12: Wide-eyed wonderment

There was a time, long ago, in grade 12 or so, when I would come home after a hard day at school and write an entry. I would come home after an easy day at school and write an entry. I would sit down on the weekend and write entries. Nothing interesting hda to happen in my life for me to write an entry in this blog - which was perfectly suitable because at the time nothing interesting did happen in my life.

Nowadays it feels like I'm all identity crises and freakouts of self-doubt and death-reconciliation. Big issues, or little issues that I feel compelled to make into big issues because little issues don't make it into the blog. Oh, and random internet girls. Me and my goddamn random internet girls. Well, that's not fair to say, they mean well.

Back then, it didn't take me 29 days to get 12 posts in a month. Back then, anything went. Now, I sit and wait for things to happen. Or perhaps I'm too busy with the things that are actually happening. Wait, why am I complaining? I read somewhere recently that nostalgia is memory stripped of context. Lucky me, I have the context for my every memory of the last 5 years, so I can always go back and see how crappy it really was. I was miserable a lot of the time, and was not shy about sharing it (who was I convinced was reading this thing? Nobody, apparently.)

What I'm getting at is that nothing really happened today, or at least to the extent things did happen, none of it is imperative I write about. Nothing happened yesterday, either, but today is the day I chose to write about it. Today I got up and did the same routine I did on Friday, went in way early for my exam so I could study.

I didn't study though, not really. I looked over my notes and tried to make mental note of every theme that could be applied to each book, knowing I wouldn't be called on to write on that many different ones. I also re-read the Leonard Cohen and Margaret Atwood poems.

Instead of studying - because why bother - I watched this girl on the upper balcony. She looked very serious, was dressed rather conservatively, glasses, straight black hair, nice breasts. None of that was really what I was noticing (except for the breasts) but what caused me to keep glancing in her direction was that she kept touching her nostrils. It was weird. I do this from time to time as well. At first it just looked like she was picking her nose, but that's not it. They must've been sore. It happens. She was sitting at the computer next to me for a while, it was hard to keep from glancing.

I broke for lunch a little after noon. I went down to McDonald's and ordered a Cheeseburger, fries, Coke. Something happened that always surprised me but shouldn't. They give me the double cheeseburger. Fast-talking Chinese lady says, "I give you deal, it better deal" and moves on to the next customer while I walk away wondering what just happened. Every time they do it I say to myself, "Don't stand for this shit man, don't let them dictate your order. You didn't order the double cheeseburger, don't take their double cheeseburger." But I take it, curse that second patty, and say next time.

The more insolent among you may be wondering what the problem is. The double cheeseburger costs less and is more food. Awesome, right? Well it's about principles. I don't eat very well, but the trick is portion management. Eat shitty food, but don't eat a ton of it, even if it's cheaper that way. Moreover, stacking one patty on top of another just makes the whole thing taste wrong to me. Made me feel a little ill.

I had a fantasy of throwing up all over the table, and leaving a note saying "If I ask for a cheeseburger, just give me a cheeseburger. :)" Yeah, I wouldn't included the smile. I've already vomited on their table, how would that make me any more of a dick, right?

Instead, I ate until I felt like eating no more - whether from nausea or outrage - discarded the excess on the table (where I had imagined vomiting) and left.

Maybe next time I really will raise hell. I really don't like being handed a double cheeseburger and being told it's what I ordered.

The exam itself went okay. I was due for a lackluster performance, after feeling good about the last two. I'm not saying I tanked it, I just didn't live up to my potential. The first part, sight passages, was good. The second degenerated rapidly into a nonsensical rambling about motherhood and/or communication. I am really not proud.

The thing is, after the exam, I got my essay back, and it was better than most of my papers. I got a bit of flack for not delving deeply into the concept of intertextuality. Because apparently this was also a problem with my earlier paper (whoops?) the marker (Prof? TA?) decided to penalize me more for this one. They're really not gonna like my exam.

While I was waiting for the exam to begin, I struck up a conversation with this girl who was also in my Shakespeare tutorial group. I was sitting at the back of the room, and this girl came up and sat next to me and we got to talking. Nothing spectacular, just chit chat, but I'd seen her all year in tutorials and in CanLit lectures and she never said a word to me. I've gotten pretty decent at breaking the ice but this one never gave me anything to go on. I figured she probably just wanted to be left alone, so I did, and now today she's miss chatty. Well, shows what I know? Anyway.

Got home around 5. Dinner, TV, Lost, typing this. I should be doing revisions for the play but my brain's a little fried right now. I've got them in mind, it's just hard to focus. Tomorrow will be a good day for this stuff. My mind's just a little restless right now. I need to give myself a chance to cool off, after the last couple nights.

Only two more exams.

Then... more school.

Wow, I can't believe I'm actually going through with this one.

Keep on rockin'
-Soctto

11: What you were capable of

Welcome to Fronday. The Monday that feels like a Friday. I would have called it Mriday, but that's the Friday you get a catscan. Hot-cha.

