Harpur College 1966 Yearbook (Binghamton, NY) - Full Access

May, 1963 Hit Walter Akinhead in the back of the neck with a wa- termelon rind. There is something sneaky-looking about him. Someone said he is a combination Richard Nixon/ Alfred E. Newman. I never did trust Nixon. June, 1963 "Her" Months ago I fell into a desperate, immediate love. Bibli- cally, she smote me. Academically, she ruined me. She has hair. You wouldn't believe what hair, that could only make you embarrassed. If I could be a hat on that head, a net even. She works in the bookstore and I buy pencils - five a day just to be near her. I chew on the ends. One day last week it happened - she gave me hope, lifted my spirits. We sit opposite each other in the orchestra room for music listening on Tuesdays. She came in at exactly seven minutes after the hour and cleaned her ears out with an eraser. I would die to be a molecule on that pencil-end. This time she stared at me; a full, smiling, "1-could-learn-to-love-you" stare. With my whole face I responded; I had no control over the contortions. Then she stopped and concentrated on a scab along her elbow. Lord, to be a band-aid on that scab! They played the Appassionata and I nearly lunged across the room at her. Suddenly, only minutes later, came another stare, only shorter. A ''we-might-be- friends" quickie. For nearly eight minutes my body sus- pended all organic functions; I waited. Then, again, she raised that lovely neck and slipped a definite "!-like-your- eyes, !-understand-your-torment" glance right through me. 1 threw her back a "Yes-OMIGOD-Yes" and waited for class to end. Then it ended, all of it. She rose first and walked slowly (she has a limp and a slight hump back) towards me. Passing in front of me she stopped and our eyes met. It was then I realized. How could I have been such a fool? She was staring at me now with a "could-you-move-your-head-1-want-to-see-the-time- please" look. I turned and saw the clock, the only one in the room, directly behind my head. I had mis- interpreted everything! I had been duped, humiliat- ed! I felt like wrenching her broken left arm out of the white sling in which it rested. We passed out of the CA building, apart. Now, I no longer buy pencils and I sit way to the right and behind her in music listening. From there I count the times per hour she cracks her knee joints. For me, it is a broken heart, a small death, a lesson. For her, it's a clearer view of the room's only clock. I understand she lisps. My God, what have I lost? Editor's note: The remainder of the diary is compr,ised of a good eight or nine pages of decreasingly frantic sui- 162 cide notes and as such seems out of place here. Let it be known that the author survived this tragic romance and went on at Harpur to make what his analyst called a "beautiful adjustment - all things considered." Mr. Kresse! can be seen at any hour of the day or night in the back right corner of the snackbar and will be more than happy to discuss "his diary or anything pertaining to life with nearly anyone or anything which can afford the price of a tuna fish sandwich on white with tomato." .. ~ I+• .•_.....++mt•·.. .m+•··+il$+···•····-····~ ......JI++·.. *'>••· •