Hey everybody. A more serious, longer entry today. I’ve already started working on these week’s chapter of “Write On,” and I have good/bad(?) new: This is the final chapter! It feels like it’s flown by so fast, but I’ve learned so much already from it, and I think the final section will be exciting for you guys. The entry focuses on when Hurricane Sandy hit Lafayette’s campus last year. To get you hyped, this is my journal entry from the first day that we really experienced the storm. Reader beware: for the sake of integrity, I haven’t censored anything that I wrote in that original entry, and there’s a few dirty bits here. We’re all mature here, but I figured I’d tell you anyway. Enjoy!:

I was excited when I woke up that morning because classes were cancelled, but I wasn’t expecting Sandy to be as good to me as she was. I was actually kinda expecting her to pass over uneventfully, to tell the truth. No big “event” or anything, just a bleak, drizzly day, some wind, relaxation, a new-found appreciation for the (wonderfully) destructive power of nature, and then tomorrow, everybody goes back to class like normal. We file away the storm under that mental compartment for times mother nature gave us a break from school with all the old elementary school snow-days and go on just like normal.

Well. Instead, I went to lunch, went to play a board game with my friend, did my psyche homework, did a little jig when public safety cancelled class on Tuesday, and then frowned, then smiled when the power went out.

I love power outages. Really, I find them mystifying. There are really only two ways to time-travel on earth. The first is to jump forward in time, by sleeping. If you wanna travel backwards in time, way back to before Thomas Edison wired us up, you gotta get caught in a black-out. The best part about black-outs is that you have to be resourceful. You gotta be like, “hey, how about we play poker by lantern light” or “hey, you, just saying, the power is out and nobody will be able to tell if we’re totally kissing.” It’s great because while everyone else is busy whining, you get the chance to be crazy and archaic and backwards. I understand that it’s because I’m the artsy-fartsy type, and any actual person in his right mind should hate power-outs. But I don’t. I love ’em.

That morning, I had sat down to try and write a poem comparing Sandy to Irene. I tried a sonnet, but it failed miserably. Sonnet are way too pretentious, especially when I do them. I eventually just spewed out something about Irene and Sandy and the women in my life. I wished Sandy would be like Irene. I wished for power outages and bonding and make-out-in-the-dark.

The real trouble started when I ran into Alex and Nikki in Marquis. The place was packed because Farinon was closed. It seemed like everyone in the entire school was eating there. I wanted a sandwich, but since the line was so long, I just nabbed some pizza instead. Nikki had a headache that was something fierce. She left to take a nap. When my plan to play spoons in the lounge with Alex and attract a crowd failed miserably, we went upstairs, woke up Nikki, and played “Never Have I Ever.” Turns out its much more fun when the players are all very naughty and completely absurd statements hit fingers – “never have I ever given a blow job in the Wall High School auditorium,” “Never have I ever been drunk AND high at the same time,” “Never have I ever sold my dignity for concert tickets,” etc. Eventually, we finally got around to the main plan, watching a movie, when before-you-know-it the wind is whipping the windows like an angry whore and Nikki blurts out that we should prowl around outside just to see what it’s like. I, being an utter idiot, decide to head with ’em. There’s me and Nikki and Reed and Nick out in the darkness, trudging through the storm.

“This is maybe the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” I said. “I can see the headlines now: Intelligent, sensible teen does something dangerous for the first time ever, dies.” They just keep forging ahead though.

Being outside in Sandy was like wandering around amidst the apocalypse. The sky was dark, but darker than just merely night time. It was like the sky was covered in one huge cumulonimbus cloud. It wasn’t like being inside a house, or even like being under a blanket – it felt like skin, like you were being smothered like a giant dark hand, like you were wandering around in the womb of an angry giant. Tiny raindrops hit like needles filled with anesthesia. The wind pushed against you like the very landscape was trying to force you out, trying to toss you away, erase you from its perfectly harmonious chaos. It was, in a word, awe-inspiring.

We wandered into it like ants under the thumb of a brooding gardener. We were insolent, almost dismissive of its power. As we walked about, I re-voiced my doubts: “Seriously guys. This is how stupid people die.” “Guys, let’s just go back. Guys – guys – this is ridiculous.”

Nikki didn’t listen though. She just forged ahead. Eventually we reached the Quad, our goal point. Sandy had callously knocked over the fence. She was quite displeased with it.

“It’s a sign,” Nikki said. “She wants us to go onto the Quad.”

I tried to argue, but the others just hopped over the fence onto the Quad. We were maybe the first students to use the unfinished new pathway. It was surreal. Worst of all though, as we came closer and closer to the center of the field, I became more and more aware of the complete and total lack of structure or reference point. At least before when a powerful gust threatened to annihilate us, I had lamp-posts, trees, garbage cans to hold onto. Now, I had nothing.

Finally, we made it to the center of the Quad. Nikki stood with her arms open wide, Christlike, letting the wind push against her. And then Nick did the same. Then Reed. I voices a complaint: “Guys -”

But before I could finish, Nikki just glanced at me. “Luke, this is powerful. Just feel it.” So, against, my better judgement, I flung my arms open and let the wind consume me.

When I did so, for the first time I noticed not just how savage Sandy was, but how beautiful she was. There was something intensely harmonic about the movement, about the destruction. Like ever move was at once perfectly planned and fluidly spontaneous, like a master tennis. Sandy was like a raging symphony – like Beethoven’s fifth, undeniably energetic yet thoughtfully constructed, capturing so elegantly the spark of spontaneity to make it all look effortless – of course this note would come next, of course the wind would blow this way now.

When I landed (metaphorically) fro my experience, I looked over and saw Nikki jumping up and down at a wind-snake of leaves. I reverted to cringing: “Nikki, it’s dangerous!”

To which she replied:

“Luke, it’s poetry!”

It took me a few moments until after she scurried off to fully register what she had just said. Yet I knew she was undeniably right. Over the next minute, in progressing shades, I understood. I understood as I watched her skip towards the danger.

Poetry is dangerous.

Poetry is wild. It is uncontrollable. A good poem should make the writer feel uncomfortable about showing it to others. Because it’s all about danger. It’s about the endless hidden allure, the quest, the search fro the danger on the edge of reality, that’s what poets really grasp. That’s we seize hold of with our words, what we scrutinize, what we worship. Its what we hold in our eyes.

It’s what Sandy holds in her eye.

—

Well, what a day! My earlier diplomacy directions describe pretty much my whole day besides the above story. That leaves one final sticking point: Dinner for Schmucks.

I loves me a good imbroglio. Mmm-hmm. And this is one of the best I’ve ever seen. I have lots to say, but honestly, it’s 3:10 a.m.

Love, Luke.