GOOD YEARS

Those were good years, not just because we were young. Our hair was permed, our makeup far too shiny, vestiges of an era recently past that would relapse at the century’s turn, but we surpassed couture and culture, our souls selecting our own society.

Those were good years, not just because our achievement was measured in words or G.P.A.s. The algorithms we calculated illustrated the rhythms of our young lives. Those were good years, not just because there was always pizza in the lounge, or because of $2 pitchers/$1 well drinks till 10 pm. Those were good days, not just because of the buzz, the high, the hilarity of all-nighters of the academic, social and romantic ilk.

Those were good years, not just because we had roommates and floormates as on-the-spot siblings and constant confidants, who held our hands as we stepped tentatively into adulthood, held us close after sexual exploration and held our hair back as we voided our stomachs after toxic alcohol and pizza binges.

Those were good years, not just because our minds were boundless, capable of the lucid one moment and the ludicrous the next. Those were good years, not just because our naivete/optimism flowed like free-flowing beer at some down-the-block fraternity or local watering hole.

Those were good years, not just because we spent our days soaking in the knowable and our nights searching for the elusive--silent corners in the dorms, stolen moments on a porch, noses and lips touching in moonlight.

Those were good years, not just because we believed in ourselves and had our futures at our disposal. Those were good years, not just because in every day each of us lived our own dramas, comedies, romances and adventures. Life was our movie, and we scripted our own endings with every step.

Those were good days. Not just because of one thing or moment or feeling. But just because.



Inspired by the train ride home from the New York Art Festival, after a reunion with a college friend. 11/11/04

GOOD YEARS

Those were good years, not just because we were young. Our hair was permed, our makeup far too shiny, vestiges of an era recently past that would relapse at the century’s turn, but we surpassed couture and culture, our souls selecting our own society.

Those were good years, not just because our achievement was measured in words or G.P.A.s. The algorithms we calculated illustrated the rhythms of our young lives. Those were good years, not just because there was always pizza in the lounge, or because of $2 pitchers/$1 well drinks till 10 pm. Those were good days, not just because of the buzz, the high, the hilarity of all-nighters of the academic, social and romantic ilk.

Those were good years, not just because we had roommates and floormates as on-the-spot siblings and constant confidants, who held our hands as we stepped tentatively into adulthood, held us close after sexual exploration and held our hair back as we voided our stomachs after toxic alcohol and pizza binges.

Those were good years, not just because our minds were boundless, capable of the lucid one moment and the ludicrous the next. Those were good years, not just because our naivete/optimism flowed like free-flowing beer at some down-the-block fraternity or local watering hole.

Those were good years, not just because we spent our days soaking in the knowable and our nights searching for the elusive--silent corners in the dorms, stolen moments on a porch, noses and lips touching in moonlight.

Those were good years, not just because we believed in ourselves and had our futures at our disposal. Those were good years, not just because in every day each of us lived our own dramas, comedies, romances and adventures. Life was our movie, and we scripted our own endings with every step.

Those were good days. Not just because of one thing or moment or feeling. But just because.



Inspired by the train ride home from the New York Art Festival, after a reunion with a college friend. 11/11/04