October 25, 2006

Laura graduated last Friday from her Master of Arts program. The ceremony itself was like every other graduation ceremony I’ve ever seen: it was joyless, full of self-congratulatory speeches and funny hats. The only redeeming part of the whole thing was Laura — she was a tiny, bright spot in the middle of a sea of black, and it delighted my heart.

What was more memorable than the convocation, however, were the moments before and after the ceremony.

You see, we got ready for Laura’s fuckfest of communal, scholarly joy by washing dishes late in the night with manic delight. Then, we jumped into a van armed only with toothbrushes and good intentions, and drifted across highways towards London. In London, we found our friend Alex, slept with the cat on the floor, and woke up way too early to make it to the ceremony on time. Because I only had coffee for breakfast, by the time we reached the campus I was hallucinating slightly. And I smelled like dried piss.

After the ceremony, we ran around the campus taking awkward pictures. “Go up to the guy with the mace,” I said, pointing to the bearded man dressed up in the school’s regalia. “He’s not a tourist attraction,” she said. It took a bit of prodding to get her to go up.

“And now, eat the green rock!” I said, pointing to a green, tumorous outgrowth I found.

“No.”

“Please?!”

“Fuck off.”

We went inside the reception hall to eat cake instead. The green rock came along for the ride.

And later, after the gowns and funny hats went away, we celebrated Laura’s year of struggle in our own way: with chicken and sleeping in parks like homeless people.