THE LAUNDRY REBEL ✧.*ೃ༄ charlie dalton

Hate-Driven

We all ran out to see Mr. Keating strolling down the field by himself. The evening breeze was setting in but the bright bearing sun had not yet set. Jogging through the fall grass to meet up to him, some called out to him as he whistled to himself. "Keating." "Mr. Keating." "Sir?"But he kept on in his pondering and endless thoughts as if he couldn't hear us. 

Neil spoke up as we closed in on him with a small smirk plastered on his thin lips. "O' Captain, My Captain?" 

With this, the young teacher turned around with that smile that could brighten a thousand suns. "Gentlemen~" 

We all scattered in small laughter. Neil continued. "We were just looking at your old annual.." and he handed off the ancient book to Mr. Keating. 

He glanced down at it for a moment before muttering to himself, perhaps in nostalgia. "Oh my God..." He looked back up at us as he crouched down. "Oh, that's not me." We all laughed again, but he continued to look on at it as memories flooded his mind. 

Neil crouched beside him and asked the question that had been on all our minds since dinner. "What's the Dead Poets Society?"

The teacher turned around to look at all of us, a thoughtful meaning in his eyes. "I doubt the present administration would look favorably upon that.."

Neil stared on at him, glancing down at the annual once more. "Why? What was it?"

"Can you keep a secret?" 

All of us nodded as we crouched down behind Neil. "Sure.."

"The Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. That's a phrase from Thoreau we would use at the start of every meeting. We would gather at the old Indian cave and take turns reading through Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley.... the biggies. Even through some of our own verse and in the enchantment of the moment we'd let poetry work it's magic." 

Knox shook his head. "So it was just a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?"

"No Mr. Overstreet, it wasn't just guys. We weren't a Greek organizations, we were romantics. We didn't just read poetry... we let it drip from our tongues, like honey. Spirits soared. Women swooned. And gods were created, gentlemen. Not a bad way to spend an evening, eh?" Mr. Keating looked back down at the book again before handing it off to Neil. "Thank you, Mr. Perry, for this stroll down amnesia lane. Burn that. Especially my picture." And with that, with such ease, he stood up and walked off again, whistling his own tune. 

Neil stopped for a moment and whispered it on his lips like I had with Victoria. "Dead Poets Society...." 

~~

As I gathered the last bit of laundry into its individual baskets for each room, I kept looking over to the patch of empty brick wall with gentle sighs. His voice creeped it's way in my mind once more as it had many times this evening "I hope I'll be able to hear your lovely voice one day, Victoria. And I don't necessarily mean you singing either..." 

I was stuck at that wall like a piece of wood. Unshakeable as he was, I could have said something, anything. A witty remark hadn't shot out of my mouth like usual. I had a quick and sharp tongue for those like him. 

"Ms. Ha'an, if you'll read from page 74 on to the next page." Mr. Keating said from the head of the class. I glanced up underneath my gold rimmed glasses to see him leaning on his desk, a small smile on his lips. "Go on."

I cleared my throat and reflected the smile as some heads turned in my direction. I quickly looked down at the book and turned some pages before reading. "Let such pure hate still underprop, by Thoreau... 

Let such pure hate still underprop
Our love, that we may be
Each other's conscience,
And have our sympathy
Mainly from thence.

We'll one another treat like gods,
And all the faith we have
In virtue and in truth, bestow
On either, and suspicion leave
To gods below.

Two solitary stars--
Unmeasured systems far
Between us roll;
But by our conscious light we are
Determined to one pole.

What need confound the sphere?--
Love can afford to wait;
For it no hour's too late
That witnesseth one duty's end,
Or to another doth beginning lend-"

Mr. Keating held his hand up, stopping me. "You can stop there, Victoria." He looked on at the class. "Now you all know how Thoreau felt on the subject of love and friendship... this poem is teaching us, at least from my own perspective, that hate driven in a relationship will actually strengthen it and not tear it apart. That love runs deep and sustain anything." He drummed his fingers on the desk as the bell rang. "That will be all for this class... and as you all surely know, presentations will be tomorrow." He gave a wicked smile and clapped. "Now all of you get out of here and enjoy yourselves~"