It wasn’t so long ago I was talking to a Praguista and noting that it was still light at 4:30 – a notable improvement. Spring was right around the corner, we agreed. Dang! Now it’s light until after six p.m. Spring really is coming.
Today the temperature was above freezing for a sustained period. I imagine the snowman on the front of tram seven has finally met its demise. He was riding up there for several days, on the car painted bule to sell Japanese electronics or some shit like that. When I first saw the tram heading my way I thought there was some sort of effigy on the front, but when it got close I saw a meter-tall snowman mushed onto the hooking-up-thing that jutted from the tram car, its little snow arms spread in joy. “I’m the king of the world!!!!” the snowman proclaimed.
Days later I saw the same tram car, and the bowsprit was still there, spindly arms and all. And why not? Nothing had happened in the meantime that would cause snow to melt.
Today, I suspect, the snowman tipped off his precarious balance and was crushed beneath the wheels of the tram.
Spring is coming, and I’m ready for it. As much as I whine about it I really do enjoy the cold, but spring brings more than just warmth. It brings miniskirts. There are a few women who wear them even in the dead of winter, and I love those girls for suffering so my life can be a little better, but even now, as the days get longer, the skirts get smaller.
In San Diego, working a couple hundred meters from the beach, I had ample opportunity to appraise the female form, but for all I like the bikini, I like the miniskirt more. A little more mystery, a lot more swish. There are miniskirts burned into my memory the way no bikini ever could be. Some are recent – watching the girl with bare legs walking down Vinohradska as I huddle in my coat. Some are ancient – watching the walk of a San Diego bartender who shall go unnamed but who is neither Amy nor Rose as she nearly drove me to madness.
Good times. Fond memories. I hope I die before the miniskirt goes out of style.
Ah, I am reminded of the definition of the perfect length of an essay — no, it’s not five paragraphs, no matter how many pedagogues have pounded that definition.
It should be like an attractive woman’s skirt — long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to keep things interesting.
You have now given me an extension to the metaphor: I want my students to write miniskirts, not bikinis. Their writing should be concise, but not skimpy.
If that’s the analogy, I’d just turn in a naked sheet of paper.
And the writing should have swish.
Swish is good. I always encourage my students to have a bit of flair. It’s their own individual swing that makes their writing special.