I say it felt like a Friday because, among other things, time has no reason while I'm not regularly in school (not that that will be the case much longer.) And the level of relief and ease I felt when I got home was similar to that TGIF feeling. But to see how a good day morphs out of a crappy one, let's jump backward in time to... yesterday.

I had put off studying about as much as I usually do. Ever since last year's Philosophy final I have recognized the vitality of a good study program, but with all the overwhelming shit I've felt this semester I just can't get my motivation up to do it. Shakespeare looked daunting. We read 12 plays this year and all of them would be in play. and when I say we read 12 plays, I mean we were assigned 12 plays, and Levenson lectured on 12 plays, but I myself read closer to... four. Well, four during the course, I don't count Hamlet and Romeo & Juliet because I had familiarity with them in high school. So that's six plays (the other four were Midsummer Night's Dream, As You Like It, Measure for Measure, and Lear, for those keeping score.) So that left me the Tempest and the entire history canon (Richards II & III, Henry IV part 1 & 2, and Henry V) basically unknown to me. It was kind of a shame too, because I'd really intended to read the Tempest, and I liked the themes of the Henry IV plays.

So how does one, the day before the exam, study six plays one has not read? And refresh himself on the six he has? This is the 21st century, kids. How are you reading these words?

The first step was to study last year's exam heavily. The vexing thing, about which I'd been warned, was that the exam would take the same format but involve different questions. At a loss, I studied for the questions on the old exam and hoped it would inform my process enough to answer whatever came up on the real exam. From there I compiled a list of themes broached on the old exam, and how any play tied into it, and focused my studying on plays I felt would be of vital importance. As a result, the histories fell by the wayside anyhow, with a notable exception in the Henry IVs.

Somehow, my rigorous all-day study regimen still allowed me time to walk to my grandma's place to help with her DVD player, make tacos, and watch the greatest teen sex comedy of the decade, featuring the chick who played Alex on Lost as a girl learning to pleasure herself and Rumer Willis (daughter of Bruce and Demi Moore) kissing another girl. I'd say those were spoilers, but you wouldn't watch the movie without knowing those things were in there. So really they were selling points. It was called Wild Cherry.

Knowing my exam was at the ghastly early hour of 9 AM (they still have those?) I endeavoured to go to bed early. So I'm all tucked in at 11:30, with my late night DVD to lull me to sleep, liquored up for good measure, and........ nothing. Weird how your body's natural impulse to fall asleep fails most when you're really thinking about it. When you need to sleep, your body will find any reason not to. The dog making too much noise in the hallway. The pillow too stiff. The train making mysteriously ominous noises in the distance in the night. Okay, that may actually make a legitimate reason. I've heard train whistles late at night before, but not so disruptively, nor so frequently. It was like Steven Spielberg's goddamn War of the Worlds.

So I drifted in and out of sleep all night until finally, my alarm went off. It was 6:45. Time to get up.

I just realized the step I left out of last night's routine... get all hyped up on sugar so I can crash. Seriously. I get way deeper sleep that way. I'm also like 12 inside.

So, like in olden days, I got a lift with mom to the train station. gorgeous morning - I didn't need my jacket, but had it anyway, so it would later become a bit of a burden. Getting there at like 7:30, I had time to jot down to Tim Hortons so that I wouldn't detour prior to my exam and get all jittery. I caught the 7:45, which is always packed, so I sat on the steps to the mid level examining the intro to my Romeo and Juliet text, which as it happens was written by my Prof. Go figure.

So I got there right on time to wait in line a while after they opened the doors. i ran into some of the people I know in the class, and once seated, sat there staring at my overturned exam, wondering what secrets it concealed. I just wanted to look at it. Just wanted to know what was in there to put my mind at ease. I felt disquieted, nervous, anxious.

Finally, finally, we were allowed to flip it over. Part one was passage identification. Ten quotes from throughout the 12 plays. A funny thing happened - they were heavily centered on the histories, and I still knew most of them. For instance, when you know about Falstaff - what he'd say, or what one might say about him - you've got a lot of the Henry IVs. I correctly got a passage from Richard II but got the speaker wrong. Actually, I got it right then changed it (don't you hate when that happens?)

The next part was to take three of those quotes and relate how one related to the character, one to the situation, and one to a theme of the play. I took a speech of Rosalind's from As You Like It on the difference between genders, the prologue of Henry IV 2 on the difficulty of presenting war onstage, and Prince Hal leaving Falstaff's apparently dead body as an indication of the theme of honour in Henry IV 1. The directions said to "try to avoid repeating." I assume those two plays count as different, and that was the only time I really talked about any histories anyway.

As You Like It made a return, after a scene analysis of King Lear (which I wasn't too pleased with - one of the main places I assume I will be losing marks.) the topic was marriages/betrothals in the comedies (Measure for Measure, As You Like It, Tempest.) I made the point that marriage was both an end unto itself and a signifier that the status quo had been restored. Go me? I hope so. I thought it was a decent point, though like many of my decent points, made somewhat incoherently.

