We Shouldn't Be Like Bookends

Here's a man to respect.

At a coffeehouse last night, Spencer, Platt, Tiana, and I were sitting and conversing intellectually (or as intellectual as freshmen can be) when the Man came over and asked:

"Do you have a pen?"

to Tiana. She rummaged around her purse and produced the item, which he took, and HE WROTE HIS PHONE NUMBER DOWN ON A PIECE OF PAPER AND GAVE IT TO HER. I don't use caps lightly, I want to convey this point. "HE" wrote "HIS" phone number and gave it to her.

This is brilliant. What guts! Please, understand the brilliance of this Man's actions. By walking up and asking for a pen from her, he's left with the open opportunity for her to not have the pen, no loss, he tried at least. She did though, so he writes HIS number, he doesn't ask for hers, he simply gives his. This puts the ball in Tiana's court now. If she's interested by this brief encounter, then she can call him, if not, well, no harm's done.

I'm sorry, this is brilliant. This is demonstrative of the revolution of women's rights. This empowers her, concedes himself to her all in one swift move. After he left, Tiana was, well, confused. Mike, Spence, and I were flabbergasted and awed at this Man's wisdom and decided we would have to try it out for ourselves sometime.

What a Man, what a Man.

When the rain comes tumbling down

My heartbeat is a jackhammer in my ears.

My eyes focus on the black bar between the wheels, and the chipped asphalt melting past underneath.

My mantra: don't turn it around, save it for later, don't look back, save it for later...

Through the sweat dripping down my lenses I chance a glance ahead- five more intersections. On my right, a lady is raking leaves (in May?) on her grass lawn. Behind me, I hear a car's engine, but I don't look back, I remember my mantra.

Steadily they cruise up my left, two teenagers in a red sedan. The boy in the passenger seat rolls down his window and says something with a smirk on his face, but I can't hear him over the Tiger Lillies and ma coeur pounding beat. Again I avert my gaze to the hill ahead.

Four more streets.

The stupid part of this all is that I don't even know what's at the top. On second thought, is that really all that stupid? After all, there are many things we do without knowing exactly why. At least, we don't care enough to ask. A more orthodox person than I would come up with some sort of metaphor in this, something they can share on a fast sunday someday. Apparently I'm not one of those people, at least, not if I would think of those kinds of people on the outside, right? And I have no intention of turning this into some sort of spiritual message. What is it? It's exercise! That's all! What's so spiritual about heaving lungs, aching muscles, banging heart, and soaked forehead? More like sex than anything sacred. My mind goes back to the ascent. I look once more-

Two more streets!

Not bad. This is when the music on my ipod turns to some unbearably adagio tune. "Where'd the rhythm go?" I wonder. Aw, heck. My dilemma: do I stop and change the song and risk losing my momentum and not be able to start up the hill again?

No... one more street, I can do this.

*Huff* *Huff*

I did it! I-

What?!!

One more street...

five minutes later, I'm sitting in the middle of the street at a dead-end on the top of the hill (at least, as high as any road goes). My bicycle tips over in the intense breeze coming up from the Wasatch front. A cat, named Mousie on his tags, comes and sits on my lap. Must be the pheromones, I guess. From here, I can see a rain cloud gliding up the mountain range. I can see the temple, Westminster, the lake, Amanda's house. Who knew it would be so clear?

Beautiful. I'm glad I didn't look back.




The center hill is the one I biked:
http://maps.google.com/maps?ll=40.7907772064209,-111.86253547668457&spn=0.05604743957519531,0.051326751708984375&t=k&hl=en