pt XXIII: Each syllable might be our last

I had this hugely melodramatic post written up and I just erased it.

It's so weird. I spent all this time writing up every little problem I have with the world, and then with the tap of "Ctrl+A + Delete" I let it go. It's weird. I was feeling this strange malaise, and in one instant, it was gone.

I don't know why. It was just more senseless, useless, pointless kvetching. So my life sucks. Hah. I've gotta laugh at the moment. It's no sense getting bogged down with my stupid crap, y'know? It ain't doing me a damn bit of good for the moment, nor, I suppose, any of you, just to bitch, bitch, bitch the night away.

Are things how I'd like 'em? Hell no. But I've got thoughts to get me through the day. Do I have anybody to talk to -- really, really talk to -- half the time? Not really, but I can make do. Am I getting any? Hell no, but I don't even know anybody right now who I want it from.

Grammatical correction: "from whom I'd want it."

I'm gonna try making some improvements in my life. I said, many months ago, that emotion is a mostly conscious state of mind, and I stand by that. Despite my dissatisfaction with, oh, say, every single aspect of my life, I'm not gonna get down for the moment. I can't say what the cause is, but I'm going to take comfort in the things I have, and the misfortunes I lack.

My aunt Lori and I were talking last Sunday about school. She asked about the teachers, and I didn't give that flattering a description of them by and large. She gave me, in response. Actually, it was an anecdote, and a story about telling the anecdote.

First of all, she jokingly asked, "are any teachers dating any of the students?" To which I replied, "No... gross." And she explained to me that many years ago, when she was at Humber College, one of her professors was dating one of her classmates. I laughed. I don't remember his name, but let's call him Peter Jones.

Flash forward several years. Aunt Lori was, at this point, teaching an advertising course at Humber College, and driving to a seminar of some kind with a colleague. And she tells this anecdote, stressing, "yes when I was in school, things were so much wilder... there was even one teacher, Peter Jones who was dating this student of mine."

The woman's response, "Oh... Peter Jones was my husband."

Yowza.

I laughed earlier today when I thought about it. It was one of those hilarous moments I had to share on this blog, while I was in a strangely sunny mood.

Now I don't know if it'll even last till I go to bed tonight, but I'm fine with the universe. I can make the best of my situation... not meaning that to be some kind of perverted reference to "Rivals and Wrongs," but anyway.

I'll leave you in peace tonight. I feel like I'm spreading a little more positive energy into the universe.

Keep on rockin'
Scott

Pt XXII: Quivering mass of gelatinous excitement

Doubt is good.

It's good to cast suspicion on things and make sure you get the whole story. That's pretty much the fundamental basis of journalism, and I think it's a good way to lvie life. Ask questions. Get other perspectives. Be sure.

I was recently put in a situation where it helped to be suspicious. I was contacted by a very strange person and I didn't know what to make of it, until I got the opinion of a third party, who agreed it was not on the level.

Now I'm not saying you should never trust anybody, but keep some reservations. Always wonder about people motives and objectives. What does anybody really want? I do my best to be transparent. As far as I can recall, I've never had a hidden agenda. I try to be up front, but there are people who do play games and have ulterior motives. I'm a pretty honest and straightforward guy, at least when it comes to my own neuroses and complexities. It's kind of important to establish that trust with a readership, I suppose.

I've been the victim of a recurring dream. Not exactly the same each night, but last night and the night before have had frighteningly similar dreams, and I'd like to get them analyzed.

There's been a theme of running since Saturday night, when I was running, drunk and afraid, from a girl in a restaurant. Except in that case, I went back and found that things were ruined. On Sunday night, I dreamt I was back in my old neighbourhood, the corner of Madden and Margot, not far from River Oaks Public School. The entire town, except for me it appeared, had be turned into zombies, or some other kind of ghoul, and I was on the run. And that was it; sprinting, for my life, down a familiar suburban street. At one point, I had grabbed a ceramic mixing bowl for protection. At the end of the dream, I was cornered in a strange house on that street, and grabbed a serrated knife for protection. I awoke, a full hour before my alarm, in a literal cold sweat.

Last night was a stange mix of the two. I was walking down Sixth Line... the area between here and the Ferguson house... and there was a bear chained up in the front yard of a house on the corner. I walked by, and it snapped at me. Startled, I continued on my walk. I passed by once again, and the bear had broken the chain and was innocently sniffing around its yard. I passed with caution, but found I had to go back one more time. The third time I passed, the bear had broken its chain. It caught sight of me. I panicked and ran. The bear chased me. The last thing I remember was the face of the bear, hungrily lunging toward me as I pried my eyes open, awakening.

I don't know what, if anything, all this means. I can usually get the meaning of my dreams, or see where the imagery comes from, but this one has me stumped. There was definitely more to both the bear and zombie dreams than I remember -- in "Zombie," something about being ay school; White Oaks, to be specific... and a computer that plugs into a piece of fruit (Macintosh?) The Bear dream seems to have had some kind of "video game" scene, where I was in some kind of puzzle world, or platform game, a la Pitfall. Does anybody remember Pitfall?

Why the specific locations? Why a bowl before the knife? Why a bear in the front yard? I thought the first dream was just because I was worried I'd embarrassed myself Saturday evening. I must've been mistaken.

Life is looking so dull on Reading Week that it seems like this is the sort of blog you're gonna get for today. I'd really like to enjoy my time, but have few outlets and opportunities to do so. Well, them's the breaks. I guess I'll end it here.

Keep on rockin'
[-Scott-]

pt XXI: granola-eating jesus lookalike

It's no secret that I am a great lover of women, both in the physical and the personal sense. Great, that is, as in having a great love, not being a great lover, although.... ahem.

Throughout my life, most of my closer friends have been female. There was a brief period early in high school where I was no friend of the girls (seeing as they all thought I wanted to kill them... --?!) but in recent years I have rediscovered why I get along so well with girls. Strangely enough that's what prevents me from actually managing to "get some" of them, most of the time, as I've already discussed somewhere else on this site -- girls dig jerks. Rachel helped me come to realize that. Of course that's not healthy, and of course there are many girls who will be with guys that treat them well... but at this stage of life, and for many females continuing onward, they like a man who is so in control he doesn't have time to consider others, including that girl.

I guess it all ties into some psychosexual need for power in a relationship. Consider all the girls you probably know who are in "bad relationships" they just don't want to get out of.

I'm not going to say I "get" women. That'd be folly. I do, however, accept all the ways they are different from men, that are difficult to understand.

It all goes back to this dream I had last night. What I did, I'll describe later, but the dream's gotta come first. I was in a restaurant, and being brought over to be introduced to this girl. The strangeness of the scenario was, it was a girl I had already met, and even spoken to earlier in the night. As I sat, talking to her and a few others in the group, I began to panic because in the dream I was drunk (not unlike the state I was in when I went to bed; more later.) I ran around frantically, trying to find a phone (??) and things went bad. When I'd sobered up, I tried to mend the fence, but she wouldn't hear of it. I'd blown my chance.

This is, ironically, the opposite of how I usually wreck things in real life; inaction as opposed to the wrong action, as in this dream. I almost wrote a book on the subject. Be thankful I didn't really.

I'm not quite sure what the dream means. If I had to guess, it was just one of those dreams that are a combination of things that happened throughout the day.

So what did happen during the day? A fair bit. I could almost kick myself for typing that much before getting to the story of yesterday. This is going to be another quite bloated post.

I wanted to go straight to the Sears banquet/workshop business. I would like to have volunteered, but I was unable to. I was under the impression that I had things to do during the day; boring, uninteresting things like grocery shopping. I was not pleased when the grocery shopping was called off, but I was not upset, because not volunteering meant I could at least go to dinner with dad.

Now, I like dinner with my dad. For one, he's a good cook. For another, I'd hardly see him otherwise. I don't know about Brandon, but there was a time when Eric routinely didn't go. This was especially true when Kris lived with us, and he didn't come because he found it awkward to be around Deb's family (not surprising or wrong in any way on his part.) But even other times, when we weren't cooking for ourselves, he'd often just skip dinner with dad and eat at home, if I recall correctly. Anyway, I've hardly missed a dinner, so when I do have something else to do, I don't sweat it because I'm ususally there. This day was diffeent though. This would be the first time Eric had gone out with people, (I believe from his school,) since time immemorable. And when he said this, I'd already told dad I "might" not come tonight. I didn't want to leave Dad and Brandon to themselves, so I came. No regrets.

Afterward, I showed up at the banquet. My plan of just "walking in" proved surprisingly effective. I saw the people, watched the awards, applauded until my hands were raw.

At the end of the night, two plays went on to regionals. One was "The Disposables: Paper Plates and Plastic People," which I didn't see. The other was "The Runaways," which I ranted and raved about how much I disliked it immediately after seeing it.

Afterward, the WOSS Crew did cleanup. Well, some stacked chairs, some gathered garbage, some (Chrisbrown, mostly,) rolled tables. Mostly, we stood around making conversation. Ryan and I were greeted with a handshake from a castmember of "The Runaways." He said how much he liked Commedia dell'Arte and thought "we" did well. We wished him luck. I didn't have the heart to scream out "I hated your play, and ranted to anyone who would listen, until I ran out of breath -- then I went home and blogged about it for a twenty minutes!" That would have been rude. It wasn't poorly performed, I just thought it was a cruddy script. Cary also introduced another aspect of it's offensiveness: middle class suburban white kids doing a play about the issues that affect tough New York street kids, ideally of varying ethnicity. I agreed - more fuel to my fire toward those who "aren't in on the joke" of life.

Waiting to leave, I made small talk with a few girls from Bishop Redding. It was one of my better goes. At my best, I'm quite the charmer, as most of you are surely aware. (In case you were wondering: at my worst, I'm either quiet and awkward, or drunk and pissy.)