That essay wouldn't necessarily have been my first choice, but the choices all involved plays whose aspect I wasn't equipped to talk about, like say, the role of clerical figures in Henry V (along with Romeo & Juliet and Measure for Measure, both of which I could've tackled.) Likewise in the final portion, where I compared the use of comedy in Lear, Hamlet and Romeo & Juliet. The question said to choose any three tragedies or histories, so I cheated and used all the tragedies. After all, I'd already said my bit on Falstaff, and I don't remember shit about the soldiers in Henry V.

Lear was easy - the Fool is a pretty prominent character early in the play (then disappears, possibly being Cordelia.) Hamlet, I had trouble with, because all I had in mind was the grave-digging scene/Yorick soliloquy. I kinda cheaped it. Romeo and Juliet was where I really let her fly, which was fair considering my prof's established preference for that play (we spent like three or four weeks on it as compared to about two on Hamlet and maybe one and a half on Lear.)

So I walked out of that exam feeling pretty jazzed about my performance on it. No, it wasn't flawless, but if I had to guess I'd say I was probably somewhere in the realm of 80. My paper-writing skills have gone to shit but I'm a pretty good test-taker, I find.

Afterward, I met up with Daron. Odd name for a girl, but then she's a pretty odd girl. I think I mentioned when I first met her on this blog we just started talking after my presentation. She acknowledges she is a talkative one, and I think that's charming, because I often can't deal with people who won't be bold in conversation. I usually emulate my surroundings, or at least react to them. Anyway, we were supposed to meet up before the exam for a study session, but she had to work so she suggested a post-exam celebratory coffee. In the end, it was a warm day and I was a little weary for another coffee, so we just sat on a bench and talked - for like an hour - about school and life and the exam and shit. Like I said, she was talkative, but it was a good back and forth.

Then she had to go study for her exam tomorrow and I jetted for the subway, running into Jane from CanLit, who had a nice stop and chat. How do I keep meeting these women, yet finding myself impotent to do anything about it? Oh Scotto.

So I got home and lounged around a while. After dinner - steaks courtesy of mom - I met up with Robyn. That was coffee. It was a big catch-up session. I listened intently while she told me as much as she could muster about everything that had been going on with her lately. To say it seemed like a lot would be an understatement. But then we had not just a good conversation, but one of the all-time greats. A real hall of famer.

So that was it. I was miserable at the beginning of the day. I was weary, I was nervous, I was anxious, I was uncertain. And now I feel capable, I feel like I know things, I feel like I've had some catharsis. I can rest easy. Feels like Friday.

Next exam on Wednesday. CanLit.

I've seen the future, brother. It is murder.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Addendum Tuesday morning: I neglected to mention perhaps the most interesting thing I saw all day. Sometime last year I saw a guy come up to a girl on the subway (who had been in the same class I'd juts left) and start chatting her up, basically to hit on her. This started at Museum and lasted until she got off at St. Patrick (2 stops.) I had never seen a guy hit on a girl on the subway before and never thought I would again. I was wrong. Yesterday, getting on at St. George, I noticed a pretty Asian girl with bleached blonde hair and an Atari tee. I scoped her out, yeah, as I have a habit of doing, but left her be, because that's all anyone really wants on the subway. So then this guy gets up from his seat and staggers over, and in this bizarre drunk Muppet voice (we're talking Dr. Teeth here,) compliments her on her shirt. "Hey, you like Atari? I like Atari." Unimpressed, she rolled her eyes and gave the guy a silent, sarcastic thumbs up. He continued, "Maybe you could give my your phone number--" she interrupted "No." but he continued. "--and we could play some video games sometime? Come on." he kept harrassing her until we arrived at Museum (one stop) and she bolted saying "I have an exam bye." Wow.

This is what does not suck about being a guy. No unwanted attention from creepy subway dudes who may or may not be drunk in the middle of the afternoon. I hae no sympathy for him, and get a great deal of amusement out of the whole thing. I sometimes wonder what girls thing when I try to strike up a conversation. I hope they don't equate me with that.

He then proceeded to do a song and dance for the trio of Muslim girls (all in hijabs, some with faces covered) until his friend led him away at their stop.

Good times, man.

10: Your lies and mine

So yesterday morning I got up real early. Early for what I'm doing nowadays and far earlier than my obligations. About a half hour later than I was typically during the school year.

I got to school at about 10:30 with a cup of coffee and my Film History textbook (which I'd hardly cracked open all year) and my notes (the one course I'd taken them - this will hurt me later) and my exam review outline. I parked myself in front of a computer in the Innis library and I just... typed up everything I knew or could learn about every topic listed. This really got underway just before 11. The exam was at 2. I had a fair bit of work to do.

