SkoopaTroopa is Back in Time Like Huey Lewis or Some Shizz

Tonight, I stumbled upon many things from my past. One of those things was an old writing account where I used to post my work when I was shiny and green. I took a break from grading to read over some of my old work.

Some of it was actually very good, albeit with a young voice. But, I was 18 or 19 or 20 years old when I wrote most of it. So, it was appropriate to my real-life age.  It made me remember my first college graduation. There was a dinner / award ceremony for all of the Sigma Tau Deltas. We were each asked to read one of our pieces for a room full of our peers, professors and family members, and also the chair of the English Department. I'm certain that what I read was slightly risque, but that it was probably also very funny. I really think it had something to do with my nickname, and I don't know that I have a copy of it anymore. I may have to investigate.

But, what I remember most about this event is that some of our favorite faculty members were invited to give each one of us a short introduction before we came up to read. I was very excited to learn that one of my idols (still, to this day, idol), Alison Townsend, would be giving my introduction.

What she said, I'm sure, was written in a way that is far lovelier than I will ever be able to write. The woman just has a way with language, not that I don't, but hers is just so much more elegant and poignant than my own.

I remember that she talked about how I was this great explorer of love -- that I constantly wrote about it, the good, the bad and the awful. It wasn't just romantic love, but love in all of it's forms, as well as the absence of love. I never really noticed that sort of thing about myself. I have feelings. I enjoy love or I abhor it, depending on the day. But, what she saw was this person seeking to define and dissect and understand something so complex that the effort itself was fruitless, and she found some type of beauty in that willingness to search even when an answer was, at best, intangible.

In looking over the work in my not quite defunct writing account, I guess she was sort of right. I did write about love. I wrote about loving paint chips as a child (let's not get into that, just move along), my love of being five and thinking I could fly, my love of playing childish pranks on a paramour,  my love of the night, my love of memory and hatred of the moment it begins to fade, my tumultuous familial relationships, my love for an uncle who had passed away, and my love for a vagabond Captain named Spatula.

There is one piece that's sort of a letter to the man who wants to love me for the rest of my life. It's this goofy laundry list of qualities that, at one time, I was looking for. Much of it is really poorly written, though I'm sure I loved it at the time. But, a few lines still resonate with me over a decade later. I've changed, but I haven't really changed all that much.

"And even if you actually believe that

I am perfection; do not tell me over a candle-lit dinner

While spewing some business about love and gravity,

In fact, you probably shouldn’t tell me at all."

I laughed when I read this particular stanza. The writing is clunky, and I'm sure it was part of a "fit your writing into this form we just studied" assignment for some poetry class I took during college. However, the sentiment is 100% me. I am not very sappy, and when people go on about the moon and the stars I start to get bored. I also abhor being put on a pedestal. I am a human person, made of marred flesh, and expect to be treated as such.

"What I really mean—if you really love me,

  Don’t make it a chore. I wont.

  I’m very lazy after all."

I also, very much, enjoyed the ending. I don't think I meant that I will not put effort into something, but more that loving me shouldn't seem like a job. It should just be a part of existing.

So, after reading all of this, I decided to try my hand at a revised version of the poem. The copyright date on the original is 2008. So, this is almost 10 years later. If you stop reading here, I will not be offended--silly love songs are not for everyone. If you do not stop reading here, be kind, I wrote this entire post during the 30 minute journal time that I allot for my students.

2017: For The Man Who Wants Me To Love Him For The Rest of My Life(Disclaimer: Title has been slightly altered so that you cannot google the OG posting.)

Let your love linger in the back
of your brain with the moldy
name of your kindergarten best friend
and the jar of pickled insults from
your playground arch-nemesis.

Forget it. Don't let it pervade your
thoughts, but also do not let it completely
slip away.

You are a person, individual, unique,
your bones covered in tough flesh, a
perfect original. Do not lose this
person. He is the reason
I love you
in the first place.

But, let him stick
to my flesh, for seconds or
minutes or hours, because
sometimes
we're more alike
than either one of us
will ever
admit.

I do not want flowers,
they'll make me sick
and that's something
no one needs to
put up with.

But, my feet will be cold
and your butt will be warm,
so that's definitely
going to be a thing.

Understand my imperfections
and love them
along with the rest of my
fragmented pieces,
the bright,
the fun,
the funny,
the talented,
and the utterly
broken,
and
let your own
cracks
show.

I like
very few porcelain
things, and those
are already collecting
dust on a
bookshelf
in my office.

You'll offend me
and that's okay,
I will offend
you too.
But, forget it
or
forgive it
and
sleep next to me anyway.

Know that I sulk,
that I'll be a pain
in your ass,
that I'll have
very black dark
days,
and they may
not have anything
to do with you,
and you may
not be able
to fix them.

Understand that's
okay.
Love me
for my
flaws and not
besides
them.

And, do not
read me
poetry
about love
and
longing
and
stars
or
moons,
about pining.
If you
read me
poems
let them
be
about beer
or pizza
or
wandering octopus
anatomy.

Do not idolize
me, and if you do,
keep it to
yourself.
I don't need
a
ridiculous
standard
looming over my
head.

What I really mean
is that if you
love me,
really love me,
do not make it a chore.
I won't.

I'm very lazy, after all.