We grads said our goodbyes. I made a puzzling and borderline inappropriate remark that used the word "fluids." The castmembers went to their party, and we stepped aside. I agreed with the idea in principle, but it's not what I would've liked. Then again, it was nice to just sit around in Cary's basement and drink with a few close friends.

Annnnd we drank. Drank, and ripped on other plays. Drank, and ripped on Gord Davis. Drank, and ripped on the Sears festival in general. I nearly choked on a piece of carrot. Becky tried to arrange a "Saved by the Bell"-esque game of phonetag that wouldn't reveal where she was spending the night. Cary bit off a bit more than he could chew, and had to be sobered up by his mother. Speaking of whom, I had a delightful conversation with her about Mac's, Adobe, and her work. We watched "Waiting for the Parade" and part of "Twelve Angry Men" -- it's definitely difficult to concentrate on that play when the audio is fuzzy and it's on a computer monitor. It's such a talky play.

The night ended when Chris Ferguson arrived home courtesy of Chrisbrown, and we were made to leave at 1. Group hugging ensued. I went home, listened to the rest of an interview that wouldn't load on Friday, and sobered up with water and kool-aid.

It wa a good night, topped off by tossing and turning and a peculiar dream-within-a-dream described above. At least, it felt like a dream-within-a-dream.

I've be going for quite a while on this, so I'll let you be. Most of you are going back to your schools. Me, I'm just going to sit around the house and play video games, occasionally visiting the few people who remain. Hope you enjoy yourself.

Keep on rockin'
Scott

pt XX: I would gladly take your hand

It's kinda funny. I've been so wrapped up in the details of my life lately that I haven't had much time to really stop and think about "it." To pontificate on the greater meaning of things.

Considering almost nothing happened today, I think I might do that

February 22nd was somebody's birthday... Randi's, to be precise. I only note that to say that last year, I was not in the best of places, and sent her an e-mail greeting, just to basically say "haha, I told you I'd remember your birthday," even though we'd been broken up for about 6 months. Obviously, I didn't do that this year, because I'm not an idiot. Because of that one e-mail, she very nearly came back into my life and I very nearly let her. I'm not the kind of guy who's up for a backslide, or an easy deal. Take note of that. It doesn't always work in my favour - the number of girls I've been seen with since confirms that - but this way I can live with myself, knowing I resisted when I could've had the cheap, easy deal. A lesson I still use to this day.

That said, I do wonder what she's up to. The pessimist in me (or "realist," depending on how I feel - it all seems the same,) thinks she may have hooked up with another objectionable young fellow who is not worthy of her. Don't get me wrong, she was a very nice girl and deserved a guy who could give her attention. That's why it didn't work. She also said that after "us," she was going to take a break from guys... of course, whether that lasted a year and a half, I doubt.

I was in the car with Anisah last night, and she was telling Robyn this anecdote about getting asked out, and... well, it's hard to describe exactly what I thought about that. I kind've laughed about it. Not at her, and not at the guy, but just at the universe, for making such a desirable girl so aversed to dating. At least, it seemed to me that she was still aversed. The way she was telling the story, the asking out seemed more like a punchline than a climax. Then again, I've been known to misinterpret. If she did indeed agree to go out with me -- and as I recall, she technically did -- then it could likely happen again.

My only regret on that front was bad timing. Everytihng I did was timed wrong, because it took me so long to get over myself. I've spoken to her a number of times since -- at New Year's/Scott's Going Away part One, last night and some other times. I like it. We're back where we started, which is probably where we belong. Bored friends chatting over lunch.

If one thing did bother me, it was her remark that this town isn't really home anymore; because it's true, and the truth is seldom an easy thing to deal with. It just makes me feel like I'm in a state of arrested development (I love that expression, and not just because of the series... but mostly.) Everyone's getting out of this town, and I'm gonna be here a while. At least I still have Kyle, Ana, and the grade 11's (future grade 12's... weird.) And it's not like I haven't got any friends at school. I just don't know how much time I'll spend hanging out with Mansoor, Joe and Haasim when the year's done.

"Here I am again in this mean old town / and you're so far away from me."

If you're reading this, Peaches, that Dire Straits reference was for you.

Doug in Toronto, Becky probably joining him, Cary, Chrisbrown and Steph in Hamilton, Ryan... where? I'm not sure how his stuff works, but it could be Waterloo or someplace else. Scott, obviously, in New York. Anisah and some others in Kingston. Alyssa could be moving anywhere at any moment... heh. Where am I gonna go? And when? And under what circumstances? I've got a year of Sheridan left. I won't know what to do with myself after that. It's not important to think about at this moment. Or perhaps, it's too terrifying.

Today was a genuinely good day, a preview of what I'm going to have going for me during the upcoming reading week (and perhaps, ensuing strike? Yes? We'll see.) I sat down and wrote my profile assignment. Then all I had to do was copy edit and hand it in. Half of my time was spent eating a Tim Horton's Chicken Salad sandwich, which wasn't the best sandwich I ever had, but I was craving and had the gift certificates.

Then I realized, after handing it in, that it had a massive typo/factual error in the very first paragraph, that I didn't catch. Anal-retentive bastard that I am, I actually e-mailed Roy Wilson to say "yeah, I wanted to let you know I knew about that. If I didn't say it, it would be eating away at me all break." And it's so true. It already happened with John Clarke's stupid test that wouldn't let me retrieve the archive. Jerk.

But it was a wholly relaxing day. I played video games a lot and walked through mud. I'm getting along well.

Oh, except one last thing: these guys showed up to fix the phone, and talked to me as though I were the owner of the house. "Did you have any work done here?" "Call Rogers for that" et cetera. Yeah, I'll be sure to do that... jerks.

It's always something. You can't stop it. A teacher once told me not to "sweat the small stuff" (it was a book she read from, a la "Chicken Soup for..." entitled "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff") but I'm the opposite. I do sweat the small stuff, and only the small stuff. Big stuff doesn't bother me, it's the little things that make up the tapestry of my anxiety. Big things just don't faze me. Maybe that means there's something wrong with me.

Well, I'm gonna send it out on that note. Hope I did my duty tonight. Hope you're all well.

Keep on rockin'
-El Williams

pt XIX: So much larger than life

I said last night that I wanted to sleep things off. Boy was I right -- when I woke up this morning, I felt revitalized.

Oh sure, I didn't really feel like going to school, but that could be any day. It wasn't a particularly difficult day. A standard Mythology lecture, and in Globalization we watched a film, an italian film called Cinema Paradiso, which I enjoyed but would not necessarily recommend, because it had a very foreign sensibility. It was the very essence of European filmmaking. The pacing was languid, it lingered on emotions rather than plot and character. Not a whole lot happened, but plenty was felt.

But of course the big story of the night was the Sears festival. Thanks to Anisah, I went down to Nelson (which I remembered for the use of a square motif in the cafe - which would make me feel uncomfortable if I had to eat there,) with her and Robyn. The first show was Rivals and Wrongs. It went over AMAZINGLY. I was deeply concerned that I wouldn't find it funny anymore, having already seen it, but instead I was just even more excited, and could enjoy the rather sophisticated plot, in addition to laughing as hard. I liked it even better than on Monday. A huge kudos to everyone involved.

Next was "The Manifestations of the Super Ego," which went through the psyches of four members of a family, each with wildly disparate desires and fantasies. The last was "The Runaways," a series of monologues and chants (?!) about streetlife.

The former was quite short, with a few funny bits but generally not as successful as the play that came before it. It also had some stumbling and a joke or two stolen from Family Guy. I was not a huge fan of "The Runaways," either, though I can see why it went over well, because it was hard-hitting. The way I described it was "about as subtle as a brick to the head." I'm also not too big on monologue-based plays. Despite some of the things I've written, (most notably my Grade 12 summative play, which I liked and was well-received by the audience, but Rosser thought lacked "chaos,") I like to see character arcs, action and plot, not just a group of people pontificating and giving their histories. But that mplay was written by a professional, and I am not a professional, so I guess that's what works.

I feel like an ass for criticizing that much, especially after Gord Davis' monologue about Japanese baseball games. They all had merit. I just only happened to admire the one by the school I came from. Obviously, I'm quite biased.

But it's like this: you know why so many people enjoyed "Half-Past?" Because when I sat down to write it, I was familiar with that type of theatre; the type that begat "The Runaways" and "Super Ego," and knew people would be able to identify an increased self-awareness and irony when contrasted with those types of plays. I've always had this theory about three layers. The bottom represents the least of what is expected, and what is satisfactory. The middle represents an attempt and a failure to reach beyond that. The top layer involves a level of sophistication that is not difficult to acheive, if you know what the joke is. I'm not entirely sure what is on the bottom layer. Shows like "Arrested Development" and "Scrubs" exist on the top layer. A show like "Will & Grace" exists in the middle. You can only be happy with something on the top or bottom layer, but so much is in the middle, and that's where those two plays fell for me. And that's my thought on that.

Anyway, over the course of the night I was glad to see everyone again. I even saw Barrett and Hilary, and Neabel. And of course, I had to do my best to explain the situation with the movie, which I don't even quite understand at the moment, but whatever.

At the end of the night, I had a hugely awesome conversation with Doug about movies, and hung out with Robyn and Anisah as well. It was nice to see them again (although I certainly see Robyn much more frequently than Anisah.) On the way back, if it weren't 11:30, we might have stopped off and hung out, but I did have to get home, as I'm tired and have work to do tomorrow before class.

On that note, I'm going to leave you all for tonight. Goodnight my children, hope all is calm in your world, and if not, I wish you clarity and health.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

pt XVIII: Who do you want to be?

I'm listening to Winamp and blogging. This particular combination has been trouble in the past, so I'm going to save after every paragraph. I have a feeling it will pay off.

It seems like a bit of a bother, but after the day I've had, I am in no mood to put up with my computer freezing. I already feel bad enough for what I may or may not have done to my brother's computer. Okay, I didn't do anything, but it was because of me that it was brought to our attention, and now his computer has to be fixed, which I think involves sending it away for technichians to poke through his files.

