(i am not a fantastic speller or have the inate actuation of punctuaion....get used to it)
nic refered to all that is written as the converstion before us. and that is what it is. in my college english classes, where in masses we studied the "CLASSICS" my questions to each and every teacher is "WHAT IS IT THAT DEAMS IT A CLASSIC" how are we to tell now what will last forever. why in the world does e.e. cummings ...(i love how nothing is ever capitialized!!!!!!!!!!!!) why did everything HE every write last to be studied to this day. (btw, by reading his poems and sonnet, i have always perceived him to be a woman, not a man, hmmm)
and yet back to the conversation...
Reminiscent commentary of personal experiences
As I stood there letting my dad’s angry voice flow over and past me on the wind, the reflection on the day old snow held my attention. It looked as if the sun had glazed the snow into a smooth and creamy sugar treat. I could feel the heat from the rays of the sun, as the tepid air caressed my face. The earth was still cold, draining the energy from my toes and making them feel pain from the true temperature. As I shifted my weight, trying not to think of the cold or my father’s curses, I became aware of another car approaching us on this isolated road.
Synopsis –my mother was a drunk, my father unemotional, i become a unit in a transient family, settling in LA,almost drowning in the culture of drugs and free will, travling back and forth to the midwest in what we call now a custody agreement, and then finding myself in my 40’s a school teacher, searching for karma, happiness, contentment, knowledge.
This is like reading the end of the book isn't it...