The Gentleman Scholar

 

      There is one talking in the aisle. Another simpers alongside him. Running your finger along the spine will get you dust, not the meat. One pedant delivers a discourse about nostalgia and so it seems my youthful companions are now not-quite classics. What could they know of gables and garden parties? Those mysteries saw me through as many sun-drenched days as those soaked with rain, but then I’ve always preferred reading to fishing. Yet it would be a lie to say I have never admired the bronzed arms of the chronic outdoorsman. I was the same as that young man, stuffing my head full of text and theory. But when night fell, my private self slept on the sofa of a friend, dreaming of being a building. Dormant need waking and reaching as creation to find articulation. Too long now I have lived by committee. I crave emptier hours for sitting on the green couch and reading things that will never advance a career. I am still that boy wanting to be part of a building. Not the cornerstone, but a great gleaming cupola.