Yes, it's been a rough one. Never have I felt like a more collosal fuckup. Doing two rather weak tests in a single day might have that effect, combined with my doomsaying accidental revelation of Eric's computer. I'm not happy. I just want to go to sleep. Unfortunately, I've yet got to polish off another paper for Mike Walsh. It shouldn't take too long, but I'm just so exhausted.

After my Long-Story test, I met up with Lauren, Robyn & Co to visit sick Chris Ferguson at his place... apparently, that's how lost they get when he's not there, that they go over to his place nonetheless. I dealt with the usual "don't you have class?" from basically everyone, which is fine since if I didn't have a test, then yeah, I would've had class.

Eventually, Chris had to get rest and Adam and Jasdeep (sp?) had to go back to class, but Lauren just wanted to conk out on the couch and Cary was there, and yes, I still had nowhere else to be, so the three of us (though Lauren was mostly unconscious,) hung out watching the Price is Right.

I haven't hung out one-on-one with Cary very much in the time I've known him. Mostly just one time in the box office during first period last year. It was a good time, we were mostly just mocking the old/fat ladies who get on that show.

Then it was Electronic Publishing, which felt like a completely other dimension. I was zoned out. And in the middle, instead of doing what was assigned, I did the tables & grids assignment that was due earlier that day, which I'd forgotten about. And then I botched the submit, and had been grousing about it all evening, until I fucked up Eric's laptop (somewhat; again, I didn't do anything, I was just the reason it became known.)

So I've been in kind of a funk today. It's not a stressed out funk, it's a "life is so chaotic and it feels like everything is my fault" kind of funk. I will note, of course, that it's not all literally my fault, and some of it isn't that big a deal, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm a massive screwup.

I guess time will tell.

It's taking much longer to keep saving as a draft, but I feel it's worth it. I feel secure.

What I need is a good night's rest. Well, there are plenty of things I need, but that's the most direct. I guess I'll get to work. I haven't exactly exorcised my demons for tonight, but there doesn't feel like a good way to get thme out there.

Bleah. It was such a nice day, too, weather-wise.

I'll try and chin up tomorrow. The sky'll be blue, the birds'll sing, and the world will, perhaps for a moment, make sense.

Keep on rockin dears,
The Scott

pt XVII: Let's do it anyway

Let's give this blogging thing a try.

It's been an interesting day. Well, interesting to me, and no doubt also to my dozens of readers out there in the blogiverse. I awoke this morning with a sense of purpose and direction. I went to Coffee Time this morning and met up with Alyssa. She's back in town for the time being, and naturally we had to meet up.

While oftentimes it can be difficult to reconnect with an old friend, it's not like that with Alyssa. Truthfully it hasn't been like that with any of my friends from White Oaks, but it's different here. Here it's not about catching up, it's about doing what we always do, having the same types of conversations we've always had that are mixtures of philosophy, social critique, nostalgia, and puns... numerous puns.

It's no secret that I'm a sucker for a good conversation. All of my best friends excel at conversation.

So I hope all of you out there are lucky enough to have friends without the obligation of going through a weird "hey, long time no see" phase. Where, meeting in a coffee shop with four months since your last meeting, nothing is different, and not a word needs be said to bridge the gap between then and now. I wouldn't put it as tritely as "picking up where you left off," but it feels like, what you have will always be there. The friendship is an entity unto itself.

I made some remark that so much of the world isn't "in on the joke." I'm glad that most of my friends are. I think a lot of people would get along better if they could be, but it doesn't seem like that could ever happen.

It's no secret that I get really lonely sometimes, feeling like all my friends have left town. It's always nice to be reminded that that doesn't make a damn bit of difference.

The rest of the day seemed to float by innocently. I did some photo editing, furthered along my page 1, et cetera and so forth. In Writing for Newspapers, it was just a quick activity, which was a contest - a contest I won, somehow. I don't know, everything seems kind of a blur.

I wrote my paper for Andrew Mitrovica tonight. I think it's good; it's better than the previous version of that paper. It's very long-story journalismy. The sentences are, for the most part, clear, simple, and concise (that's how that expression goes, not "brief!") There are metaphors. Sentences are kept short. Qualifiers are kept to a minimum. I did every ridiculous thing he asked me to. I can feel, however, that I'm not going to get a very good mark on it, because Mitrovica is an ass like that. No matter how well I think I've done, it can't possibly be good enough. That's just the way he is. Something I've come to accept. Not a very good teacher. I've had very good teachers. They've marked me very fairly and in numerous cases I got worse marks than I have from Mitrovica. But their marks mattered to me. They made the connection between the marks and the paper and I don't think Mitrovica gets that. So I'll do exactly what he asks me, to the best of my ability, get a middle-ground mark, and shrug it off.

Or maybe this will be the one. you know, not every last shred of hope has been crushed. Maybe this will be the one that cracks the ice and proves at last that I can kick ass with the words. But I always have that hope, and it usually doesn't work out, because I write in a somewhat affected manner. Sad but true, when I hand in a paper I think is great, I get it back, re-read it, and think "this guy sounds so arrogant - wait, that's me!" I don't think I have that problem this time. Maybe I do. Maybe he'll say I do. I don't care.

I really don't. It's amazing how, whenever I am bogged down in work, my stress reflex just shuts down and I get so zen. I feel more capable that way. It's easier for me to manage 5 projects at once than if only one big one is due. I take them one at a time. I've found this strange sort of inner peace, if only for the moment.

So I'll continue to do what I'm doing, the way I'll always do it, the way I've always done it. I've been lucky. I've been so fortunate, and I want to tell the people I care about, and who have helped me over the past year, just how good I feel. I think they know who they are.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott Williams-

pt XVI: After dark, my sweet

Tonight's title from a book by Jim Thompson, that great American suspense writer of the 1950's.

I love to simply observe human nature. Places like PostSecret/LJSecret and Epistolaries give me a strange insight into places in peoples' psyches I would never have dreamt. I should cull some of the stranger observances and mold them into some kind of project. Not a comedy... a psychodrama of some kind.

I ended up going to class at the regular time today. I actually accomplished something, although I'm taking a much more lax attitude toward my responsibilities than I probably should. I've got this whole attitude of "man I couldn't care less" when it comes to school right now. Sad, since I'm "paying for it" (Once again, thank you Q.LizII) but I have the feeling it's not yielding any less results than if I were stressing myself to death. There's this girl I work on the Sun with, Emma Lee, (or Emmalee?) who frequently says "I don't give a care," and that's my state of mind right now. It's wonderful.

Not that I'm in any way giddy about my situation. I'm quite overburdened, I'm just not letting it get to me. I have no future, and it doesn't bother me.

After doing some actual work on the Back to School issue (that's right: the BS issue, hah) it was Photojournalism which I could very well have skipped. Then I headed home, and decided to pop into WOSS to check what time the show started. It was 7, so I budgeted my time accordingly, hung out a bit with the 11's, came home, ate dinner, went back, and watched the show.

It was fucking hilarious. I had read the script, and I knew it was funny, but I'm not sure if it could be realized. It so totally was. Were there a few speedbumps? Yeah, of course but it was by and large a massive success, with Chris Ferguson as the obvious star. Since he pretty much wrote it, after all, he was the show, and it worked.

There's this song, Romantic Traffic, that's on my playlist right now. I downloaded it after hearing it on MuchMoreRetro when we got that channel last spring, and it heavily reminds me of the time in my life when I was in New York and doing the Breakfast Club and was generally having my way with life (if the imagery isn't too subtle.) Even though where I'm at right now is sorta a natural outgrowth of that, it made me sad because it reminded me of a time in my life I enjoyed for far too short a time, and will never have again.

We truly can never go back.

Of course, that doesn't stop me from going back on a regular basis. With most of the gang, I hung around and watched the infamous dance-off, where the Butterscotch Boys pull a win in triple-threat competition against the Tampax Titans (vile name, that,) and the Grade 9's. Patrick, Chris F., Janessa and I all did a Flamingo tribute to Conorton.

It's been a good day. It's been a goodm little while. After a hiatus, I'm really being me again. In fact, I don't think I've felt more like me in a very long time.

Scott Williams is a silver-tongued devil. Watch out.

Keep on Rockin'
-Williams

pt XV: Lonely streetlights and bare trees in the wind

As humans, the best excuse we have for screwing something up is technology. "The damn printer screwed up," "the computer froze," "the DVD burner isn't working" (guess which one is mine.) We resort to blaming things like that because they are supposedly infallible, and therefore we delight in bringing them down. Also, they don't have feelings, so we don't hesitate to let everyone know what we feel about them: there is no compunction about this whatsoever. The blame can never rest on a human being's shoulders.

It was the kind of day that made me get up and want to watch The Princess Bride. I have no explanation for this behaviour. I just decided I'd like to watch it today, and enjoyed it immensely. Today was such a relaxing day, I didn't accomplish anything, and enjoyed it.

Thinking on that, however, I just think: I'm fucked for school. I'm fucked in every conceivable position. I can't bring myself to do my Photo assignment because I think it's lame. I can't seem to get into my work on the Summer Sun, being overcome with a severe case of exhaustion when I think about completing the assignment. I hate both my Long-Story and Writing assignments for being nearly identical but too different, just redundant. Electronic Publishing is still one of the worst classes ever. That leaves Globalization, which I used to bitch about but am coming to realzie is actually a decent class with a relatively workable workload and a decent point once in a while (though, like most 3-hour classes, could stand to lose an hour,) and Mythology, which, being an elective, doesn't quite count. Things are going to get worse before they get better. I've gotten so lax in my schoolwork, I can't imagine the end of my year being a pleasant one.

And then there's the impending threat of a strike. I don't know what to think. As a result, we have to finish the Summer Sun a week ahead of schedule, which freaks me out to no end. I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. i don't know what I will be doing at any point in the future. While driving around today, Mom asked me what I'd be doing after the course, and I nearly hyperventilated.

