The Unfairness of Time and Grammar

Sometimes life feels unfair. And maybe I'm being unreasonable, but I hardly feel the unfairness more keenly than when hearing grammar technicalities being applied to writing. The Henry David Thoreau in me that would stare at a single, crimson leaf for three hours at a time feels a sort of dying sadness when writing has to become scientific. I could cry.

It's fall, the best time to write. Alumni field is full of fog below my dorm in the morning, and just before dusk the yellow flowers there look like they're going to miss the sun. A lot. "It's crispy outside," I told Mikheil, when we went to the Labor Office. Crispy can be chicken nuggets, but it can also be aged leaves and fresh notebook pages. And that's why it's time to write.

Time is the key, though. Writing feels like something illegal when I've got homework due. My classes are billowing with assignments that feel like they're hung out on a clothesline in my back yard in a gale with gimpy safety pins. Some of them fly away and are forgotten, to my chagrin and shame.

Last night I sat on my bed and skimmed through a chapter of a writing handbook. It was very well made, and I liked it as writing handbooks go. But I guess I felt a little of that dying inside when I thought of applying science to my soul. And citations. There won't be those in heaven, I think. We'll just know who said what and whose research that really was and MLA and Chicago Style will cease. Hallelujah. Forever and Ever, Amen.