White on White

Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog
where no one notices the contrast of white on white

Continued Subject (from yesterday)
Although I wasn’t quite an apparition this morning as I trudged out the door (just before 5am for army) my state didn’t exactly warrant the term human. These past few days, in addition to physical exhaustion, my emotional state has descended into a state of sorrowful lethargy. As one of my best friends has stepped out of my life, I am left with an empty space that our combined laughter used to fill.

Standing in the early cold, I watched the stars above until, hearing the crunch of the paperboys deliveries, they leisurely faded into nebulous morning. The sun unfolded upon the city but I resisted its warm embrace and went inside, realizing my interest lay only in cloudy days.

New subject...
The Army switched to berets about a year ago, and ever since the transition, in a state of bold defiance, I’ve stayed true to the archaic soft cap. While I’d like to attribute my resistance to an honoring of the spirit of the old military, the fact of the matter is that the soft cap is much more conducive to my hair. Furthermore, the beret, while arguably more stylish, is somewhat flat, thus exerting tremendous pressure on my hair.

The soft cap, on the other hand, is more rounded on top, forming a dome of sorts, similar to the arched, rounded ceilings of the Sistine Chapel. Although I wouldn’t go so far as to equate the tips of my hair with the sublime brushstrokes of Michelangelo, we can all agree that they are not to be trifled with. Did I actually just type that? Sigh…

Luckily there is no shortage of down time on Army weekend and I had a chance to call my good friend (Andy), who was kind enough to take recess from reading The Jamie Kennedy Autobiography. When we lived together there was a journal we kept, and the three of us (Sarah was there as well) would write “secret” entries.

Although there were a mere total of four and a half entries logged (3 by myself, 1 by Andy, and a drunken ½ by Ed) the tattered journal stands as a monument to the time we spent together. Andy wrote the following poignant entry. While certainly erstwhile, it is far from anachronistic, as the angst and calamities of college living still pervades our hearts.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
12/18
3:00am, CST
Dear Diary,
It was with great trepidation and a heavy heart that I departed Houston University’s most vile and despicable locale: Moody Towers.
The South Tower was where I stayed. You see, Divine Providence dictated that I would endure some of the most sever hardships in the history of mankind during my residency.
I cried myself to sleep nightly. Passionate, persistant tears did nothing to drown out the drug-induced moans of my roommate.
Twice, not once, but TWICE my TOILETRIES were stolen. STOLEN! Around October I stopped believing in God.
I confided cantankerous confabulations of confounded corporal cohorts to my co-sleeper Eva DeLacruz. She cared not, and I was forced to destroy her. It required six .357 magazines to silence her Arabian screams. If not for the grace of Michael, the fall semester surely would have seen my ultimate demise. (1)
Things really came to a head when the giant black fellow passed water on my slumber area. “Dear God!” I thought desperately to myself as this man’s urine quenched my thirst for African blood. Could any human being pray for a more terrible evening?
It matters not. Here, at the dawn of winter, I lay comfortably in this new chair, urinating myself into oblivion.
Truly,
Andy

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(1) Comment added by publisher

Moody Towers, University of Houston