I need to do more schooling. I never thought that'd be the answer, but at this point I feel that at the end of PJournalism, i'll only be half-baked, partially incubated as a professional-type person. For God's sake, I'll scarcely be 20 years old, you can hardly blame me! Most of the people in the course were older than that when they started! What kind of a plcae for an 18-year-old is a newsroom, anyway? I still feel like a kid.

But even then, I have no idea where I'd go or what I'd do.

How do I get my life to where I want it to be? Where do I make the leap from amateur writer to professional? What will I do with myself? These are questions that keep me up at night. I don't want to be one of those guys who works a day job and writes as a hobby at night. I've done that for six years (and been good at it for maybe three.) I've got to get ready.

My brother, Brandon, has got to be the luckiest man I know. This is because his pal, Graeme, offered him a partnership in this website, The Ultimate Casino Guide, which allows him to make huge sums of money for no tangible amount of work, sponging off addicted internet gamblers. WTF! The only way I could top that is if I sold a movie or manuscript for a million dollars, which isn't likely to happen.

All the same, my dad's constantly busting Brandon's hump, because Brando hasn't exactly been forthcoming about this with him. Dad has always been hard on Brandon for being unemployed (since leaving the place tht was supposed to "get him out in the workforce" but ended up becoming a career in and of itself,) abd superhumanly introverted. What I guess Dad doesn't suspect is that Brando appears to be making hundreds of dollars per week, with very few living expenses, for doing nothing. And if he knew, he'd only get upset. My dad's difficult to please. That's the one thing that makes me resent him, the way he handles my brothers' particular situations. Not that there's any well-documented way to deal with a brood like my sublings, but whenever the subject comes up, it makes me shudder and sigh. If it were only about the money, and if dad only knew, then he'd have nothing to be upset about.

Family relations are difficult like that. You all know what I mean, in some way or another.

I feel so in over my head at this moment. I hate midterms. It's going to be a rough week.

So I'm going to tackle them one by one. My first order of business is PhotoJornalism. Clarke has set his expectations unreasonably high for this one, and I hate that. He has such complicated stipulations for this project, it doesn't make sense to me. It's all Greek, to use the expression.

Probably going to go in late to the Sun worksession tomorrow. I do intend to go (though we'll see tomorrow whether or not I actually do... and since I know that people from there will be reading this, I might as well avoid faking sick,) but I've got so much shit to take care of first, it'll be a wonder if I find the time... which is bad, but that's the POS situation they've put me in.

In tribute to my friend Steph, who is going to Panama tomorrow at 4 AM, (well, that's when she must be at the airport,) I'm going to stay up later than usual tonight writing. We've been talking all day, and I'll be legitimately sad when she's gone. First, I'll write a column for Craig Reade's "Still on the Shelf" site, and then I'll move on to do some writing of my own, probably on "Melancholy." as much as I'm enjoying writing that, I'm eager to do massive re-writes on it, as there is so much that needs retouching and redoing.

I'm kinda a geek, but admit it, I'm your effing idol. What else are you doing here?

Good night and drive safe. Keep on rockin'
Scott A. Williams

pt XIV: People tell me there ain't no use in tryin'

The above transcript is perhaps the funnest sketch (or at the least, commercial parody,) ever written for Saturday Night Live, or perhaps anywhere.

Gottenhimmel what a busy day. Not an overly interesting one, but one spent with numerous amusing distractions. I got up and as usual the last place I wanted to be was at bowling, But of course I went and kicked ass up and down that lane, with well above average all three games, which is arare for me (I usually start slow, lag in the middle, or trail off in the end... the point is, at least one game is bad.) Then it was a rush to grocery shopping, in order to get it out of the way so that we could make it in time for Grandma's birthday, which was on Saturday instead of Sunday because we rent the common room at Grandma's building and it wa sunavailable for that particular day. So I spent the evening doing what else but entertaining the children, which I'm pretty good at as I'm mostly juvenile when I get the chance.

In fact, I'm quite a child in both the negative and positve ways. I'm finding myself jealous of people who get more attention than me, or attention that I feel is undeserved. I wanna be the star of the show, and I don't want anyone to get equal billing, if that makes sense. And if it does, I've done it wrong since I've designed this paragraph to be in as vague of terms as humanly possible so nobody will know exactly what I'm talking about.

I feel kinda guilty, but I'm having a bit of a hang-up with certain people being treated better than I think they deserve. OK, they're good friends, spend a lot of time together, and get along well. I just don't think he's on my level, or deserving of all the attention flung his way. Sure, he's a good guy, and he means well, but I can't shake my general dislike of shallow emo-kids, which is how I perceive this character. Still, I'd rahter be with than against, for reasons of moral perpituity.

But did you ever get the feeling that if it came down between you and somebody else, the friend would pick the other person? Not to stir up unnecessary chaos.

But yes, I'm losing my tolerance for the emo society. It pains me, since a number of my good friends could be considered emo, but I wash my hands of the whole scene. I've spent the better part of the weekend going over these "LJ Secrets," which give incredible insight into certain shady corners of the human psyche, and an alarming number of the posts appear to be the same old same old. Not to dismiss those with serious problems... there are frightening numbers of rape and abuse victims there (as well as one shocking incest/rapist confessor - ?!) but I feel like just smacking so many of them and going "what are you, kidding me?"

Self-awareness is what they lack. They fail to see the grand design and those that claim to appear to be even more clouded. That's why I don't allow myself to pay attention to it, but my (unfortunate) addiction to that site has brought it to the front of my brain tonight. I live my life on my own terms, as much as possible at least, and I'm happy for it, whether it yeilds positive or negative results. At least I'm me. And I hope you're you.

Not that I'm the greatest person in the world. Hah. I'm not saying I'm better than them. I don't look down on tbe emo-kids... I just sorta look sideways and think "if only you'd found what I found," (which would be, I suppose, beat writing and Buddhism.)

But that's enough of that rant. I don't like slandering people on this site (although I think this would technically be considered libel, I'm not sure,) and I definitely don't mean any hurt feelings. I'm just lashing out at the number of times I forced myself, through my own curiosity, to read about cutters and anorexics this weekend.

As a curious sidenote, an inordinate amount of girls post secrets that they want to be men - gay or otherwise. While I'm familiar with the concept of transexuality (some research did, after all, go into the Billy character in Half-Past,) I just find their motivations and attitudes about it odd. It's not an identity crisis, it's a flight of fancy taken half-seriously.

I feel better.

I am aware of the intense irony of my complaining about other peoples' problems in what is essentially a forum used exclusively for me to voice my own complaints. But don't make the mistake of thinking I ever once thought my problems were either more important than anyone else's or at all earth-shattering in any way. We're all human, though, and we've all got to have a voice, even if I use mine to deride others.

And on that somewhat negative note (for which I feel I am going to pay, in a nearly-cosmic sense,) I will adjourn.

Signing off and keep on rockin'
-Scott Williams

ADDENDUM (1:30): After all the ranting and raving, there's one thing I neglected to mention.

In Hamlet, Shakespeare wrote "to thine own self be true," with the underlying message being that it was such an obvious point to make, that even the biggest jackass in the entire play (Polonius, though Guildenstern was a close 2nd,) knew it was wise. I don't want my ravings to enrage somebody because I've basically run down their way of life with no real reasoning or alternative side presented - just a hateful, embitterede rant - without considering that all I want is for people to examine themselves and identify what they want to be and do, and not act a certain way because it goes along with liking a band or a style. People forget that more often than they know. The key is to find what you like being, and be good at it. Be it whatever sort of person you are. If you can just take a step back and decide whether or not this is the life you should be living, then who am I to say?

And if I find you annoying, can you really disagree with me? Let's call it even; that's the price.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

pt XIII: Alternative to feeling like yourself

As far as my days go, this one was a winner.

John Clark cancelled his class this morning, the brutally useless 8:30 Digital Publishing, due to illness. If only he'd cancel it due to pointlessness, but no, it seems that he always has that extra hour or so of material after the full 2 hours on Wednesdays. As a result, we have a brief lecture on Fridays that nobody attends, nor needs to. And so, thankfully, it was scrapped this week.

So I woke up at about 9, warm and safe in my bed, relaxed and unpressured to get out of it. I won't lie, it was the most beautiful feeling in the world. And I lounge daround all morning before a) getting lunch and b) retreiving the errant garbage cans blown down the street by the wind. That was a doozy. I had to search far and wide for the last lid. And the garbagemen have gotten lazy: one can was discarded in the ditch next to my house with a full bag left in it. --the hell? Aren't you paid to work one day a week, driving around, picking up trash and putting it in a truck? You'd think you could at least complete the task.

After lunch, it was class, which featured the simplest task, which I took my sweet time in doing, for a very specific reason: that morning, my internet had gone out, and didn't come back until after I'd left. As soon as I saw Brandon online, I decided it was time to finish up and go. As it was, I spent much of the class catching up on stuff I'd neglected due to the mysterious lack of internet (which doesn't usually happen around here,) as well as shirking class to find a carnival with Mansoor. It had packed up, however, and I lamented the closeure of the kissing booth... not that I had money to spend there, but anyway.

This internet downage comes only a day after a sudden ten-minute blackout yesterday, and in the midst of numerous log off-log ons on MSN. Starting to think my place has a poltergeist. Except, if it does, why wait a year and a half to show yourself? Also I don't believe in poltergeists anymore.

Bored beyond comprehension, Eric and I sought a film from Blockbuster: Lord of War, a film I recommend (but wouldn't up-and-down praise,) starring Nicolas Cage, review currently on Interneta.