I was pretty thorough with certain things but I had to pick and choose because I can't learn everything about everything. I had to decide what I really wanted to write about, and what I might have to say instead in the contingency that I couldn't write on that topic. For example, I spent a great deal of time doing a write-up on Film Noir, which I was eager to write about, but ultimately was left off the test.

Generally, my choices were good though. I wish I'd had more to say about the French New Wave in comparison to the British - it's not a bad topic, but I didn't do it justice. Some of my matching was off in the multiple choice section. My film analysis was a little thin - I had been counting on doing The Conversation or perhaps Breathless, but those were off the table so my choice had to be Wild Strawberries. I kicked ass on the New Hollywood section, talking director's cinema and blockbuster mentality. That was a topic I could wrap my head around. I don't know how well I did, but I did my best and can live with myself (they same will probably not be said for my next 4.)

Once I was done I went to hang out with my friends. I almost called them acquaintances, but they've definitely become my friends. One of my concerns for the past couple years was that I wasn't going to make any worthwhile friends at U of T, the way I did at Sheridan. That once our courses were over we would all just go our separate ways. A lot of the time that's been the case. Jasmin was the obvious exception, we still talk occasionally, but we go through phases. Claire and I didn't know each other much during poetry but became good friends in Shakespeare. Martina and Rosie, the friends I am talking bout now, I don't think they'd let me get away, which was nice. Maybe came a little late in the semester (don't it always? Well not really) but it did.

Anyway, we all met up after the exam. After a significant amount of time spent trying to figure out what to do, it was decided to go get some eats. This is where I start to get awkward. There were a few contributing factors to this, not least of which was that I, you know, have my restaurant thing. I didn't feel like explaining it, which probably made my actions later seem the more inexplicable. The other was I had planned to write the exam and head home. For some reason I hadn't budgeted time for friendship and socializing, stuff I didn't expect to find myself doing (yep, some days it's hard to believe there are people who, y'know, wanna hang out with me. Don't trip over my self-deprecation.) So all the while I'm checking my clock. "Should I stay? How much longer? Catch a train home? Can I eat with these people? Can I eat with them knowing I have a free meal waiting for me at home?" Me and my stupid mini panic attacks.

For a while I went along. We walked down to Yonge and started to try to figure out where to eat. "Caribbean place? Salad king?" We walked all the way from St. George & Bloor to Yonge & Dundas where it was finally settled on Jack Astor's. Right around this time it was maybe 6:30, and we were right at the subway. so I apologized and bid a hasty retreat. I thought great, I avoid embarrassing myself with public illness, catch the train and go home.

Well, by the time I got to Union it was 6:47, meaning I had missed the train by about the length of time it took me to hesitate and come up with a tactful way of leaving my new friends (I was hardly successful at that.) I was hungry and couldn't wait the 2 hours it would now take to get home, so I paid for food, which is part of what I was trying to avoid (not expensive food at least, just McD's.) So I had about two hours to just stew, think about how lame I felt, and eat a cheeseburger.

Well, after I got on the train, I sat across from this fairly attractive lady in a business suit (*with a skirt, not a pantsuit) who kept crossing and recrossing her legs. Was it for my benefit? Probably not, but it got my attention. (I didn't see anything dirty, except in my imagination, and I tried not to look but she was rather fidgety.)

The whole time I kept reminding myself of other things I have to do. More rewrites (I really wanna, and I know where to start,) more studying, and a new idea I had to capitalize once I got home. There's a lot bubbling under the surface here, amidst the other studying I should be doing (Shakespeare, in particular, needs attention.)

I'm going to suffer the consequences (very immediately) for my slacking. I have learned my lesson. better it happened now, in second year, when I'm capable of doing something about it without getting too deeply screwed over. Plus, like some chick on the subway said, "It's only second year."

I actually left this entry about a paragraph and a half ago to go play Risk with the guys (Chris, CB, Pat.) It was awesome, the first time we've done that since at least reading week. It was the usual game, but very active all things considered. It was pretty sudden too, because they tried to call (been having problems with the home phone) but couldn't get me so instead of calling my cell, they showed up at my place and scared me. Well, it was my own doing that I got startled, but they could've at least tried the cell. Anyway. That was at like 9:15, and it's now 2:00. There were many intensely geeky conversations relating to Lost and Star Wars. Go us.

Sadly though, it means I missed Joe's Starbucks gig. He understands of course, I make it to every gig I can. Being in a different town and all, transport isn't always the easiest thing for me to negotiate. Still, would've been cool to see him doing Starbucks for two hours.

I woke up this morning at about 6 AM after about 3 hours of sleep to bright sunlight and chirping birds. I fed the dog and let him out, into the warm spring air. The trees haven't bloomed yet but the flowers are emerging and the air is warm (it was actually quite hot today.) After I let him back in, I went back to sleep for about 6 hours. During that time I had a freaky dream. For once, my dream didn't involve me running or even traveling at all, but it was about staying in the same place, feeling locked, trapped... a girl I knew in high school (whose name is the female romantic lead in the play, so there's your dream analysis) died in that dream, and she had some (characteristically) acerbic last words for me.

