It's amazing the things that happen right under and above our eyelids.
I've biked around Lake Bonny countless times, or no, not around like the nearly perfectly round Lake Hollingsworth paved with a neat path for the town's leisure and exercise-conscious, the civilized. This one, though, is not manicured, not family-friendly, but... a little wild.
The beautiful Tuscany-style Southeastern campus,like a rare jewel,stands directly on the waterfront. In the early days, when I first arrived on the campus grounds, watching the sun set became a routine. Gazing westward, I used to sit on the grass, sandwiched between library and lake, between books and nature, two things I love the most in this world, and contemplate. Nothing profound happens. I had hoped that this place would be home, for the next three years, the length of time it would take me to graduate, to move on. I had never stayed in the same place for more than two years, so it was a rather strange sensation, harboring the hope that I would be here for such a long time.
Something did happen. I guess it didn't take long for conflict to push me over the edge, and I left.
But for the moment, I had only an inkling, only a vague premonition that here in my new "home," humming along to Anne Keren's "Not Going Anywhere," I somehow feel homeless. From the grass under the tall oaks laced with Spanish moss overlooking the lake, I knew, instinctively, that this lake--is a lonely one.
The polished mirror-like window panes of the library refract its glistening light. It happens the most bright just after noon, about 1 or 2, depending on the time of the year. I know because of all the breaks I took, munching some Townhouse crackers (anchovie flavored ones are the best) with a cup of black coffee, freshly brewed from our Mi Casa cafe. The grass always smells fresh. There's the dirt too. I liked how black coffee, grass, dirt mingled together--it's ... earthy. And I would lay down, my bones warmed from the coffee, my skin from the sun. Sometimes, if I lay there long enough, the dappled shadow from tree would shift slightly, so I get more UV exposure and more Vitamin D, and that's when the glare came.
With my glasses off, the floor-to-ceiling windows could have been mistaken for solar panels, so uniformly cut, metallic sheen, and utterly majestic. Light reflected from silicon sheets, from water molecules, from burning helium--it was a double refraction, like indirect indirect transfer. I didn't care, either, that my chemistry-wired memory bank clashed with more recently refined aesthetic sensibilities. It's what they call a liberal education, arts and science. What's light on water? Wave on particle, or an invisible shield of glory hovering over the common, yet dignified element?
It may sound crazy, and suicidal, but I would think about what it would feel like to lie on the surface, coolness on the back contrasted with the brilliant sunlight on the other side, or maybe eventually to immerse, into the it, to feel the surface above you, parallel, but definitely above, and receding from you. The denser element would fold itself around, its weight, its growing darkness, it would feel almost ... like death. And I would be far away from any trace of air, far from any trace of light, far from noise, from .... reality? Or is this reality?
I could tell, by then, I was growing tired, that I desperately needed and longed for rest.
Maybe the solitude would cure it. Or maybe not. At any rate, I've never drowned myself. Lake Bonny would be a fine choice though, I'm sure.
What I have done, though, is definitely biking, and some biking it's been. The shore, for one, I found out, is uneven. It seems to sound like a "duh" observation, but I'm serious. The moment you take off northward on Longfellow Blvd, it's gone, the lake. You catch a glimmer of it when looking down the end of short streets, with wonderfully literary names like Poe, or Shakespeare, or Conrad. It stops, though, after Dante. You can't see the lake anymore, past that. There's more rundown houses, sidewalk bumps (that hurts when riding), some trees--quite ghetto, until the sidewalk disappears altogether and it's for real ghetto.
I got to despair once, moaning the utter inconsiderate brains of some Florida governor sitting in his air-conditioned office not signing the paper to build at least some sort of paved strip to save pedestrian/bikers alike from being run over, and thus successfully becoming splattered, bone-fractured roadkill at the wheel of some pissed-off mad driver. As if it was my fault.
Ok, it was my fault. I should never have biked in the first place. The blooming ___ tree is always a consolation (forgive my botany inadequacy, if I had an app that helped me identify plants, as supposed to music, I would). There's also a lovely green cottage with a small bridge over the stream that, if your eyes follow, flows into the Lake. The property is divided into two, the said roadside cottage and a further reclused shade, a wood pavilion, a boat.