On the way back, the DJ on the radio was going on about "loneliness" and "solitude" and about how while loneliness is a bad feeling, solitude is a time to acheive balance and peace of mind. And while that sounds like some pretty heavy BS (this is from a guy who got an 8.5/10 on two consecutive Globalization papers, none of which amount to any research or forethought, so I am king of BS and thus identify it,) it has the ring of truth - not unlike most quality BS - and made me think. Yeah, I'm alone, but I don't feel lonely, and I have been able to reach a peace of mind I haven't had in a long... entire lifetime. I was always a troubled kid, but not in the conventional "acting out" sense. I was easily shaken, frustrated, disappointed, freaked out, and of course upset. And since I've begun this peculiar endeavour - the most popular site on the Internet, with fans nearing the two-dozen range - my mental state has really stablized.

It's that whole thing about bottling up your emotions or whatever. I used to think it was a meaningless, abstract expression that was not easily practicable, but here I am, definitely unbottled, free of any true angst for the time being *knock wood.* It's just all out there for the universe to deal with. I'm not letting it fester, I'm resolving things.

But even as I preach my own state of inner peace - which to be fair is far from perfect, as I can still go off at the drop of a hat, if the circumstances are right - I know that there are many out there, reading this, who are lost, tired, angry, lonely, and plain out worn down from the stress of moving for the third time in 6 months or so. You know who you are. And while I have no sagelike advice for any of these people, my best offering concerns taking it one day at a time, and being guided by a fundamental sense of where you are going. The universe may take care of the rest.

As for me, I mused today that the only thing Journalism has taught me was that I don't want to be a journalist. If I never said it before, it's out there now. I'm as jaded about the process of journalism as I am about every other profession - which is pretty hefty, if you've ever read my still-unfinished manuscript; which I know you haven't, which is good, since it's really, really rough. All the same, I know that for the moment, things are working, and I'm just going to continue until I can see it stopping. Or, it all very suddenly stops. Or someone tells me to, which, given what Roy Wilson probably probably thinks about my writing, might actually happen. But I'm so zen right now that it couldn't likely faze me. Give it a week, though, and I'll change my tune.

My mother has had a case of beer down in our fridge for about a week. I think it's weird, and that she couldn't complain if we took a few as a sort of payment. But then I decided, nah, the last people I want to drink with are my brothers. Well, my family in general, but my brothers are who I'd actually be drinking with.

It's a funny thing in my family. Mom can't hold her liquor. Nor can Brandon and to a lesser extent, Eric. Dad just doesn't drink usually, and when he does, it hardly seems to affect him. I think I take after my dad, but I wouldn't know since it's hard to judge myself. I've never had anyone cut me off or have to prop me up or roll me onto my side. I usually do my best to keep myself composed, despite deriving some amusement out of my own stupid, self-aware drunken behaviour. The worst part is, however, how I can never seem to shut up about whatever I've had. It doesn't make for wonderful conversation, and I always try to not go back there. Incidentally, my aunt Lori is the best in the family at holding her drink, and Gail's not bad either. I think it all stems from my Grampa Ross, mom's dad, who was a drunken lout. My aunts and mom all speak of him with a strange, nostolgic bitterness. Like they would say (if it were their style to do so,) "I miss that fucking jerk." Of course, they don't swear, at least, not around me, unless it's about some right wing kind of policy that's irking them.

This has been one of my more enjoyable posts to write. I feel I've been hitting a creative height this week, and really need to write down a summary of the script I conceived in my head earlier today, and get more work done on a few other projects I've been putting off for that foolish schoolwork. Someday.

Keep on rockin, fans
Scotto

pt XII: What am I doin' hangin' round?

Well, how convenient that BlogSpot should see fit to choose yesterday as the first time all year, and in fact in several months and all of recent memory, to go down. Yesterday, as you might vaguely recall, was Valentne's Day, and I'm sure I was expected to really weigh in on the issue.

Apart from a few momentary slips, however, I really didn't care. I wasn't bitter about not having anyone to spend it with. I wasn't sickened by the ommercialism of the whole ordeal. I was only slightly fazed by the actions of those who DID have people. I was jsut sort of numb on the whole issue. Annoyed, in nothing else, at how nobody could shut up about the pink and red hearts and whatnot. Mind you, anybody who complains probably has a right to; the day is notorious for reminding those of us who are alone just how alone we are, yet even I, the eternal pessimist on these matters, just couldn't be bothered to care.

There were moments, don't get me wrong, where I was like "damnit, when am I ever going to even talk to a new girl ever again?" As the title a few days back indicates, I'm in this thing about never seeming to meet people, and how I'd really like to. I like to think that, under the right circumstances, I make a good first impression. And I'm going to continue to think that until someone tells me otherwise. There are a few notable exceptions, naturally, but I'm the kind of guy who is immediately desperate for approval, pulls out all the stops, and then doesn't worry about it until later.

Meanwhile, I had to deal with looking around the classroom, the hallways, the streets, at the blissfully dolled up females and the guys who share this look of, "yeah, tonight... hah." Okay, there were only a few of those, but still. I spent the night watching Saw II with Eric, and consoling one person while trying to convince another I wasn't all that depressed. Valentine's Day brings out the worst in humanity.

It's hard to believe, but the end of Week 6 is fast approaching, and that means Midterms. Oy... how terrifying is that? For me, quite, since I don't know what I'm to be doing most of the time. Today was another useless day during which I accomplished and learned nothing. Next week is going to be hell. I don't know what the hell I'm going top do for Roy Wilson's class. Nothing I do in that class seems to be right. Not taht I think I'm some kind of miserable failure, just a guy who doesn't know his direction, who hasn't found his voice. The review I gave Roy was a lot more stiff than I'd envisioned. Hell, I should've just given him one of the CX reviews I had on that computer. Instead, I gave him something that doesn't sound anything like what you'd want to read.

School. Fehhhhh. I'm just going a day at a time. Taking it as it comes, as I've been saying all day. Continually saying it helps me to concentrate on that point, and then I don't freak out so much.

Well, I'm going to go rest my wrists, as I have another Mike Walsh essay to write for tomorrow. Talk to you later, hope you're well.

Keep on rockin'
Scotto

pt XI: As long as there are stars above you

As is often the case, my sonovabitch computer froze on my while I was in the throes of blogging this evening. And it was a very good, sincere, thought-provoking one, too, but now, thanks to my disgruntledness at what happened to it, I won't be able to recreate it even though the thoughts are all still there.

The best I can do is describe what I had written.

I began by explaining the title, which came from a Beach Boys song off Pet Sounds, "God Only Knows," which was what woke me up this morning. I went on to explain that I did not actually go to school today, but stayed home to do my work. I launched into a long, perhaps overly so, discussion about how I wasn't missing anything and that maybe it was because of the funeral that I realized how much of my education is not essential.

Which is ironic given how close they appear to be to a strike, but that's aside from the point.

Then I got to thinking about Conorton, and where he's at right now, and that's where the computer froze. I basically just sat and marvelled about he's going on to become, knock-on-wood, the next great talent of our generation, and I'll be pointing at my TV for years to come and saying "I knew him!" It's quite awing.

And all the while thinking about a friend of mine; you probably know her, but no names, whose life has been in a state of upheaval for the past year, and has recently shaken her position up once again. She's one of the friends I care about the most, and who never fails to cheer me up, and I love that despite the distance, we have not drifted apart. At least, we can talk out of nowhere and our conversations be no different that they were 6 months, a year ago, or more. And whatever happens in the near future, I'm just glad for that.

And in the midst of all this, and because of the frustration at having my near-masterpiece wiped out, combined with the lack of noteworthy events in my life, I think I'm going to end tonight's entry here. I haven't excised my demons, which is frustrating, but they gained the upper hand when they turned off my computer, and just typing them is not the same as typing and posting them. I just can't verbalize them. That window of opportunity (an expression the origins of which my brother Eric pondered the other day,) closed. My mind is racing. I just need to settle down. Maybe some hot chocolate. Things will seem clearer in the light of day.

One day at a time, as I've recently been saying. Taking things as they come.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

pt X: I already have a plan

It's been a hell of a day. Well, yesterday, that is. It began with the usual bowling, which was highlighted by two rally good dames and one that was utter crap. Then it began to get a little interesting.

Mom, in her infinite wisdom, decided it would be a good week to go to No Frills, because there was a $1 sale. Little did she suspect that if anything, this was an even bigger reason not to go to No Frills. See, I generally hate that store. It's full of pushy irritated people seeking deals and eager to leave. The atmosphere is not friendly: cold and clinical, with packaging displays of Life Cereal and Humpty Dumpty chips towering over you, and the decor of stark white and yellow, irriating your eyes from all sides, making you belligerent and short-tempered. I hate No Frills, but it was even worse when the lineups were so long that they extended into the aisles and it took a half hour to check out, because it was full of the same pushy, irritated (and generally older and odd-looking,) people, who were now seeking as many $1 sale items as possible, with ruthless aggression.

So, that was hell.

Skipping ahead to later that evening, it was the par-tay at Becky's for Conorton. I walked over at about quarter to 6 and was the only one there on time (we were told to arrive before 6:30, and I got there by quarter after.) aside from Lauren, Ana, Ryan and of course Becky herself, who was a busy little homemaker. People trickled in, and at last Conorton arrived, clearly not surprised to see us (after all, he's not stupid.) And the party got underway.

As usual, it was just a blast to see all the old gang. It's hard to feel separated from them when I haven't gone a month without seeing them in such a long time... in November there wasn't any significant reunion, but I did go to Mac that month, so whatever. And when it happens, it's like nobody's been away. Well, it evolved into the same two things that usually happen when the ole crew gets together: Cranium and UFC-style Shoot fighting. After one and before the other, there was cake.

In Cranium, the team of Doug, Chris and me managed to make it to the brain just as Neabel, Cary and Christine (Conorton's friend/ex,) took the win. The formerly championship team of Conorton, Patrick and Sonya was stuck in a definite last for much of it, proving that lightning doesn't strike twice.