And yeah. Big warm day. When I finally got out of bed at noon, I went for a walk, which became a walk for comics (good call... it rained after I got home, and will probably continue tomorrow.) Which became me walking home, so that's three hours, during which I stopped at the library to do computer stuff, and then stopped in at Whole Foods to see Doug, Robyn, jelly beans.

Sigh. So much to do. Tomorrow will be a very big study day. I hate myself for not focusing as much on this earlier, but then again, oh yeah, I had a funeral. I should've gotten some of these guys deferred, but then agian, I just want them over with.

I'm going in circles now. Ain't I always?

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

09: Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not

Not a reference to the Arctic Monkeys. Rather, a reference to Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, a film starring Albert Finney, which was also referenced by the Arctic Monkeys.

Sometimes, Scotty really doesn't know.

It's been a somewhat tough couple of days. Dad and Uncle Alan got the Lawyer stuff done in good time, we did the burial of the ashes in the chilly April air, bowed solemnly, then hesitated on going home a while. How do you know you're done saying goodbye to someone who can't shoo you off? That's why I love my final memory of Granddad. Because he probably wouldn't have wanted us to hang around his gravesite that long. The drive home felt more cramped than the way up, but perhaps that was because we were not comfortable enshrouded in darkness.

I thought I was done attempting to meet girls online, but a fresh batch has phased into existence. So last night I got to entertaining one of them. I've been very bad, distracting myself lately rather than studying. Film History exam tomorrow. I'm kinda boned for it, as I would like to have studied harder and not gone in relying on what I could recall. That is not as safe as it once felt.

So tomorrow, being that my exam is at 2, I intend to go in very early and do some serious stuff. Whether or not I stick to this, and it works successfully to ameliorate my Film History exam mark, remains to be seen.

The problem is that my motivation is down way low from what it should be. The essays really killed my enthusiasm, which is sad since I should've found cause to rally. But with all the distraction I gave myself last week, and then the funeral stuff killing the time period I intend to use for studying (who knows if that would've worked) I've basically watched this week slip into the ground in a jar of ashes. Sad metaphor.

The big thing today was that I went out to see Cary's cast for Half-Past. Again, I should reasonably have taken a pass on this. I'm not an essential part of the process for these people, and I've got my studying to do.

But I did go, and I found it a rather stirring experience. Cary and I were saying, you know, suddenly it's not just something I wrote, it's being said by real people, performers, on a stage, for people before long. And while we're still in the early phases, the actors are generally in the right places to start with in their approaches to the characters. I had this look on my face the entire time of just... awe, and glee, and fear, that this material wasn't good enough for these people, for this stage. It's just hard, despite all my aspirations, getting over the perception of myself as an amateur, doing it for himself in his basement. That and, after six years with some of this material (six years?!?!?!) it gets a little tiring to hear. I don't think much of it is all that funny anymore (except for some of the really good deliveries I heard) and that somewhat colours my perception. So I'm not totally in love with the basic script anymore. But I've added all these sexy new sequences that will hopefully spark my interest and feel as authentic as the rest. of course, there's the monologue issue - part of my renovations have installed a couple new monologues, which Cary is ragging on my for, but I think they serve a considerable comedic and character need in the play. but that's just me.

The hardest part of writing is rewriting for the demands of others. Working in TV would be tough for me. But I think Cary and I are close enough in our conception of the material that we'll ultimately be pleased with the product.

There's still work to do. But the cast is there. All the pieces are there. They just need to be arranged properly. That's Cary's job. Me, I'm just the guy who types. I just need to type some good stuff.

After that, we went for a drink at the Phoenix (the Mac bar; I've been there once or twice myself) and drank with whatever people from the cast were around. I hadn't eaten much today, and don't like to eat when drinking, so take that as you will. This, mind, was all instead of grocery shopping (being that we haven't been home much since Thursday, it's okay to miss one outing.)

At the end of that, we got a ride back to Oakville with Cary's dad, who was in town to schlep some of Chris' stuff (and Cary) back to Oakville.

Anyway. I should probably get off right about now. Seeing the cast go over it has really made me reflective. I should go reflect.

Or, you know... study.

No wonder I'm the engine of my own misfortune.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

08: Real and ethereal

So I don't think I need much explanation, if you've been following recently, why I am writing this blog from North Bay, after just being here last weekend.

Dad came home early on Saturday to tell me Grandad had passed. When B. got home Sunday evening I told him as immediately as I could. From there, the logistical mess of getting all of our funeral attire prepared and gathered. I bought a new shirt and tie, which I was intending to get anyway for Manda's wedding. We had just been talking about it Saturday morning.

We came up late Monday, after picking Eric up at school. Because of short notice, and because the person who had rented it didn't return it on time, dad couldn't get a rental van. So we all jammed in the back of the Nissan, all our biggest fears. At least dad saved the money. Which is nice, when bereaved. Anyway, we drove up in the dark and rain with hits of the 60's playing. Something far too proasic about hearing "Tracks of my Tears" or "Crying in the Rain" (or most especially, "Leader of the Pack") when you're driving to a funeral in the rain. Hrm.

