105: A matter of procedure

I got home at 7:30 tonight and, after dropping off my backpack, went straight over to White Oaks to cast my vote in the provincial election. Anyone who knows me well enough to be reading this probably knows my political affiliation and doesn't need me to explain why I vote the way that I do.

It had been a long, miserable day. They gray of the sky matched my mind and spirit. I was sort of wrapped up in my head when I walked into the school. I tromped past a woman who had held the door open for me. "You're welcome" she muttered as I went past. I spun around, dizzily interrupted from my internal monologue, and sighed probably too low to be heard, "Hm? Beh-oh, uh, thank you..." and as I headed toward the polls I muttered to myself, "Great, like I needed something else to feel lame about." Or some such.

It had been one of those nights. Maybe my cycle hasn't adjusted well over the last month. Maybe I'm nisane. I haven't slept a solid night through in a while. I keep having to get up, turn the TV back on, restart a DVD, do whatever's necessary to take me out of my own thoughts. So this morning it was very begrudgingly when I did get out of bed.

Not yet really awake I got to Union in good time, then to philosophy class in better time, and settled in the front row of the balcony to do the Metro crossword from the day before. A fairly anonymous voice said "hey" as it sat next to me. I nodded in acknowledgement, although it was off-putting as I never expect to be recognized at a lecture. She asked me how my Thanksgiving was, and I told her it was pretty busy. about this point into the conversation I remembered I'd met this girl a few weeks before, basically in those very seats, although I didn't remember thinking she looks exactly like someone else I know. Maybe not exact, but to a surprising degree.

The day proceeded at a big of a slog pace. Nothing really bad happened although it was one of those days that seemed to get more and more inconvenient as it went through; and one that I didn't know was bad until it was over. I fell asleep briefly in both Narrative and Cinema Studies, the latter during a documentary film about Cinematographers. Coffee afterwards, trekking solitarily an hour early for Poetry.

We handed around peer critiques for poems, each having had to do one other student's. We've each written two by this point; I didn't know which of this girl's two to do, so I did both. That seemed a weird thing to explain and I wasn't particularly fond of my suggestions for either. I only wanted to give one, but when I mentioned I did two, she asked for both. The girl who did mine was flattering, but felt very differently from me on the overall effect of my piece, I guess not appreciating what I considered to be the entire point of the piece. And that's fair, I feel better about getting criticism than if I just got hollow compliments (wondering if the person was too big a coward to say their real feelings on the subject.) And she makes a very valid point, but I don't want to change it in the exact way she suggested (she gave other helpful tips) so what's a guy to do when he needs to write a revision but can't bring himself to listen to the one major piece of advice he's been given? Hm, that rhymed...

What's a guy to do when
he needs to make a revision,
but can't bring himself to listen
to the one major piece of advice he's been given?

That's the other thing. Poem #3 due soon. I've been scrawling verses left and right for weeks but since the last one I handed in, not produced anything I'd feel cool handing in. Some of these dudes and dudettes (okay being honest, mostly dudettes,) have a real knack and suddenly I'm not the poetic rockstar I fancy myself. I know, this is insane: Scotto Williams himself is backing down from the prospect of a challenge of creativity.

Go figure. That's how lame of a day it's been.

6:00 and the end of class rolled around and I headed down the stairs. At the door, I caught up with the girl who'd written the critique. It bothered me a little, not personally but more as a perplexing state of creative affairs. Some people had gotten it and enjoyed it, she didn't seem to (one, the other, or both.) We didn't say anything, but the silence may have made her think I thought "You bitch you don't get me. Gonna go home and burn your critique." Not so. Just wondering how I can reconcile my idea with her suggestions, if at all. Thus perturbed, I said nothing and walked in the rain to the subway.

I got to Union and met up with Ryan L. The train rolled like a lullabye back to Oakville. I got there and placed a call home to let Eric know he could start dinner. I then waited about 20 minutes (conservative estimate) for the White Oaks bus, alongside some girl, fit but probably too young (I never thought I'd get to a point in my life where I'd even say that.) Bus finally showed up and I got home; all I wanted was to relax with dinner and unwind. Eric told me he had just put the dinner on 5 minutes ago. Oy vey. So I went and voted to kill time (and hey, I had to take care of it anyway.) Erk. I've spent the bulk of the remainder typing this up.

Monday night was hectic but nothing severe. We went out with the wee ones and played a bastardized version of freeze tag in the football field. Lots of loud conversation and polite inquiry as to how my school year was going. Tuesday was... completely forgettable. Shit, I've gotta get back to writing these things more regularly or else I'm gonna flat-out forget every boring or annoying thing that happens to me. And if that happens, what will I write about when I do?

I'm so very tired. In my head, there's this door. My next piece is behind it, but where is the friggin' key?

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto