Honors Night

Last night, I dreamt of the girl who had told me she thought I would like to read the writing of Anaïs Nin. So, then, I wondered: Is it possible to will yourself to dream about someone?

I know there have been times in my life, usually conflict-related, when I have had someone on/in my mind and have dreamt of them. Most recently when I was basically seeking forgiveness; actually, I had already been absolved by the person I had wronged but was trying to complete the act of self-forgiveness.

Which really is the most difficult part.

Well, maybe not the most difficult part. I mean, if someone is unwilling to forgive you, and you are honestly contrite over the wrong you have done to them and have done everything in your power to earn their forgiveness ... well, then, that is difficult, but at that point, it is beyond your control. You really cannot control what another person does or feels.

And, honestly, who would want to?

Tonight was Honors Night at the high school here, and I covered it, and, thankfully, the event lasted only 75 minutes. Not that I am complaining in any way; as I told my friend Patti, you might not know it to look at me, but I used to be a smart kid, so I enjoy giving the academic achievers their due.

My friend Dana — coincidentally, the one who introduced me, so to speak, to Anaïs Nin — told me one time that what she loved most about the classroom was that it was the only place where the proverbial playing field was level. She enjoyed the competition of school — the fact that, if you worked hard enough and did the work, you would achieve exactly what you had earned.

Which is not always the case in the workplace, or out in The Real World in general, sometimes. I mean, most jobs reward you for a job well done, but not all. And as for fairness in that big bad world out there: Please.

No one said life was fair. And anyone who thinks it is ... well, that person is living in a dream world. A fantasy island of sorts.

Anyhoo, I wrote a poem today:

Tonight

Tonight I wish you
were merely a barefoot
walk across the lawn
or perhaps, at most,
a cross-town bus ride
away.

We could meet for a cup
of coffee or a beer or a
shot of Irish whiskey.
The good stuff, the kind that
goes down slow. The kind
you sip for hours.

I got stories only you
could fully appreciate.
Tonight, though, I am
all ears, so go ahead.
I got the bus fare, too,
and the drinks are on me.

— DLW