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John Palcewski's Journal

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Forever Transformed
forioscribe



I was 16, a Junior at The Rayen School. Mr. Bender, the biology teacher who supervised study hall, told us he had but one rule, which he would enforce 100 percent, and that was absolute silence at all times.

“Which means no talking. No humming. No giggling. No laughing. No farting. No getting up to use the pencil sharpener. No passing notes, either. SILENCE. Get it?”

“Can we sleep?” Billy asked. “Is that OK?”

“What part of the word SILENCE don’t you understand?”

OK. So each day I looked forward to an hour-long descent into the comfort of unconsciousness. Sleep was my haven, I mean besides reading the books that interested me at the Bellmont Public Library.

But I was fully awake one morning when a girl entered the study hall and handed a note to Mr. Bender. She wasn’t movie-star beautiful, but she wasn’t exactly plain either. A pretty girl in a brown and yellow plaid pleated skirt, white sweater, white socks, and loafers. Her skin was pale with a hint of a rose blush, like a Renoir portrait. Her large aquamarine eyes suggested intelligence, awareness. Sunlight slanted into the room. Her dark blonde hair shimmered like a gold statue from an Egyptian tomb.

Nothing about this girl, Lana Shagrin, could account for the tidal wave that engulfed me that moment. She was a mystical vision, a holy apparition. The massive steel wall I’d erected between me and the world melted in the radiant heat of pure love. My untrusting heart opened fully. I surrendered to my love for this exquisite creature, wholly, totally, completely, joyously. In an instant I was, like Saul of Tarsus on the road to Damascus, forever transformed.

I spent the rest of the day in a trance. Every time I summoned the image of her shimmering golden hair, her lovely pale rose-tinted skin, I felt an oceanic surge of tenderness. I imagined taking her in my arms, covering her beautiful face with tender kisses. I knew I would write her poems. Songs. An epic novel. That night in bed I embraced my pillow, and imagined it was her. I closed my eyes and softly and chastely kissed her cheeks and lips over and over again. I whispered her name. Lana. Lana. Oh, Lana!

She was a senior. A member of the Drama, English and French clubs, Choir, and the Honor Society. Also assistant editor and reporter on the staff of The Rayen Record. She’d been accepted by Columbia University where she planned to major in journalism. Her smiling picture in the yearbook didn’t do her justice. She was much more beautiful in person.

She lived on the North Side in a big house behind a black iron gate. On my way to school I always took a long, long detour to walk past that gate, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. In front of the garage was a blue Mercedes and also a Chrysler New Yorker. One time I saw a curtain part on the second floor of the house, and I thought I saw her, but I wasn’t sure. In an instant that curtain closed.

I begged Margie, a girl who worked an hour each morning in the administration office, to let me copy Lana’s class schedule. Margie smiled. She knew I was totally crazy, but harmless. As indeed I was.

The closest I ever got to Lana was one afternoon when I somehow overcame my fear and actually approached her. In her arms was a stack of The Rayen Record. I held out a dime. I’d intended to say something, to try to start up a conversation, but I was paralyzed. I just stupidly held out that dime, saying absolutely nothing, and she took it, grunted softly, and handed me a copy of the paper. That precious little feminine grunt! I treasured it.

I went back to the library and opened the yearbook. Secretly I tore out the page. At home I used a ruler and straight-edged razor blade to cut out her picture. My sacred icon, which I put in my wallet and carried with me for the next two, three years. At boot camp, and at the Intelligence school in Wichita Falls, and then later at Amarillo Air Force base, I’d stare at her halftone image. A shiny paper rectangle of a zillion tiny dots of printer’s ink. My love, my one true love, forever.





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Beautiful, sorrowful, and true.

I carried a gaudy paper tie, colored in with permanent markers, that was made for me by a girl I once fancied (loved?), for a few years. Eventually it fell apart, and the pieces became lost to me over time. I haven't spoken to her in at least 3 years, quite a bit less time than it's been for you.

Yet still I realize that I will never see her again; it doesn't stop me from hoping to happen across her by mere chance in the future, and striking up a conversation.

Google her name, see what comes up!

Heheh, tried that already. It just picked up a story she wrote, along with her involvement in speech competitions, both of which I was well aware of.

She dropped off the face of the earth. That's alright, though. Fixations on the past never bode well for the present.

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