I've spoken and thought a lot about the matter lately, to anyone who would listen. It was both sudden and rather expected. A relief, in a way, because I no longer have to spend a long time wondering when it's going to happen, and because the last time I saw him was a very pleasant memory now forever etched in my mind.

The funeral was this morning. It was a typical affair, a chilly, well-furnished room with flowers and photos of him at various stages of his life. Nothing from his childhood (I don't imagine photocameras were a common household item in Northern England in the 1930's) but from his early days with Grandma, a lot of stuff with my cousins, my brothers and me, (although because of geography, more with the cousins,) and from their many travels. Open casket. Coffee and random candy dishes (I was easily the youngest person there.) Charming my cousin's boyfriend's parents, when given the opportunity (yeah, I don't get how I can do that either.) This lasted from about 1 to about 3.

Then at 3, when every non-relative had gone, we did the service. It was... a funeral. The minister read First Corinthians, which is usually reserved for weddings, explaining how he believed it tied into the theme of being with God. I'd rather he had read Psalm 23 but whatevs. We're not a very religious family and you could tell the awkward hesitation whenever it was time for us to say amen. But I guess the funeral home insists you go through the religious ceremonies or else ethey won't take your money and bury you. Or something? Uncle Alan spoke. He also spoke and Grandma's funeral. I'll have to ask my dad why he didn't. I guess he's never been one for public speaking, I just would've thought they'd alternate. Given the opportunity, I'd have spoken. But perhaps it would've been inappropriate to show off how much deeper my thoughts on the matter than everyone else. I kid.

But speaking of "inappropriate." I used that word a lot lately. A lot of concern for what was appropriate behaviour, appropriate attire, under what circumstances my brothers and I behave ourselves and care how we are perceived. A sense of double-consciousness. But if I tried to write a paper on it, I'd probably get bitchslapped.

Crap. Exams all too soon.

So, tomorrow we'll be putting his ashes to rest. They've also got some business with a lawyer, so hopefully they can get that done in short order (they hope, but let's be realistic, how quickly does this stuff ever work out?) And then home.

Thursday I gots to study, then go down to Hamilton and meet the Half-Past crew. Pretty psyched about that.

I thought I'd have more to say, but.... I' don't.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

07: Mama told me not to come

SWP: A different kind of lie from a different kind of liar.

There are two Randy Newman songs I like listening to. One is the one from which I have derived the title of this entry. I've never heard his version, to my knowledge, but on the way back from North Bay last week I heard the Three Dog Night version on the radio, and enjoyed it. I must've heard it some time ago, maybe in a movie. Sounds like a movie song, which makes sense, given Randy Newman wrote it.

The other one is Burn On, which is in and of itself a boring song, but was at the beginning of Major League, a film I liked a lot as a kid.

So, it was a gorgeous day today. A jacketless day. If I'd had any foresight I'dve put off getting comics until today rather than the comparatively chilly Wednesday, which was a nice day at the time but pales in comparison to the high teens we had today.

B went to Montreal for the weekend. Well, to Kingston today, then Montreal tomorrow for UFC. The point is I've been alone in the basement all day, so to keep the boredom from overtaking me I've spent a lot of time talking nonsense out loud. It's a little like what I do on here. Basically I imagine myself conversing with someone who genuinely cares what I have to say, no matter how inane or pointless (and boy does it get inane and pointless.) I think the fact that I've been doing that for years, often inadvertently in places where people could potentially hear me, has allowed me to continues the ridiculous project that is SWP.

Well, my point is, I'm bored, and boredom is a fair bit worse when you're on your own. I was out the door earlier tonight, intending to get a drink, before remembering how absurd getting a drink by oneself makes me feel. I mean, isn't it at least a little less pathetic to drink on my own for free in my own home? Or is it more, because I've then eliminated the (already unlikely) possibility of meeting someone new. There is nobody around, everyone else has a life. I'm a little sick of myself, trying to stay on this side of pathos and self-loathing.

So I'm hashing out some stuff for the various things I've got myself writing. The Half-Past workshops have generally been productive, as over the course of discussion Cary and I have delved a little deeper into ways to enhance the play. Possibly, anyhow. I keep worrying that I'm just gonna find myself back where I was in early 2006 when I was on a project with Ana, and she wanted a specific end to the script I'd written her, and I thought what she was asking for was ridiculous and wouldn't write it for her. This is a little less extreme than that. I simply could not bring myself to visualize the ending she wanted, and things fell apart over that. This, on the other hand, I can work with. I don't fundamentally object to what we're talking about by any means, I'm just trying to figure out my way of approaching it. It's all part of the process.

I actually left that sentence for a while and I forget whether that was the way I was intending to end it, or if I meant to say something other than "of the process."