I generally tended to stay away from the fighting, but the time eventually came when I was peer pressured into it, and grappled with Chris Brown. The result was that I quite skillfully made him tap by somewhat dislocating his shoulder using my new signature move, the mounted full nelson. I later defeated Chris Ferguson using the same maneuver and declined to fight Conorton, retiring with a perfect record of 2-0. So this morning, I'm a little sore, and I'm the one who fought the least. I know, you wouldn't think a bunch of drama kids would be into beating each other up, but hey, that's that. The most notable was Ryan Wheeler remarkably smashing Chris Ferguson's face into the floor for a definite KO victory.

Anyway, the prophecy that they'd have nothing to do if I didn't have the movie was eventually disproven; well, unless resorting to brutally strangling and wrenching one another qualifies as not having anything to do.

The evening eventually ended with everyone dispersing when Becky's parents called to say they were on their way home. We said the goodbyes and took the photos and eventually I walked home with the Fergusons and Patrick Visintini. Although obviously I had much farther to go than any of them, it was nice to be going the same way.

As a result of my going out, and Brandon and Eric's having gone to dad's, and Mom and Wally going out as well, Max actually didn't get walked last night as it turns out. Still waiting to see how tht one's gonna bite back, but oh well. And when I did get home, i learned somethnig itneresting about Bonnie: she loves the pot. Came home, the whole upstairs smelled of weed. But, she pays to live here, so whatever.

In times that are as stressful and troubling as these, I take comfort that my friends will always return. They can't seem to help it. Last night I had this really weird night that related somewhat to the night before, but in a very abstract way. One of those dreams when any imagery from the past few days will come back in the oddest way, and you can't make heads or tales of it.

But that's a lot like life. And you've gotta take it, piece by piece.

Keep on rockin'
Scott

pt IX: Meeting beautiful girls is the hard part.

As for the title, well, figure it out for yourself if there's any meaning there. It's up to you.

It's been a strangely emotional day. It's gonna end up being one of those entries where I jsut pour all my shit out and attempt to sort through it, and it takes a long time and multitudes of paragraphs and by the end you can't remember what time it was when you started reading, but you're really tired. So if you need to get something to eat or drink, I'd suggest going right now because by the time I get going, you are not going to want to pull yourself away from the computer. Everyone good? Great, let's strap ourselves in.

I had to peel myself outta bed this morning for my 8:30 class with John Clarke, which inevitably ended up being the presentation of the storyboard he wanted us to do on Wednesday. If only I'd had a storyboard on Wednesday, a lot of my woes could have been avoided in the past two days. As it was, it was about 5 minutes of telling Clarke exactly what Dave and I were doing and going into vague specifics (oxymorons are fun, no?) Beyond that it was about an hour of hanging out and drinking the coffee I'd gotten to wake myself up (ultimately pointless, I suppose,) and then going home at the first available moment so I could shower, kick back, watch TV, make another failed attempt at exporting Half-Past to video (God I need to figure that out, I hate when things are expected of me,) and catch up on the fershlugginer chores.

The sink was full of dishes. It was almost comical how many dishes we'd allowed to pile up. But there was nothing funny about having to do them, since an inordinate amount were cookware that don't go in the dishwasher, and had to be manually scrubbed. And guess who always happens to have to do this? Well, usually mom, sweetheart that she is, but it just wasn't happening and I had 4 hours to kill, so it looked like it was going to be me. In the process of doing this, of course, I had to deal with all the chunks of crap that accumulated in the sink thanks to Eric's thoughtlessness/carelessness/recklessness. So after I'd scrubbed all the crap off the pans, pots, baking sheets, etc, I had to race around the house looking for drain cleaner (which I found under the upstairs bathroom sink,) and use it. Now, inevitably, I feared, some had splashed on my hands, but after scrubbing with much ferocity, I went ahead and made a sandwich because the entire point of doing the dishes was that I was effing hungry and couldn't eat until those dishes were cleared from the sink. It just wouldn't feel right. So I theoretically might have poisoned myself, but that's okay. I'm fine now. Of course, ni the process of doing this, I somehow managed to snap a big plastic spoon in half, but that's bound to happen every now and again.

And beyond that, I went back to class and wrote my review (of "The Grizzly Man,") for Roy Wilson, and was annoyed by how particular he was in teaching the review structure. I don't know about you, but it's a little annoying to be taught something you've been doing, to some acclaim, for over three years. "Short sentences, short paragraphs." My ass. Go tell Roger Ebert to write short paragraphs. Most decent film critics are too in love with their words to keep sentences short. "You should establish an opinion right away." No shite. Y'know, that's what star ratings are for, but yeah, I was just gonna write a plot summary and let the reader draw his own conclusions. And the perturbing thing about Roy's class is that he begins each class with a (completely deserved, admittedly,) guilt trip about all the ways we fucked up on the most recent assignment. Today's topic of choice was our inability to make deadlines. He wrote on mine (a perplexing assignment to review the building - which I flopped, since I'm not a bloody architecture student, and regardless of the supposed format, you need to know something about a subjectif you're going to review it,) that it was 25 minutes late, which was due only to the very real and very annoying flaw in the printer system. and he just didn't seem to care. He was very apathetic to anything contradicting his edict that things must be handed in at a certain time - which makes sense, given that they're teaching us to make deadlines, but it's a little unreasonable. This whole "teaching one thing through another subject" is a little annoying and shallow for my liking. So transparent. Like how Mitrovica never even keeps up the illusion that his class is about anything other than trying to make us like him.

And I mean that in both senses of the word: he wants us to make us to be like him as a journalist, and to think of him as a good journalist and a decent guy. I don't see either happening in my case, which might explain my usually low mark in his class (and that unless I got 0 on the "Future of Journalism," I should have at least gotten a "B.")

Was I going somewhere with this? Not really, but when do I ever go anywhere with anything? Come on.

So I decided I'd show Roy by not only writing a kickass review, but also handing it in 30 minutes before the deadline for stopping writing, copy-edited and everything (though I find it hard to find flaws in my own work, being the egotist I am.)

It would be a lie to say that everything were going well at school, but at the same time I don't feel as though I have too many desperately pressing matters to attend. We'll see how this changes in coming weeks when I'm forced to deal with my general incompetence at doing my work, and the imprending supposed strike of college teachers. Yeah, nobody's quite sure what's going on, but apparently they voted 80% to go on strike if agreements can't be reached by March 7th. It looks do-able, but there's a very ral possibility for a strike. Hm. I don't know what I'd do if I, say, lost the year, my money, etc etc. Probably make as much financial restitution as I could (I am, after all, there largely based on QEII,) and find something else to do. I have this feeling that if the whole thing turned out for the worst and I had my first year of Sheridan stolen from me, maybe I'd just cut and run and start again elsewhere. I have no idea how I'd put this plan into motion, or even if it's necessary, but you never know.

Some other, less significant stuff went on today, but those are the big beats. Oh, and the final four episodes of Arrested Development aired today. I've seen numerous great television series sail off into the night - Futurama, Seinfeld, um... others that were cancelled far too soon, but those are the best that *ended* - and this was the greatest finale of all. It wasn't too in-jokey, it didn't fall prone to that smarmy self-awareness that infected this season and made it incomprehensible to new viewers. It was the pinnacle of what the show could be: intelligent stories featuring innovative use of classical comedic devices such as visual gags, puns, recurring jokes, pop culture references, verbal humour, high, middle and low comedy... Rosser should use it to show his Grade 11's during the comedy unit. Or not. The point is, it was an emotional yet satisfying night.

I'm listening to the Spamalot soundtrack right now. It makes me want to tear up a bit, as well. I understand it is supposedly coming to Toronto and that's interesting, but I just don't feel like that could be as good. Then again, what could beat the original Broadway cast? Oh the sentimentality...

No crisis of identity tonight. I'm too spent. I hope I've provided you with a few minutes/hours of spare entertainment for no cost. Seriously, you people, I don't get nearly enough credit for the free entertainment I provide by kvetching and moaning about every minute detail of my life. Ordinary life is pretty complex stuff, as Pekar once said ,and it makes for a pretty decent read, I'm told.

Or you people are severely, dangerously bored. Either way, whatever, that's your deal, I don't dare question it.

Signing off from SWP, the most popular site on the internet (with its dozen-or-so-fans,)
Keep on rockin'
-Scott Williams

pt VIII: What she sells

Despite having finished off a coke not an hour ago, (although time seems to have passed quickly since then,) I'm quite sleepy. I'll tell ya man, these early mornings are killers. I'm not generally prone to tiredness, and have for much of my life gone to sleep just because it was "time."

It was a long day, man. Got up for my 9:00 Mythology test. Now, the class is technically 3 hours long, but I knocked it out in like an hour (like most people,) and was left with 2 extra hours. Now, my next class wasn't until 2, but Dave wanted to meet and discuss our website storyboards after the elective, so I had to come back 2 hours later (after watching some Scrubs on DVD and making a grilled cheese) and do about 20 minutes of work with him. I wish we'd just said "let's meet an hour before the 2:00 class." That would've been sweet, three solid hours (give or take travel time,) of relaxation. But no, it was not to be.

That was followed by boredom, and then a surprisingly involving Walsh lecture on Globalization. Quite a step up considering nobody even went to last week's class.

There are times when one must face his own mortality. I guess that time comes for me tomorrow night when I watch the 2-hour finale of Arrested Development. Weird. Denial, anger, acceptance, you know.

I thought I had more to say tonight, but y'know, I strangely don't. If I think of something, I'll let you know.

Keep on rockin'
Williams

pt VII: Primatively advanced

Today feels like one really long, vivid, endless dream that drags on and depresses and feels totally unreal.

I don't know what to say. It began without another garrulous Mitrovica lecture that made me pine for the days of Guthrie. There's nothing Mitrovica can teach, I maintain, that Guthrie couldn't or wouldn't have already covered if he'd had time, especially about long-story journalism. not that Guthrie is a saint. He can came down hard on me and many others several times and by the end it was rather difficult to handle, but he was about as good an english teacher I ever had. Now, since english is kinda my business these days, I have a lot to compare to.

