All Talk and No Trousers.
Spending time with my family has the invariable effect of reminding me not to settle. Yet still, I know i run the risk of being talk and no trousers. Of returning to a place to write about when i left it. backward travel. This said, i have never dared think of myself as a travel writer, but rather a traveling one. One who is called american and home and german here. Quick to correct the error.
But these days my shoes are clean and the holes have grown only in the seat of my pants. The blame goes in equal parts to the summer's fireside pallet-seats, to street curbs, and to modern schoolhouse wireframe dimple chairs. the kind which would stack well, but but never are.
I came to school expecting a certain 1, 2, 3. A series of handshakes and a Chupa-Chup tree of knowledge. Women wanting to learn, men wanting to listen, and morning orange-juice conversations to get everyone excited about each new thing. School was to be a room full of fascinated people with a bagel-bar in the corner.
Having been raised on reusable cloth diapers and Bauhaus, i was shocked that most college mealtimes paint the picture of some has-been talking railcar-mindgames at a roomfull of disinterested student doing Butoh with their mouths.