At this point, I knew I needed to turn left, soon, to closely trail the lake (this happened without a GPS or previous Google map-studying, not advised for everyone). It's S Elm Road, and after a few more twistings of the streets, I found myself on lake-front properties again, to one of which I've become particularly attached. It's painted with vibrant orange and yellow, a post signaling intimacy and careful design: Marcy & Shawn <3, and aside in smaller print 4-19-06. On the lawn, there's also a white poster board with letters in red caps: FOR SALE. Something about it struck me, or perhaps frightened me. It was obvious that a few years ago, two fell in love and built this house together, with hopes and dreams and what is this now. Dare I say the word--divorce? Maybe it's just relocation, maybe he got a new job offer, maybe he decided to join the military, maybe, or maybe he just had an affair. Why does it have to be him? Well, I am somewhat of a feminist, but also a bit realistic. Usually it's the man, in my life, it's the man; my parents didn't break up finally because my mother had wanted to go off to the city to graduate school. But things move on, the world moves on, and on a bike, I tend to move on too.
So I'll fast-forward to Lake Bonny Park, the other side. When pushing the two rubber wheels onto the small dock, I can see the house still. Except it's now on the other side, within touch though, still, within eye's touch. The dock itself is unassuming, wooden frame, barely over the edge of the shore. The afternoon sun had baked it, my barefoot remembers. There's a breeze from which you can feel the fingers of the same wind over the waves, waves that only form 3 meters away from the where I stood since the dock shields the distance from anything but a west wind. I thought it would be a peaceful place to watch the sun rise.
Some marshes on the left and right, a few water birds having flying/swimming contest. The smallest one, a tough little one, started on a much later finishing line and still flew the greatest distance, then swam the same. It worked so hard flapping those fragile but determined wings, pushing forward, and I watched until it disappeared with its companions along the bend. What if I had a raft like Huck Finn? I'd go after them. A baby alligator came by to say hi.
After the evening haze began to settle, I got up again, riding past branches of trees that found roots in the bank's water-covered soil. They were still bare against the late February dusk, a faint one. I wondered about the blossoms, or will there be blossoms? Will there be leaves even? Is it dead, or only pretending to be? Is spring absent, or only...? Is God?
It became hard to make that trip again, for fear, I think, of asking the same questions again. The distance from the well-framed iron doors of Addison Hall to... there, a point beyond, seems so far. Here on a Christian university with chapel and curfew and prayer meetings, I can't and don't dare to ask those questions, repressed under the cloak of piety.
For a while, I became immobilized. I kept wanting to go away, escape from here, and go there, but afraid. The stars over the lake are forgiving, never making fun of my questions' insignificance. During the day, though, it's harder, when sunlight in its full glory, intertwined with an alluring wind, caress the body, calling the intuition within.
I chickened out every time, but one.
Well, it was a sort of compromise, no that's not true. It was for real. I set out again, on an afternoon, finally tired of making excuses to the daisies out there on my lawn. "Ja neh," I waved a temporary goodbye. But the destination changed, unintentionally, abruptly, when I remembered something: grey plaque with the olive words "Lakefront Apartments." Not far from Mira Lago, in fact, very very close, literally down the street, is a mobile home park for seniors, 65+. I obviously, looked like an outsider.
"Are you looking for something, dear?"
"No, ma'am, just ... taking a bike ride..." which sounded pathetic, for some reason. Who takes bike rides around senior residence anyways? I'm a college student, for Pete's sake, get a life, go to Starbucks or something. Do the hip thing, like campaign for world hunger or some other activist cause to make it look like I'm at least an ounce environmentally aware and therefore "cutting-edge." But why the heck shouldn't I, or anybody, any college student, be riding around here? This is part of the environment and those living here probably as starved, for a caring hand, as any child in Africa.
I'll bet most Southeastern religions majors with a minor in missions doesn't even know this place exists. Less than five minutes walk from the Valencia gate. I felt ashamed somehow.
Then I saw a couple, they asked me if I went to the university, what I studied, they were just trying to be careful, it's so rare to have a young visitor, they've been together for quite some years now, yes Florida's warm, nice here, oh we're off to barbecue now, take care.
After staring at each house's unique signs, walkways, gardens, I stopped at one with a small stone pool, waterfall, koi fish--like my grandparents' home, where there was no electricity, a rooster that woke dawn, chicken that gave eggs, firewood for cooking and boiling water, monsoon rains, laundry lines.... I kept riding, it was almost completely silent, it was golden. Not just the sunlight.
