Rejection: An ode

Do not mourn the fall of daylight

It could be clearer to me, why I bother caring that Iowa and Minnesota don't want me. I could do some analysis of the market for students, something about alienation of labor, intellectual pursuits as labor...but I'm not going to. Instead, I'm going to eat a lot of Moose Tracks (R).

Before, her scent had been faint but vivid, showing she had not much physical strength, but did not lack in more magical powers. Now her scent was strong, sweet, vivid and long lasting, even though that sounded like a Winterfresh commercial.

When I read fan fiction, I become startlingly aware of the gap between normal people and me. And still I am not wanted. Or rather, there are certain restrictions to the desire. Must I seduce the school, or should they seduce me?

Wordsworth, that Romantic bastard, knew that ideas come from individual minds, which then put those ideas and emotions (mainly emotions, the overflow of emotions) into language, as though language were Tupperware (R), the transparent kind. I know that my ideas and language are constructed by the web of social powers. And I want out of the web before the spider eats me.

The spider scar on her naked back means she is not yet free

Lots of white space. The white space, says Bartholomae, is where readers can insert themselves, have a dialogue, be dialectic. Mom said today that I am eclectic, which is not quite right. Nor am I eccentric, or any of those other ec- or -ectic words. To do so returns us to the Romantic paradigm, where we are all responsible for our own fates.

And I don't want to be responsible anymore, because it is not up to me anymore, but up to the flow and ebb of anxieties and force. I am Jack's inflamed sense of rejection.

I am Amy's shoulder's tensed in expectation.