Anyway, like I say, this workshopping is yielding some generally positive results, including some very amusing runs for Billy, and some stuff with Beth that makes her a real character, so there's a few problems solved. Once it gets back to rehearsal we can weed out what doesn't work or still needs tweaking. I hope to be around for a significant amount of that (given I've seen the schedule, I see no reason why not.)

I've been giving thought to embarking upon a lecture tour. In my lectures, I would inform eager listeners about the manifestations of bullshit - how it is used in everyday life (particularly in the University classroom) and how it can be used to one's advantage.How the power of bullshit can be harnessed for great accomplishments. Well, not great accomplishments, but improbably large ones considering the level of effort and commitment used. For an example, see every politician.

I say this because I've been thinking a lot about one of the main themes that has emerged from - or been massaged out of - my Canadian Lit course, the theme of the wilderness, and the aspect of it that goes beyond description by words. Essentially, summed up in a single phrase from Catharine Parr Traill (or was it Suzanne Moodie?) to Douglas Glover and maybe Atwood (or was it Crozier?) - wilderness is where language fails.

Except it's not. Tree. Sky. Bear. Water. Cold. Dirt. Rock. Moose. These are words, and they succeed immensely in describing the wilderness. A dirty moose contemplates the sky from under a tree while a bear drinks cold water from a stream beside the rocks. Maybe I'm thinking too prosaically, but I think that's the point. Being able to say that language fails at some point is a luxury language does not afford. Perhaps out there, in the great unknown, some existential dimension exists that cannot properly be articulated in terms we understand (although "the land of wind and ghosts" sounds pretty cool) but applying this to wilderness signifies an unwillingness - not an inability - to communicate. Conversely, by invoking this lack of communication, they are communicating (effectively, if indirectly) the immensity of their experience, in terms that can sort of be understood, if you think non-literally about things, the way these writers are trying to bullshit you.

Or maybe I'm bullshitting right now.

What I do get is the concept of the incommunicable experience as demonstrated in a story by Lorrie Moore, studied in AmLit, Canonical Babbling in Peed Onk. I mean, the concept stands up more strongly, although that doesn't make it true, because I think Moore does a great job communicating. I guess I'm just not convinced there's anything (worth writing about) that cannot be communicated. Even if it takes allegories and metaphors and all those wonderful literary tricks we have developed over centuries and millenniums (millinneia? Firefox doesn't like that word) to cope with the limits of our capacity to communicate. There are no excuses left.

Of course, the problem with these lectures is that they would be inherently damaging to a student's academics. Once you become aware of bullshit, you can no longer tolerate it, so you become like me, searching for it everywhere and taking every lecture with a grain of salt, instead of furiously collecting pearls of wisdom to be reconfigured and regurgitated at a later time and date in a paper or exam. It's a slippery slope and I'm already sliding. I'm trying to get a foothold.

Journalism, I should note, grants you an intense bullshit radar, if you pay enough attention to it.

Back to the incommunicable. Let me explain. It was very hard for me to articulate exactly what I was feeling when I recently visited Granddad in the hospital (sadly, he's back in there, and dad has gone for the weekend.) Except when I started thinking of it in terms of metaphor. Years ago, Grandma was the storyteller, the keeper of words. She did crosswords and cryptograms (which inherently problematize - another bullshit word I love now - communication) and told tales while Granddad sat back and let her. Then when she left us, he was left the task of handling the talking. Granddad himself isn't one for small talk, for dwelling on the wordings of things. He lives in the world of the tangible, a man of few words, who is happy to shoo us off by saying "Off you go" (I love repeating that.) And so I have no need to feel guilty for not knowing what to say, because I have no need to say anything.

There, I have just communicated the incommunicable.

Haven't I? I don't even know anymore. But it was fun talking in circles for no good reason.

So look at this. I've got to get back to writing Half-Past. I've got to do my reading. I pledged to Schatz (Brandon, not Thomas) I'd write a Homeless Ninja comic for him to draw, and a comic of my own to do. I have some books and other ideas I want to explore but simply have no time to. And I ought to study. I may be meeting up with this girl from Shakespeare next week to talk exams. In the recesses of my mind of course this is not just for study purposes, but when has that part of my mind ever been right about anything, especially when sober? I'm a mess.

Talk about something I can't communicate.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

06: We're all just trying to find the future

SWP: You want, I give.

The title of this entry courtesy of a conversation I had with Joe Chammas earlier today. I need to clear my head, not that there's particularly a lot rattling around in there lately. I've sort of downloaded all my anxieties about granddad and illness and sensitivity and everything, and now I'm just wondering where the heck I'm at.

I've gotten some good headway on the comic lately. The top things on my agenda right now are to do some studying/reading in preparation for my exams, which begin next week. But what's really dominated my thoughtwaves lately has been Half-Past Eight PM.

