Another Awesome Dead Poet's Weekend

I'm back from another Dead Poet's Retreat, my 15th time going away with some of the loveliest, awesomest, most creative people I know.  Here are a couple of things I wrote while there.

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This was mostly a stream-of-consciousness bit about a memory from elementary school:

When I was in elementary school, I had a table collapse on me.  We were in the school cafeteria having one of those assemblies where they try to get you all psyched up about the prizes you can win by selling magazine subscriptions, and some of the kids had decided to stand on top of the tables.  I remained sitting at one of the benches connected to the table top.  Suddenly, the whole thing folded in on itself, and with a loud bang I was half under the table.  This, of course, hurt like hell.  And there were kids, oblivious, still standing on the table that was now crushing me.  So I screamed at them, "Get off!  Get off the table!  Get off of me!"  I shouted as loud as I could, trying to get their attention.  But nobody paid the slightest attention.  I'm yelling as loud as I can, and everyone's just milling about, on top of me, some of them jumping up and down on the table top.  After a minute or two, some teachers made their way over and quickly assessed the situation and I was rescued.

But I couldn't understand how everyone had been so awful, so oblivious to my pain.  I mean, some kids are always going to be jerks, but everyone?

Happily, once I was out, I was fine.  Nothing broken.  And I told a friend about how nobody would move, no matter how I yelled.  But he looked at me and said something curious.  He said, "Matt, you weren't yelling.  I was right next to you and you were super calm and polite and you said, 'Excuse me.  Excuse me, but would you mind getting off of the table?'  And you didn't shout it.  It was like you were saying it under  your breath."

So what happened there?  I could swear I'd been yelling and screaming, "Get off!  Get off!"  But I had a witness who had heard me calmly and politely express my concern.

It seems we have a tenuous grip on reality.  Other people do not see us as we see ourselves.  Events did not unfold the way we remember.  We get all bent out of shape over things, but the people we're mad at don't always deserve our judgement and wrath.

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And here's a little poem I wrote.  The camp is the Lazy W Ranch, but I sometimes refer to it as 'The Lazy Dub''  And I thought it would be fun to write a poem where all of the lines end with words that are cut off.  But I was running short on time, so only some do:

At the Lazy Dub',
I'd made some troub',
Fixin' for a fight.

The law I'd broke.
Thrown in the poke
Until I saw the light.

When I heard the Preach',
And he did beseech.
Turned me from my fall.

So here I stand.
A diff'rent man.
And that's my story, y'all.

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And look!  Pictures!