Transparent Eyeball Exploration
American Studies Literature
March 27th, 2014
Not Really a Gorge Silence fell across the group as we trekked towards our final destinations in the woods. For most, it was wandering, hoping to come upon some spot which would inspire them, but not for me. As the leaves crunched beneath my feet, I had one spot in mind. Two springs ago, I had stumbled across it while following the stream that runs from the pond. Freshman year, Lucas Santiago and Ethan Clearfield found a small clearing by the stream, next to a miniature forest of bamboo. They built a makeshift bridge across the stream, and put a quaint little bench at the other side. I loved that spot, and would often go there just to think or get away. One day, instead of crossing the bridge, I followed the stream further away from school, and came across a mini “gorge.” It wasn’t really a gorge, but the stream had hollowed out the dirt around it, and now there are dirt walls on either side of it, about five feet high. I found it again today. Of course, the last time I found it, it was spring, so it was lush and green, and the water rushed through the not-gorge. Today, however, everything was unpleasantly gray after a long gray winter. I walked next to the water until I found myself at a spot where two trees had fallen across the not-gorge, and formed little bridges. I clambered my way up the dry dirt wall, across the fallen tree into the center, and got myself comfortable. I was in a good space to observe the whole gorge. Underneath me, water trickled steadily, and if I held perfectly still and stopped breathing, I could hear the faint babbling of the water beneath my dangling feet. With my hood up around my ears, I could hear the wind whistling through the trees, though thankfully I was protected from any harsh breezes by the gorge wall. Small clumps of dirt tumbled down the reddish-brown walls as squirrels chattered, clicked and squeaked from a tree on the bank. Around me, I could see the tops of the bare,
March 27th, 2014
Not Really a Gorge Silence fell across the group as we trekked towards our final destinations in the woods. For most, it was wandering, hoping to come upon some spot which would inspire them, but not for me. As the leaves crunched beneath my feet, I had one spot in mind. Two springs ago, I had stumbled across it while following the stream that runs from the pond. Freshman year, Lucas Santiago and Ethan Clearfield found a small clearing by the stream, next to a miniature forest of bamboo. They built a makeshift bridge across the stream, and put a quaint little bench at the other side. I loved that spot, and would often go there just to think or get away. One day, instead of crossing the bridge, I followed the stream further away from school, and came across a mini “gorge.” It wasn’t really a gorge, but the stream had hollowed out the dirt around it, and now there are dirt walls on either side of it, about five feet high. I found it again today. Of course, the last time I found it, it was spring, so it was lush and green, and the water rushed through the not-gorge. Today, however, everything was unpleasantly gray after a long gray winter. I walked next to the water until I found myself at a spot where two trees had fallen across the not-gorge, and formed little bridges. I clambered my way up the dry dirt wall, across the fallen tree into the center, and got myself comfortable. I was in a good space to observe the whole gorge. Underneath me, water trickled steadily, and if I held perfectly still and stopped breathing, I could hear the faint babbling of the water beneath my dangling feet. With my hood up around my ears, I could hear the wind whistling through the trees, though thankfully I was protected from any harsh breezes by the gorge wall. Small clumps of dirt tumbled down the reddish-brown walls as squirrels chattered, clicked and squeaked from a tree on the bank. Around me, I could see the tops of the bare,