two genius peas in a nina simone podcasted soul

"I was forced to buy a mac and you know how I feel about macs, I mean, the goddamn delete button is not a delete button, it's a fucking backspace," my sailored soundbite returns with the the tailored pound of her paletted pace.
She laughs the laugh I haven't heard in weeks, "I Know!! why don't they just call it a backspace?"
"Fuck if I know!" I drip words through one of the many screens of the elven-windowed porch.
We are two genius peas in a nina simone podcasted soul. A soul whose intentions are good..don't let us be misunderstood.

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"I was making a mix for you, and...it goes along with the blog."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
This is the way our conversations go. We go and stop stop and go this way a lot. We are two ideal voices in a gravel parking lot.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, I promise, please."
"But you were in the middle of--"
"--making a mix cd I can finish at any time, really, honest."
--for me..."
"--yes, but it will be here when you arrive."
"That's true."
"And so it is..."
"Damien Rice is on there, isn't he?"
"he is. he is"
"I can't take my mind off of you."
"Can't take my new blog off of you."

---

"I honestly just think the students are exhausted," I say, the youngest and most intelligently wise out of the staffroom staffers, taught to teach the most eye witnessing darkness to the darkest of the darkroom cronies: progress of this age.
I can't help think about the brilliance of brilliant writers and the dullards who've led this program (because they have money and lovers) and the sad, sad state we're in because of the faux-educators who educate no one but themselves, Then I decide to say, "I may be wrong but you can't MAKE any student be accountable for herself, and I honestly believe in the philosophy of their collegiate status...in other words, they are accountable only for themselves, because if we want them to act like adults, we have to start treating them like adults...call it a crazy philosophy, but I honestly believe that if we--"
"--well, Ashley," Robert, who always interrupts, interrupts and condescends in his usual condescending tone, "When we have to start teaching these kids in the fall, " as if I'd never fucking taught "kids" in the fall, as if that comment weren't from some fucking-prick-out-of-touch-asshole, as if he has the right to continue with, "there's never any doubt of accountability...in other words, it's never a matter of," he puts both his index and middle fingers in the air to quote my words, my fucking brilliant words, 'you're in college now,' because there's always a push to get them to do better,"
I look over at my 4-yr-younger colleague who smokes pot and drinks with me and we give the "what a fucking prick" glance. I can't take much more and then she gets up to use the restroom. I glance out the westward window as Robert accosts someone and suggests we move on, because (he puts up his index and middle fingers) he'd like "to hear someone else," referring to my summer institute, 3-week friend.
"She had to take a piss," I say, putting up my index and middle fingers around that last spiteful word, in spite of my colleague's spiteful piss attitude.

---

"Yes, I had a good conversation with her, but we mostly talked about computers and my spiteful resistance to macs."
She giggles. I laugh a hearty laugh.
"How was the conversation as a whole?" she asks earnestly.
"Good...I mean, as good as it can be after weeks of silence."
"That's good, oh, well," her voice rises to the, "I've something to tell you," gently reassuring voluminous
"Yess?"
"We're almost to Vermont."
"What?!"
"Yeah."
I'm silent.
"What's wrong?"
"Why aren't you coming to Ithaca first?" is my typically selfish response.
"What'dyou mean?"
"Nevermind."
"No, what?"
"It's fine."
"No it's not."
"Yes, it is, honestly, honey, you can leave it alone."
"I don't think so."
"The crown of love is falling from me...."
"That's the Arcade Fire."
"I know it is."
"I know you know but--"
"Shhhh, the CIA is listening."
She laughs. I don't laugh for the first time in a month of sun-lessdriven-days.

---

"Hey, it's me," I sound stupidly sound, "I'm so sorry to hear about your grandfather, but if you need to call...."
She does. But much later, after I've left more messages. She leaves a message of all her thanksgivings with me. I am her soundbite set to plainly comply, her driving rain under a northern piano sky.

---

god bless the piano-driven 'boy with the arab strap'