I've biked around Lake Bonny countless times, or no, not around like the nearly perfectly round Lake Hollingsworth paved with a neat path for the town's leisure and exercise-conscious, the civilized. This one, though, is not manicured, not family-friendly, but... a little wild.
The beautiful Tuscany-style Southeastern campus,like a rare jewel,stands directly on the waterfront. In the early days, when I first arrived on the campus grounds, watching the sun set became a routine. Gazing westward, I used to sit on the grass, sandwiched between library and lake, between books and nature, two things I love the most in this world, and contemplate. Nothing profound happens. I had hoped that this place would be home, for the next three years, the length of time it would take me to graduate, to move on. I had never stayed in the same place for more than two years, so it was a rather strange sensation, harboring the hope that I would be here for such a long time.
Something did happen. I guess it didn't take long for conflict to push me over the edge, and I left.
But for the moment, I had only an inkling, only a vague premonition that here in my new "home," humming along to Anne Keren's "Not Going Anywhere," I somehow feel homeless. From the grass under the tall oaks laced with Spanish moss overlooking the lake, I knew, instinctively, that this lake--is a lonely one.
The polished mirror-like window panes of the library refract its glistening light. It happens the most bright just after noon, about 1 or 2, depending on the time of the year. I know because of all the breaks I took, munching some Townhouse crackers (anchovie flavored ones are the best) with a cup of black coffee, freshly brewed from our Mi Casa cafe. The grass always smells fresh. There's the dirt too. I liked how black coffee, grass, dirt mingled together--it's ... earthy. And I would lay down, my bones warmed from the coffee, my skin from the sun. Sometimes, if I lay there long enough, the dappled shadow from tree would shift slightly, so I get more UV exposure and more Vitamin D, and that's when the glare came.
With my glasses off, the floor-to-ceiling windows could have been mistaken for solar panels, so uniformly cut, metallic sheen, and utterly majestic. Light reflected from silicon sheets, from water molecules, from burning helium--it was a double refraction, like indirect indirect transfer. I didn't care, either, that my chemistry-wired memory bank clashed with more recently refined aesthetic sensibilities. It's what they call a liberal education, arts and science. What's light on water? Wave on particle, or an invisible shield of glory hovering over the common, yet dignified element?
It may sound crazy, and suicidal, but I would think about what it would feel like to lie on the surface, coolness on the back contrasted with the brilliant sunlight on the other side, or maybe eventually to immerse, into the it, to feel the surface above you, parallel, but definitely above, and receding from you. The denser element would fold itself around, its weight, its growing darkness, it would feel almost ... like death. And I would be far away from any trace of air, far from any trace of light, far from noise, from .... reality? Or is this reality?
I could tell, by then, I was growing tired, that I desperately needed and longed for rest.
Maybe the solitude would cure it. Or maybe not. At any rate, I've never drowned myself. Lake Bonny would be a fine choice though, I'm sure.
What I have done, though, is definitely biking, and some biking it's been. The shore, for one, I found out, is uneven. It seems to sound like a "duh" observation, but I'm serious. The moment you take off northward on Longfellow Blvd, it's gone, the lake. You catch a glimmer of it when looking down the end of short streets, with wonderfully literary names like Poe, or Shakespeare, or Conrad. It stops, though, after Dante. You can't see the lake anymore, past that. There's more rundown houses, sidewalk bumps (that hurts when riding), some trees--quite ghetto, until the sidewalk disappears altogether and it's for real ghetto.
I got to despair once, moaning the utter inconsiderate brains of some Florida governor sitting in his air-conditioned office not signing the paper to build at least some sort of paved strip to save pedestrian/bikers alike from being run over, and thus successfully becoming splattered, bone-fractured roadkill at the wheel of some pissed-off mad driver. As if it was my fault.
Ok, it was my fault. I should never have biked in the first place. The blooming ___ tree is always a consolation (forgive my botany inadequacy, if I had an app that helped me identify plants, as supposed to music, I would). There's also a lovely green cottage with a small bridge over the stream that, if your eyes follow, flows into the Lake. The property is divided into two, the said roadside cottage and a further reclused shade, a wood pavilion, a boat.