Not that it was all that bad or tough. As far as 3-hour Long-Story Journalism lectures go, it was among the more tolerable. And John Clark's DigiPublishing class wasn't so horrible, although it meant another few hours of listening to what I already know (tables.)

But I've had to deal with some unreal junk these days. Hard stuff to deal with. I find myself kinda wishing I could act like Dr. Cox from Scrubs, which would be bad but I've been watching the DVD's this week so whatever.

There's a distinction between perception and reality. Who you see and who you are and who I am and what I seem like are two completely different things... or four. I lost count.

Divorce is hardest on the kids. I mean, not for me, since my parents never technically divorced andI was just kinda left with my mom on the assumption tht if I really really wanted to I could go with dad (something she occasionally would bring up to Eric, when they went through their rough patch.) But I mean in a larger sense, when two forces are in conflict, those in the middle are ultimately affected most. Or at least, are most awkwardly positioned. I think those of you who know the score can see what I'm talking about. I don't particularly like being on sides with anyone, because I'm like Switzerland. Neutral to the core. And also hateful toward the world in general, but I do my best to hide that with flippant remarks and dashing eyebrow gestures.

I've been in flashback mode all day. With all the talk of tables and HTML, I thought about Grade 7, which is when I started doing this stuff. And I thought man, what I wouldn't give to trade my scholastic woes of now for whatever crap I thought I was dealing with at the time. Of course I don't know where that would put my current junk (which will seem insignificant once I'm out there and in fact already does some of the time) but the point is I was such a needlessly emotional kid. Sad, really.

But that reminds me of the video games we've been playing lately. Brando's helped me reawaken my love of ROMs, even though I find them devillishly hard to deal with, it can't kill my childhood love of games like Monster Party, Fantasy Zone and Nemo: Dream Master. I had this childhood fixation on games with escapist imagery. The monsters in MP, the strange characters in FZ and of course the scenery in Nemo. Of course, back in those days, video games were all about escapist imagery. Nowadays it's all Halo and Call of Duty and other shooters and RPGS and et cetera. It takes so little imagination to design a game these days, it seems. No ambition.

That's what I need. An escape.

Keep on rockin'
-Williams

pt VI: No earthly way of knowing

Today was, for all intents and purposes, a fairly good day.

I began working on the Sun Summer issue today, and as a consequence of volunteering to do the front page, was razzed for getting out of doing any real work yet again. Well, that's pretty much true. It takes talent, though, to avoid real work as well as I have.

So, I'm getting along. It might take a certain amount of doing to come up with an impressive front page that gets passed out to EVERY SINGLE EFFING NEW STUDENT, but I feel up to it. For now. In addition, I'm working with Melissa Wildman (related to Peter?!?! Must investigate!) on editing images, which I am in no way qualified for, but it's something to do. I'm finding it easier to talk to these people. To get along. To be social. So that has the spirits up.

As does the fact that the movie got M2V'd today. It took over two hours, but it happened. now I've just got to set aside, oh, about three days to let it burn to DVD. Hmp.

So despite the weather, it being February and things generally not being so groovy, I'm in a good mood. Let's not ruin it, hm? I don't have school until 12 monday or tuesdays, which is fine, it's cool.

I was watching MuchMoreMusic early this morning, and I was sucked back into a strange flashback of the Spice Girls - Wannabe. I remember when that song was all the rage back in grade 5, Drew pinned them up in our locker and I thought "Hm, what's that funny feeling I get when looking at them?" Uh, yeah.

The other thing I saw was the latest Pink video, and while I've never been a fan of her music, at least the video draws the distinction between her and the sad little pop culture celebrity would I hate so much. A clever and cutting video, indeed.

I feel like my old self. After a rough post like last night's, it's good to know that I can still be my good ole self.

Keep on rockin'
Scott Williams: Inventor of the Do-It-Yourself Home Biopsy Kit

pt V: The Sore Loser

I think I'm going to write something by that title. I think I'm moving toward titles that have relevance to the subject, which is how the blog once was, but then became unheard of. Then people would say "what does it mean?" little suspecting in their little heads that it wasn't supposed to mean anything. But maybe as part as SWP's emergence as a sort of social phenomenon I oughtta make certain parts of it, specifically that, more appealing to a mainstream audience.

Or I could tell everyone to blow it out their ass.

Anyway, that's my opinion of myself right about now, which would naturally make the piece autobiographical. Maybe it'll appear as part of the Collection of Curiosities project, an ever-expanding bank of short-stories that may someday appear on Interneta.

I'm just in one of those moods, y'know? And since I am "mysteriously" without people to complain to (ie they all have lives,) I'll vent it out on this blog. Don't know taht I'll go into detail, (in fact, I know I won't,) but I get this feeling like things have not been going my way. Fitting, since it's February, and reality always takes February as an opportunity to kick me in the crotch in February. I have a vendetta against this month. It is my nemesis. Nothing good ever happened in February. Not to me, at least, and if you think that's just some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy you can just click "back" right about now since that's such a condescending attitude, I don't need that negative energy on this blog. I've got enough as it is. Hah.

The problem starts with the weather. The weather is never good in February. It's 27-28 days of dreary sleet and freezing rain, the snow melts (if there's been any and strangely there hasn't,) into slush, black, tarry mush. The skies are gray, cold and unforgiving. It's the thick of cold and flu season. School gets a little worse by the end. And somehow, something really bad generally tends to happen to upset me. I hate February. It has that effing non-holiday in the middle, I'm not even gonna dwell on that (though you'd think I would, I won't.)

I'm trying to figure out a good day to show the movie, which I shouldn't be since it's not on DVD yet. I was hoping it'd be by this point and that it could be next weekend but I'm deeply concerned it's not. I just read something I didn't care for. I got into one of those annoying "I'm right / no you're not" arguments with my brother, over the stupidest thing (but then, they all are.) I had this really chaotic, haunting dream last night that underscored exactly what a clusterfuck life is right now. I'm ultra paranoid about school. This isn't how I want to go about things.

I hate that this is one of those cryptic "life sucks: blahhh" entries where I don't seem to want to get to the heart of the problem, but man I don't even know what exactly it is. Some people out there are going to read this and think "gee, what a shmuck." Others might get depressed. I think that's a risk you have to be willing to take.

I'm gotta go cleanse my soul, man. I'm not willing to live like this forever, but I can't yet see how to fix it.

Try to keep on rockin'
Scotto

pt IV: Fresh as a daisy

Gonna make this bad boy quick since I wanna go to bed in a bit, but there's still a hefty bit of blogging that I feel the need to do.

It's been one of those lazy Saturdays where you don't are to do anything in particular, and spend several hours watching the first disc of Scrubs season 2 on DVD. Bowling was a debacle this morning, each week I keep having the same thought, "man, I oughtta leave this place and never look back." Maybe this is the year.

We didn't even go grocery shopping, for whatever reason. I tried exporting the movie today but Premiere didn't respond, so it was cancelled. So there's a minor setback, but whatever.

I've got a major headache suffered when I tried to test the strength of my head against Eric's foot/leg. I had no idea it would result in a severe pain for me but here it is. The paranoid part of my brain thinks I might have a concussion, and is worried to go to sleep. So if you never hear from me again, it means I died in the absolute stupidest way possible. As it is, it's kinda like being drunk and hung over at the same time.

Is it me, or has Saturday Night Live gotten sharper? The influx of new talent from the Lonely Island guys, as well as impressionist/character guy Bill Hader, straight-man Jason Sudeikis, as well as Kristen Wiig, whose impressions are sharp but whose characters are generally in the Cheri Oteri-Stephanie Weir area (ie not good.) That, coupled with many solid hosts this year (with some noteable exceptions... Lance Armstrong...) has made for some fairly entertaining episodes.

So it looks like the sky finally cracked and started snowing... before loosening back up into rain and wind. Weather is weird.

I wound up back at the Fergusons' tonight, and joined them for Halo 2. Now, I never been much of an XBox guy, and I never played Halo 2, so my suckiness at it was legendary. I managed to acheive the dubious feat of killing both myself and Chris Brown (who was on my team,) when I drove us over an edge and crushed us both. "Drive, Scott! Drive!" Indeed. By the end of the night I was getting a few kills, but they seemed to be more luck than anything else.

I do wish I had more interesting stuff to report, but that about covers it for tonight. I'd like to end with a plug for the Sheridan First-Year Journalism E-Zone, Scratch, which is much more interesting than its sister, Motif, the bastardchild zine. My involvement was more subtle, contributing to the overall design, particularly the styleguide of the interior pages (which was not strict) and the table of contents. For most of the time, however, I was on easy street.

Well, signing off from the most popular site on the internet, keep on rockin'
The Scott from Williams

pt III: Persons Unknown

So I've been reading In Cold Blood, tackling it in bursts of 20-pages-or-so (known as the Guthrie method,) and something's been troubling me. The subject matter of the book to be precise.

It seems like everything these days is death.

Naturally, this started with the funeral, and then it sorta developed. Eric and I watched "The Grizzly Man" a few nights ago, and that's as grim a movie as I've ever seen. Tragic, indeed. A documentary directed by Werner Herzog, it tells the story of Timothy Treadwell, who spent 13 summers living with bears in Alaska. For the last several, (numbers differ between parties,) he brought a camera and documented the experience, accumulating some 100 hours of footage. Treadwell, a gentile, docile man who loved bears and hated humans (although the emotion he feels seems to go beyond hatred and into resentment and frustration,) and is, in the end, eaten by a bear. It should be noted that the bear in question was one he was not familiar with, during a time of the year he would not normally be there. The footage was even captured by the video camera, though thankfully the lens cap was on. "You must never listen to this," Herzog tells a friend of Treadwell's who possesses the tape, after he listens to it himself, through headphones. "In fact, you must destroy it."

The film is narrated by Herzog in a somewhat disaffectionate German tone, with no sympathy nor remorse for Treadwell, only observance that nature is chaos, and that he was a mere man (peaceful and unarmed,) living among fierce predators. Beautiful and tragic.

