1.20.00

I'm tired of blue eyes. Startling and incisive though they may be, the blade cuts as if for the first time, evilly or with goodness, but never with the experience of struggle. Perhaps it is the association with God's sky or Mary's doors, but the blue eyes escape scrutiny. Brown is of earth, of mother's unconditional love and of her necessarily blind eye to our proclivity to hurt her. These I tire of too: warmer to be sure and less abrupt than blue, but overly abundant. Greens are the only ones that confront the isolate. Not the lighter shades because they are too much like the blue, but the dark emeralds with just the slightest luster of gold or brown. The gaze that finds you out with a statement of moral dubiousness, saying: I have walked that line, and I see you walk it too. A man was waiting for the elevator in the lobby of the School of Law. A delivery man adorned with a cardboard tray supporting several white paper bags with the tops rolled over. Something about his arm was odd, turned in an inhuman direction. It didn't know how to grow. His hair was black and shiny with sharp wisps hanging over his eyebrows, themselves wild and at conflict just above the bridge of his nose. I was looking at him, and he was a foil to those poseurs studying The Law who stand around in little pockets laughing and chatting in the lobby. They all want to be a Kennedy. As the man began to turn toward me, I quickly looked away, but he spoke to pull me back, "One's gotta come sometime." For just a moment, his eyes grabbed mine and bore in, verdant and old, speaking a wisdom the man himself did not know, making me out.

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