ah, ye blessed wonders of spanish 4, 5th period! How I adore thee!



I have a suspicion, creeping along with my shadow and sniffing at my pants legs, that perhaps I am better at writing prose than poetry. And so here I am, sitting in spanish class, probing along the borders of this unfamiliar city (madly reviewing all the vaguely poetic metaphors which I can hide in this paragraph before sending it off, and thus defeating its purpose, because I seem to be a poet at heart, though not an exceedingly gifted one) and silently imploring the shadowy figures which pass me to give me direction, guidance, at least a little guidance to give me courage. I do not speak, and I wait unseen.

Of course, this is very vague and will leave the impression that I am striving for some mystical, incomprehensible effect. I am not; I truly have a strange picture of wandering outside the intimidating walls of a foreign city (the city of prose!). I call it Mustafchinski, but I have never been inside and thus have no evidence on which to base my choice of name. The rust on the gates (which I have only now begun to see) simply screams "Mustafchinksi!" and henceforth it is so labeled.

Mustafchinski, the City of Prose, wonder of poets, home of Faulkner and Joyce, walled village with rusted gates! I demand your leave to enter.

I just explained a Spanish play to my group, because they didn't understand the symbolism.

31 March 2004