while sitting in today’s 11th hour lecture, i found myself distracted so i began to jot down my thoughts on what i’ve seen and experienced during this week’s writing workshop. i should be reading the tomes from my fellow classmates but instead i’m sitting here transferring the days thoughts to my trusty blog.

pretentious, esoteric, speaking in code that only the enclave understands, like dead poets society only worse.

some are privileged, New Englanders, old money, blue bloods.

pasty, pallor, 70s Marsha Brady hair, stringy, dishwater blondes. everywhere.

forced sarcasm. attempts at humor. look at me. laugh. i’m funny, right?

natural, fresh faces. that’s what tyra or a contestant on project runway would say. give her a fresh face. me? i say, “you’ve got on no makeup. bland faces, no lip color. Mascara.”

chipped toenail polish in…sandals. everywhere. removing shoes like small children who do not want to be clothes. do they scrape the polish from their fingernails too?

hair: unkempt.  not just windswept but roll-out-of-bed head. fingers running through hair, a poor replacement for a comb or brush.

white women, most of them. slender, shapeless. like hangers or michael kors runway models. eclectic dress, bohemian, flowing skits, tangles of necklaces and bracelets. t-strap sandals with beads, sequins, crystals. dusty, cracked heels. lotion never. dry, sawdust glass cutters. sheet shredders.

am i in eugene?

thick necks, wrinkles, like gobblers. eyes drawn at the corners. heavy eye makeup perhaps trying to cover the aged skin. aged spots dotting forearms, hands; bluish-grey veins crisscrossing from shin to ankle meeting in brown birkenstocked feet.

on the flip side, GAP shorts with 4″ and 6″ inseams in every color of the rainbow streaking past. layers tanks tops with skinny and wide straps, bras showing, no attempt to hide them. freedom.

scads of them, robotic, walking the streets in groups, pairs, rarely alone. then, there’s me.

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