Page 2-Sunday, Ap 13, 1980-The Michiga ily
Th Michigan Daily-Sund
James Deans QCat
for Richard Wit
The years are born
as durable as the long laces of high buttoned boots.
The breath and simplicity of photographs remain:'
the brown tenderness of age in a mother's eyes,
the solemn pose of a young boy in his garden
holding a model airplane-and his future-
there, by the tulips, in a man's tie.
In old clothes, thick with propellers,
the years stare
as firmly as the eyes we hope for '
on the days we're able to love
Stern as scripture, words are plied on paper,
form and color restored to canvas,
the artist taking on a world too vast, too human.
The years revolve around the lifting light of day,
the depth of night, predictable and fluid,
collecting surely on the windows, the tables,
the smiles and the hands always willing
to frame their cowardice, their shame
and their majesty. What we take with us is a name,
our lips and the many beds we made and slept in.
Death of a Nun
What was her name?
Marya, from Chicago.
I was finally there when someone died.
She was still, still alive,
then the last breath.
A deer leapt through both windows of the chapel.
The men went out trying to find it.
So much like her, once she finally let go,
just to bolt like that.
Simone Juda Press is a visiting lecturer in Arts
But what will you
wish you had done
when you're 80?
IT'S AMAZING that we've had only
about four pleasant and sunny days
all decade. Now it's just about time for
summer vacation, that most onerous of
all periods. Years ago, when we at
Bodensee Uncooperative House were
just tadpoles writing columns for our
junior high school papers, summer
vacation was a riot.
When one is past the age of 16,
though, it is incumbent upon one to
do something with oneself, such as find
a job or take supplemental classes. The
situation worsens when one is actually
graduating, because the real world must
be faced without the assurance that
four months hence one will be once
again howling at football games, using
drugs, reading books and calling it
"work," and otherwise eating lotus in
the land of academia.
Due to graduation diplomas,
Bodensee Uncooperative House will
be disbanded after this term.
We are all graduating seniors, so this
particular spring season is laced with a
double edge of melancholy: Not only
are we nervous about our collective
futures (how are we to be un-
cooperative if scattered to far corners
of the earth?), but we remain
miserable about those things we always
wanted to do as undergraduates, but
never quite got around to doing.
The list of trivial things we never did
is quite long, and includes classes we
never took, books we never read,
movies we were too busy to see, and
young ladies we were too shy to coax up
to the house with promises of candy
bars and now-precious Montavani
A few things really stick in our craw,
and will always be in our files under
Unfinished Business. These include:
" DESTROYING THE ROCK-Has it
really been fifty years that the corner of
Hill and Washtenaw . has been
blemished by that paint-covered
eyesore? Seems like longer, and lately,
the entire area has suffered at the han-
ds of zealots with brushes who paint the
sidewalk, street, and surrounding trees
with whatever fancies spring from their
One of us kept track of the vandalism
this year, and offers the following
report: September: 18 coats of paint;
October: 12 coats of paint, but two fires
caused some excess damage; Novem-
ber: 10 paintings; December: 11;
January: 10; February: only 6; and
March: a record 21 times. Clearly, the
rock is an embarassing monument to
the amount of free time and excess
energy we all have. Destroying it would
be the coup of'the decade.
The logical way to get rid of the
irregularly-shaped, 20-ton hunk of stone
would be to dynamite it, but we've yet
to solve the problem of flying debris.
Another obvious solution would be to
dig a rock-sized hole on the lot, and
bury the thing. Digging such a hole
the rock c
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