And that brings me to In Cold Blood. In case you aren't familiar, the book, written by Truman "Breakfast at Tiffany's" Capote, is the true account of a violent murder committed nearly 50 years ago in rural Kansas, with no apparent motive. The family of four were God-fearing, salt-of-the-Earth innocents. The murderers already convicted criminals, one strongly superstitious the other baudy and rough; both apparently bisexual (the former likely higher on the Kinsey+ scale.)

It has caused me to sleep uneasily. Not for fear of my own safety, but fear of my own imagination. It's not that I think these things could happen, it's that I worry about thinking about it and formulated how it could happen.

I watched the movie today and designed the credits. I've got it all worked out, I suppose, and now need only deal with the process of rendering and burning it. I have to say, from a critical standpoint, it was difficult for me to watch the whole way through. There are parts I'm extremely happy with, and parts where I feel I fumbled. I'm sure somebody will enjoy it.

My confidence in being a journalist is wavering. At times, like today, I feel like I could do it. At other times, I don't imagine I could. Today I feel that way because of the exercise Roy Wilson led, where he acted as mouthpiece during a mock-Press Conference for some Drum and Bugle Corps event. Otherwise, a generally uneventful day.

Xena was here. the dog's such a pain. She riles Max up, and uses the house as a toilet without asking to go outside. I'd hate to have her over for a lengthy span of time (unless I were being paid, in which case maybe I wouldn't care.)

I wish I had done some writing, but I can't choose between the various things I could be writing, and thus settle down and focus. Life's a bitch in that way.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

pt II: He who fucks and runs

I didn't go to Globalization today. I guess, strictly speaking, that makes me a skipper, but I at least e-mailed my assignment to Mike Walsh. Don't know if he got it. I'm sure I'll see him at some point in the future. I'm not all that fond of the essay I wrote, which was a vague rant about Maslow and the primal nature of humanity, but he might get a kick out of it.

Or maybe he'll be one of those teachers who calls me on my bullshit. I hate when they do that.

I did, however, find myself at Chris Ferguson's this afternoon. A bunch of the junior drama kids were there; many of the Grade 11's and Patrick Visintini, who is an honorary Grade 11. I felt a little old, I won't lie, at some points, even when Janessa and Amy were there. But I did hang out with Lauren Wing, and I always feel level with her. She, Chris, and Patrick are among my best friends left in town, so I had to show up.

I'd been having an "I hate my life" day, so it was a gift from heaven to go out and be a person for a while. When many people had arrived (including most notably Scott Conorton,) we started playing Cranium, and the team of Lauren, Adam and I began to dominate until the final Cranium-off which was taken by Scott, Patrick and Sonya, just because I was too stupid to think three-dimensionally and say "ball and chain."

I'm not beating myself up over it, though, because it was highly competitive.

Enjoy these salad days, I say.

The weather continues to be eerily springlike. I grow ever more suspicious. Now don't get me wrong, I love the weather and apprciate it and feel it is magical. I just can't help but feel like we're gonna pay for it by March. The weather doesn't just "get nice" and stay that way for four months.

I should start getting a life together. I don't have much of one at the moment. I've got, like, all these little pieces that just don't quite fit. Like a patchwork. Maybe I've attained stability in being who I am outside of the house, but I can't reconcile it with anything resembling a true life. I have, maybe, the materials, but not the product. I'm just freely floating, out there, without much direction or cause, but existing to exist. Well, people seem to enjoy my company. Maybe they're not lying. It would be a cruel and pointless reason to lie, since I was going to stay at home anyway. You would never call up someone you hate and ask to hang out. That would be counter-productive. Maybe that explains why I never call anyone.

I thought, for the first time in weeks, about Josh Kershaw earlier today. Mind you, it's not as though I never think about him in general, but usually it's as a part of thinking about working on something with him: Maim in Vain, Mirror Game, Half-Past, etc, etc. But all of a sudden I had this very unexpected recollection of him, talk-singing a disco tune. I couldn't remember if he'd actually done that, or if it was just something I imagined him doing, but it seemed classic Josh. I haven't spoken to him nor seen him since commencement. I hope he's doing well. Our occasional clashes aside, he was one of the first people I ever met in high school that I really liked as a person, and my opinion of him remains unchanged. Until I started hanging out with him and Kyle, I was merely putting up with my friends, and it was becoming increasingly difficult. That year changed that, and I was finally glad to find somewhere that made sense.

I wrote something really lame and sarcastic in his yearbook, and he was uncharacteristically sincere in mine; (Josh did have moments of sincerity, and they always seemed quite sincere since he was usually self-consciously sarcastic.) I could've said in exact words what I meant in his yearbook, but as I recall I preferred to allude to it through ironic commentary.

I'm levelled out. I'm not down, but I'm certianly not up (nor have I been in a very long time.) Like I said, I've got the ingredients, I'd just like to find the recipe.

It's up to me to make things work.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

pt I: For the benefit of those with flash photography...

Being something of a know-it-all, I can be quite a jerk when I believe myself to be right. Eric and I have had many such disagreements over trivial matters, and as near as I can figure, we've got a more-or-less tied score. I can't remember how often I've been right or how often he's been right, but neither is often enough for either to always be.

Therefore, when we both have some version of a fact, we butt heads over which of us is right, until at last it is looked up online. I'm usually the one who looks things up, or insists they be looked up, because I know human knowledge can be faulty, and a documented record is essential. Wikipedia (aka the most useful site on the Internet,) has become invaluable for this purpose.

Take for instance, the discussion we jusr had, which was rather heated, about the definitions of "quadriplegia" vs. "paraplegia." I figured (rightly,) that the former referred to total paralysis of the extremities, and he disagreed because he'd heard it used to describe people with only leg paralysis. Turns out I was right. So I'm gloating here on the blog.

But this spills over into my everyday life and makes me, sometimes, quite trying to deal with, this I realize. Like how I threw a fit when working out the end of the "Columbine" play, almost 2 years ago (holy shit, that long!) because I had this crazy idea about doing it in tableau, and others wanted to do a real scene. I caved, and the result was better than I thought. The key was to say as little as possible and to act like a legitimate threat, which required some solid acting from me and Kershaw. We provided.

I've been a jerk. I think that, when everything isn't going according to play (as it often wasn't during, say, "Maim in Vain,") I can get easily frustrated and quite standoffish, to use am expression I'm not all that fond of. I vividly recall using many expletives at Josh, when shootings had to be rescheduled. All in all, however, I did my best to be as easygoing as possible in the are aof the actual direction of the piece, though for much of it I was silently fuming. Maybe it came out in sarcastic remarks.

I'm not a natural leader, this I know from "Half-Past," where it wa a struggle to get anyone to do anything. something about my nebbish disposition doesn't inspire too much loyalty and obedience, and if someone wants to wander off topic and horse around, there wasn't much I was able to do.

I'm just oh so easily frustrated, too easily sent into a tempermental rage, and I'd like to take this moment to apologize to anyone who's ever been on the receiving end. More often than I'd care to admit, I was in the wrong. Naturally, I'm not going to point to any of those times for examples, other than the aforementinoed "Columbine" thing. I've been much better in recent times in keeping my cool, but sometimes I slip. It all depends on whom you're with.

All said, life could be worse. For a lot of the day my back was sore, from some mysterious source of stress. I do think it's stress related, and I've certainly got my fair share of anxieties if I'm not outright overworked. there are many insidious ways for stress to creep in.

Take, for example, some of my more pessimistic gleanings from Roy Wilson's Writing class. I don't know why, but it depresses the hell out of me and makes me feel like nothing I do is good enough. It's not that I feel like I have to do better, it's that I feel that I can't. That the maximum of my ability is not cutting it in that class. Mind you, this stems from an activity that required us to write opinion pieces in a very Maureen Dowd punchy paragraph=sentence style that I personally find retarded, but I also don't feel I did such a good job with it. I'd much rather have Stephen. Stephen Jarrett was the best teacher a first-year kid like me could hope for. He was always reassuring and easygoing in pointing out mistakes. He didn't make a big thing about it.

The worst may be (drumroll please,) Mitrovica. Nothing he says is particularly captivating *(just like every other teacher I've had, aside from Nathan Mallett,) and his lessons never seem to stick. It's almost the exact same material Mr. Guthrie was teaching us, but Guthrie managed to make it seem so fascinating and relevant, just be talking the way he does about it. Even though I always liked Guthrie (and I know several of my readers - hello there! - disagree,) I started to appreciate him more when Mitrovica said "Simple, clear, and short," instead of Guthrie's more accurate motto of "simple, clear and concise." I'm going to start going back over my Writer's Craft notes, because they are even more relevant to what I'm doing than what I'm being taught.

Interestingly enough, Mitrovica seemed captivated by the opening paragraphs of "A Hell of a Woman," by Jim Thompson, which I'd brought in and read. He just happened to be talking about creating curiosity in the reader, and nothing does that quite as well as a 1950's suspense novel. I was planning on reading the excerpt where Dolly (that's the protagonist) kills the old lady (hope I'm not killing the plot for you, but you probably won't read it anyway,) but didn't because a: that wasn't applicable, and b: I didn't want to sound like a sociopath.

That passage would make the paragraph Amy read from James Frey last week sound like good vibrations by comparison.

Anyway, all the while Mitrovica was tlaking about creating curiosity and overarching questions, I couldn't help but relate that to wht I've already been doing in my fiction. In Half-Past, in Melancholy Catatonia, in Drift, in Collection of Curiosities, Work in Progress, whatever I've got going at any given time. I'd like to be writing tonight, but unfortunately I've got a 600 word essay to take care of before I knock out early for 9:00 Mythology class tomorrow.

It shouldn't take too long, which is why I am blogging, and probably going to update Interneta.

So cheers for this evneing. This post was much longer, in the tradition of true SWP entries. I hope I've killed the maximum amount of time for you tonight.

Keep on rockin', fans
The Scott