Eliot, I am DELIGHTED that you went the extra mile to correct the technical flaw in your paper that did, indeed, help make a difference in your letter grade. I knew from your mid-term that you were a solid student who suffered the consequences of some mind-blip during the exam that made you fail to see all the pages (!!)
Thank you for your kind words about the class. I also appreciated your thoughtful participation in class discussions. I could usually count on you for an analytical contribution - even if I pointedly had to call on you, instead of waiting for you to volunteer.
I hope that our paths do cross again. Please do not hesitate to contact me if I may be of help in your next semesters at Georgia Tech.
“Advice for good love: don’t love a woman
from far away. Choose one from nearby
the way a sensible house will choose local stones
that have frozen in the same cold and baked
in the same scalding sun.”—from “Advice For Good Love” by Yehuda Amichai (via isuckinstars)
“You told me you like my mouth. You want to kiss me.
My mouth is a wound and you
want to kiss me.
But you’re like
that: You want to go
leaping over cliffs–
you want to go
and then write pretty poems about it–
and all I want to do is
fuck you.”—Daphne Gottlieb, from Why Things Burn (via frenchtwist)
There is a solemnity in hands,
the way a palm will curve in
accordance to a contour of skin,
the way it will release a story.
This should be the pilgrimage.
The touching of a source.
This is what sanctifies.
This pleading. This mercy.
I want to be a pilgrim to everyone,
close to the inaccuracies, the astringent
dislikes, the wayward peace, the private
words. I want to be close to the telling.
I want to feel everyone whisper.
After the blossoming I hang.
The encyclical that has come
through the branches
instructs us to root, to become
the design encapsulated within.
Flesh helping stone turn tree.
I do not want to hold life
at my extremities, see it prepare
itself for my own perpetuation.
I want to touch and be touched
by things similar in this world.
I want to know a few secular days
of perfection. Late in this one great season
the diffused morning light
hides the horizon of sea. Everything
the color of slate, a soft tablet
to press a philosophy to.
”—“The Confession of an Apricot,” Carl Adamshick (via clavicola)