Ode to Senioritis
Marnie Stern, who is now a member of Seth Meyers’ late night band, released her second album in 2008. The title of this album is “This Is It and I Am It and You Are It and So Is That and He Is It and She Is It and It Is It and That Is That”. A whole lot of people subscribe to the idea that the words ‘Cellar Door’ constitute the most beautiful set of words in the English language, stating that they roll off the tongue. I think that this is it and I am it and you are it and so is that and he is it and she is it and it is it and that is that is a more beautiful set of words. This is it and I am it and you are it and so is that and he is it and she is it and it is it and that is that is so true in and of itself that no other words can pontificate on its truth beyond the phrase itself. It completes me and I identify with it to a degree that cannot be expressed in words aside from this is it and I am it and you are it and so is that and he is it and she is it and it is it and that is that.
This bottomless pit of motivation is maybe liberating in its destructive path. Very few things can be so dangerous and fleetingly joyous. The only other things that have that power are drugs, and drugs kill people.
The whole of springdale is buzzing with stillness and potential, and I, every single day, find my once concrete convictions and routines crumbling in the face of a most tangential joy and reckless abandon. I love all of my teachers and everybody who has poked and prodded me forward these past 12 years, they’ve given me all that I need to be me (that’s from a Mom Jeans. song). Without Mrs. Schleisman and Mrs. Farmer, and Mrs. Gawf, and Mr. Ruddick and Mrs. Wood, and Mr. Mills Mr. Mizanin and Mrs. Sprague and quite literally every single person who tore me away from my procrastinatory tendencies from Kindergarten through this year, I would not be educated. I have nothing but love and compassion for all of them, but at this point I’m crawling to the finish. I would love to say that the work I am doing in many of my classes is propelling me forward, but that’s probably not true.
Soon I will be untying dollars from a tree, sipping sparkling grape juice as the pine needles collect on the carpeted floor of my bedroom.
Everyone is chomping at the bit to exercise out of them the expectations of adults. Everywhere you look people are instruments of this reckless abandon. No sleeves are safe from the hunger of their scissors and knives. Down the hatch. Down the hatch. Down the hatch. Just like their parents.
For so long the history of my family and the history of family history was just so auxiliary to me. I don’t care, I used to think, and I didn’t. The little man in my head conducting my thoughts is preparing for a crescendo. So much to learn, so much to be.
The ACT is slowly becoming just another acronym. Soon bourbon will pour over ice cubes to the sound of grown adults orating about their hatred for the ACT. Too soon.
I want to run as fast as I can in any direction, I want to run down the hallways and hear the recycled air whir past me, blowing my hair off my head and drying out my eyes, chasing sun or moon, it doesn’t matter. Down the hatch.
This is it and I am it and you are it and so is that and he is it and she is it and it is it and that is that.
I want to run westward into the setting sun. No pretensions, no expectations, the sky has never been more orange. The headlights have hit the pink lemonade orange juice cocktail. I will become the wind blowing through my hair, I am a champion, I am a five legged horse.