To grow from the grass I love

isn't it adorable?

I bought my copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass about eight years ago. I purchased this book for three reasons. One, my high school freshman English class had just read a selection of his work. Two, I had just seen Dead Poets Society for the first time. And three, it was $2 in the bargain section at Barnes and Noble.

When I brought it home, I read a few poems but it quickly ended up sitting on one of my bookshelves where it gathered dust for a few years. Then I saw a movie that became one of my all time favorites: the 1942 classic Now, Voyager. Not only did the picture cement my love for both Bette Davis and Paul Henreid, but it also rekindled my interest in Mr. Whitman's work. The title is taken from one of his poems. It's a short little thing. Only two lines. But I know them by heart.

The untold want by life and land ne'er granted
Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find.

It was after seeing this movie that I picked up Whitman's book again. And this time I fell in love. I loved the way his poems seemed more like random strings of thought carelessly woven together and less like painstaking planned out lines of verse. And nothing was off the table for this man. He wrote about the mundane parts of life but also the ethereal and the marvelous aspects of living on this earth. His poems about love were so much more that simple love poems. They were about people, places, himself. This man loved everything. Through his words, I could feel what he felt. It was one of the first times that poetry had actually moved me.

The soul,
Forever and forever - longer than soil is brown and solid - longer than water ebbs and flows.
I will make the poems of materials, for I think they are to be the most spiritual poems,
And I will make the poems of my body and of mortality,
For I think I shall then supply myself with the poems of my soul and of immortality.

So when I ventured off to college, I brought my little tome with me. (along with my copies of Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, and Kiss of the Night) It wasn't until my sophomore year that I started taking English courses where we actually analyzed and assessed literature. I don't remember which class and I don't even remember which professor, but Walt Whitman was eventually mentioned. It was inevitable really. I was completely expecting it. What I wasn't expecting was the impact it would have on me.

I find I can no longer read Leaves of Grass the way I used to. The words no longer dance around in my head. They are as flat as the page they've been printed on. It's as if the life has been sucked out of Whitman's  poems.

Reading these poems at a high school level is one thing. Reading them at a college level is entirely different. In high school, they were merely introducing us to them. Saying, "Hi, how are ya? People think I'm pretty neat. Maybe you should look me up sometime, check me out for yourself." In college, they were dissected right in front of me, like they do the frogs in science class. Picking them apart, comparing them to other specimens.

And now I'm making it sound as if my time spent as an English major was terrible. It wasn't really. I enjoyed analyzing, criticizing, discussing literature. The majority of the time I found it to be exhilarating and fascinating. It's just that Leaves of Grass was so personal to me, it was difficult to listen to what the "experts" had to say about it.

So now I'm left with a flat, emotionless collection of poems that once upon a time inspired me. Perhaps if I give it time, the effects of those classes will wear off and I can once again read Leaves of Grass through my own eyes and not some scholar's.

He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

No Introspection Before 10 AM

I stayed up way too late last night. A common mistake with the usual consequences. Woke up with just a half hour to get ready for class. Thank the good lord I had the foresight to shower the night before. And so here I am in General Psychology on time. Actually I'm five minutes early. On my short walk here I had some time to think. It's something I usually do when walking. Only problem is sometimes I travel down roads I didn't mean to (both physical and metaphorical) when I let my mind wander.

The first thing I thought as I stepped out the door and into the brisk morning was,"Damn. Colder than anticipated." And so I cursed myself for not thinking to grab a jacket. Then I cursed the guy in the red van for not yielding to pedestrians. I rolled my eyes as I passed a parked car that had paint on its back window declaring, "LOVE YOU" with a little heart and all. How cynical am I? But I quickly rationalized this by thinking I'm not cynical, I'm just not into cliches like these.

And then in the space of a time in takes me to walk one block, I went through an lengthy inner monologue, criticizing myself for always rationalizing and then defending myself by reassuring myself that I am only human and then again I criticize myself for making excuses yet again. Look at where making excuses has gotten me. Look at where my life is. This is not where I want to be at this point in my life. (both physically and metaphorically) This line of thought continues on and on and goes way too deep for 7:30 am. And so, not three minutes later, I arrive at class in tiff. Because I am lacking sleep and because I've just had some personal revelations way too early in the morning that will probably prove useless by noon.