Arrival at Bard

Its been a very thick day. Now my stomach aches from hunger, with no relief in sight. But before I go scrounging I wanted to put down the most significant moments of the day.

I heard my grandfather Swyer's voice for the first time today on a cassette tape recording of a speech he delivered in the middle-late 80s to a Catholic group in Albany. You have to understand that my grandfather is a man of great significance to me. He is a mythic hero––a rags to riches hero, a philosopher-king hero, a leader, a builder, a thinker. In all these ways I strive to imitate and honor him.

I wondered beforehand what his voice would sound like. What if it was tinny like Theodore Roosevelt's?
Then we listened. Through the speakers, came the echoed voice of an old fashioned man. His cadence and tone reminded me of Nixon––but unlike Nixon, grandpa wasn't juking, dodging or covering. He was talking about the meaning of life, literally––was it my luck, or did he always talk about the meaning of life? And on the day when the grandson knew only in infancy was leaving on such a journey. He jumped from reference to reference, quoting bishops and poets––he spoke with poise and eloquence and command. He even cracked a few jokes––well received. I couldn't follow him, so I don't know if he was funny or whether his speech even made sense.

My parents drove me to Bard. We sat before the undulating metal and glass facade of the Gehry building. We looked at eachother and away, held eachother and let go. I read the poem my father wrote for me and felt as I do sometimes––like a skipping stone, hurtling through the air senselessly without eyes or ears, then suddenly in the most profound living moments coming into contact with the surface of the sea. What a mystery and a joy––that carved words and sentences can do that. I need to learn to write like he does.