pound again.
~We’re breathing the commas, we’re breathing the periods.
~Can you hold back on your rhythm, man!
~The pain of the page disappears and we have the voice speaking to us...
~He catches us with a comma.
~And love, of course, is embedded in lovely
~Trudie…truth, beauty maybe I’ll meet her someday...
~You might meet your partner in Cincinnati three years from now…if that happens send me a postcard.
~It’s like when you play chess, no matter how many times you play you’ll always think, “Wow, I’ve never been here before.”
~Most people become old orphans...
~Old age ain’t for sissies!
~We’re no different that the squirrel… we’re biological.
~We’re a long way from Mr. Stevenson’s fifth grade class.
~There's the "wheel of fortune," if you will.
~Bob doesn’t even want to look!
~Physics is physics and there’s no escaping, biology is biology and there’s no escaping.