from an essay

28 Mar

…There was purpose to us being there, my 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and beyond-grade classes, but it was for fun and learning to be helixes, coupled, right there with each other.  Here, you have deadlines, in college.  There’s pressure, and you can feel it and hear it in hearing nothing, now in Week 11 of the semester.  I always used to get monster books, manuscripts thin but rich in monstrous and beastly content.  Vampires, swamp things and blobs, Frankenstein and his like-associates and characters, and whatever else I could find that I could read when home, at night before bed.  My boy, a tireless kindergartner with research urges, chases books with animals and other lands, plants and natural amazements like volcanoes, storms, oceans and mountains, other countries and desserts.  He, although having fun in his library check-ins, shows a pursuit of something.  He’s far past where I was at his stage, age.  Huh, he’s past where I am now, in this sitting looking out at Emeritus and at that tree, the stoplight, the little circular table or wooden ottoman (on where a book, one of my journals, my main one, and some late submissions from students, folded in half, rest), more trees, telephone wires.  He actuates more scholastic aptitude and practice than his college-teaching, somewhat of an essayist, daddy.

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