At this point, I knew I needed to turn left, soon, to closely trail the lake (this happened without a GPS or previous Google map-studying, not advised for everyone). It's S Elm Road, and after a few more twistings of the streets, I found myself on lake-front properties again, to one of which I've become particularly attached. It's painted with vibrant orange and yellow, a post signaling intimacy and careful design: Marcy & Shawn <3, and aside in smaller print 4-19-06. On the lawn, there's also a white poster board with letters in red caps: FOR SALE. Something about it struck me, or perhaps frightened me. It was obvious that a few years ago, two fell in love and built this house together, with hopes and dreams and what is this now. Dare I say the word--divorce? Maybe it's just relocation, maybe he got a new job offer, maybe he decided to join the military, maybe, or maybe he just had an affair. Why does it have to be him? Well, I am somewhat of a feminist, but also a bit realistic. Usually it's the man, in my life, it's the man; my parents didn't break up finally because my mother had wanted to go off to the city to graduate school. But things move on, the world moves on, and on a bike, I tend to move on too.
So I'll fast-forward to Lake Bonny Park, the other side. When pushing the two rubber wheels onto the small dock, I can see the house still. Except it's now on the other side, within touch though, still, within eye's touch. The dock itself is unassuming, wooden frame, barely over the edge of the shore. The afternoon sun had baked it, my barefoot remembers. There's a breeze from which you can feel the fingers of the same wind over the waves, waves that only form 3 meters away from the where I stood since the dock shields the distance from anything but a west wind. I thought it would be a peaceful place to watch the sun rise.
Some marshes on the left and right, a few water birds having flying/swimming contest. The smallest one, a tough little one, started on a much later finishing line and still flew the greatest distance, then swam the same. It worked so hard flapping those fragile but determined wings, pushing forward, and I watched until it disappeared with its companions along the bend. What if I had a raft like Huck Finn? I'd go after them. A baby alligator came by to say hi.
After the evening haze began to settle, I got up again, riding past branches of trees that found roots in the bank's water-covered soil. They were still bare against the late February dusk, a faint one. I wondered about the blossoms, or will there be blossoms? Will there be leaves even? Is it dead, or only pretending to be? Is spring absent, or only...? Is God?
It became hard to make that trip again, for fear, I think, of asking the same questions again. The distance from the well-framed iron doors of Addison Hall to... there, a point beyond, seems so far. Here on a Christian university with chapel and curfew and prayer meetings, I can't and don't dare to ask those questions, repressed under the cloak of piety.
For a while, I became immobilized. I kept wanting to go away, escape from here, and go there, but afraid. The stars over the lake are forgiving, never making fun of my questions' insignificance. During the day, though, it's harder, when sunlight in its full glory, intertwined with an alluring wind, caress the body, calling the intuition within.
I chickened out every time, but one.
Well, it was a sort of compromise, no that's not true. It was for real. I set out again, on an afternoon, finally tired of making excuses to the daisies out there on my lawn. "Ja neh," I waved a temporary goodbye. But the destination changed, unintentionally, abruptly, when I remembered something: grey plaque with the olive words "Lakefront Apartments." Not far from Mira Lago, in fact, very very close, literally down the street, is a mobile home park for seniors, 65+. I obviously, looked like an outsider.
"Are you looking for something, dear?"
"No, ma'am, just ... taking a bike ride..." which sounded pathetic, for some reason. Who takes bike rides around senior residence anyways? I'm a college student, for Pete's sake, get a life, go to Starbucks or something. Do the hip thing, like campaign for world hunger or some other activist cause to make it look like I'm at least an ounce environmentally aware and therefore "cutting-edge." But why the heck shouldn't I, or anybody, any college student, be riding around here? This is part of the environment and those living here probably as starved, for a caring hand, as any child in Africa.
I'll bet most Southeastern religions majors with a minor in missions doesn't even know this place exists. Less than five minutes walk from the Valencia gate. I felt ashamed somehow.
Then I saw a couple, they asked me if I went to the university, what I studied, they were just trying to be careful, it's so rare to have a young visitor, they've been together for quite some years now, yes Florida's warm, nice here, oh we're off to barbecue now, take care.
After staring at each house's unique signs, walkways, gardens, I stopped at one with a small stone pool, waterfall, koi fish--like my grandparents' home, where there was no electricity, a rooster that woke dawn, chicken that gave eggs, firewood for cooking and boiling water, monsoon rains, laundry lines.... I kept riding, it was almost completely silent, it was golden. Not just the sunlight.
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