Cary and I have been talking a fair bit about what can be added to the script. There are certain places in which I recognize it is not all it can be. The character of Beth, in this edition, is as flat as anything I've ever written. Certain points of dialogue are awkward (although Cary could not specify which ones he meant, I still get it.) Cary's also got a lot of designs in his head about this Hobo character he's got in there, frankly I'm not sure where to begin with it, but I'm trying. I mean, I definitely see the potential in there, but I'm not sure where to crack it open. I think the problem right now is that it's a good (great? decent?) and very tightly-constructed short play. With enough time to expand it well beyond what's on the page, and a variety of actors whose talents are totally being exploited, we're risking overwriting this bitch and I want to make sure that doesn't happen. I love this play, but at what point do we go overboard trying to make it all things to all people? Cary, I know you're Ctrl+F'ing your name, so don't think I'm just bitching idly. These are just some thoughts.

That said, this mostly comes from stress, because a lot of the notes are good and have gotten my creative wheels in motion. It's a fine line to walk between expanding the text of the play and adding unnecessary scenes just because there's time.

In any case, I'll be on it tonight and hopefully I come up with something good.

Today I went down to Sheridan to see Joe. We ended up talking a while, and then being invited by Sandy McKean (who, surprisingly, seemed to remember me) to a press conference for a local MP who was launching a student job initiative, which basically consisted of her announcing a groundbreaking new pamphlet. Still, useful for both of us. While there, we socialized with Mary Lynn (and later, Nathan and Denni.) Joe and I always have a lot to talk about, even beyond just catching up on stuff. We've had some pretty decent conversations. Anyway, as I mentioned, that's where the title came from, regarding all our attempts to find our way in this world.

Other than that it was a pretty boring day.

I finally pulled the trigger on something I've been meaning to do, which is I lent Dad some Lost DVD's (I rented them from Blockbuster, and left them in his care to return if he watched them, or if he didn't.) He noted he was in the midst of going through Stargate, which could take a while. Well.

Now, personally, it took until about the end of Walkabout to get me intrigued enough to keep going, so I figure if he watches the first disc it should do the trick. If he watches it.

I found out my schedule for the summer semester, which is intriguing... I got from 4-9 on Tuesdays and Thursdays, until the midway point, when I'm just 4-6. It's not so bad, although it's not great, at least I'll only be going to Toronto twice a week, which is less expensive and frees me up in case I happen across my dream 3-days-a-week job.

I think this meeting-girls-online thing has run its course. It's not happening. Maybe I'll meet a nice girl the old fashioned way (maybe I already have.) Maybe I should check the vacancy of local monasteries (*if there are any?) It does seem that hopeless, and I'm just trying not to make a big deal while also advertising the fact that it does bother me anyhow. Well, such is life.

I should really get writing. I just keep hitting refresh on my Inbox as if something interesting is suddenly going to crop up there. We're mysteriously deep in our bandwidth allotment for the month, moreso than usual for halfway through the month, which has got us all paranoid. They'd better not shut us off cold turkey.

Also, I've got about a half a book left I should burn through as quickly as possible.

I should be relaxing. I actually am, too. Which I guess is a polite way of saying procrastinating.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

05: Corpus Callosum

SWP: A mistake you can't drink away.

I would hardly say my weekend was interesting. More that it's interesting how boring it was.

Saturday afternoon, after a lunch of crackers and before a dinner of ham, we visited grandad, with a certain level of discomfort in mind as to how we would behave. I didn't figure grandad would care much for seeming overly concerned, but I felt it disrespectful (to dad if not grandad) to appear less than somber. So we went up to his room and found him asleep, mouth open and drawn down like an exaggerated groan of agony in a cartoon (it seemed eerily reminiscent to me of some of the mice's cries in Maus.) His face had indeed thinned from lack of eating, but he was not recognizable. Different but not unrecognizable. The narrow cheeks and chin made his ears and eyes seem enlarged. He didn't have his teeth so his speech was difficult to discern, with his accent and probably decreased ability to enunciate.

At this point I become aware how everything in the world is communication - a lesson that my English classes have tired derivatively to drill into me all year.

We talked a while, caught up, sent Eric's best wishes along. Grandad pointed out how grim we looked. I joked that that was how Brandon always looked anyway, then made fun of him for snoring. I think after that I became more lighthearted for the rest of the trip. Grandad's spirits seemed to be up, anyhow, which gave some good clues how to behave. Having seen him for myself I got a better idea than dad's accounts. He looked forward to getting discharged, then later to Sudbury and getting maybe 4 more years.

We saw him again the next morning. He's developed an endearing habit of shooing visitors off abruptly when he's had enough, which is a relief to me because I never like to overstay my welcome. "He never liked small talk," I joked to Deb, "And now he's got an excuse to say 'off you go.'"

I have a number of thoughts on this, but that's the gist of it.

Saturday night was... tedious. I spent the whole evening with dad's laptop and my earbuds, listening to archives of the Lost podcast (why? Guess I just needed something.) I fell asleep on my slightly-deflated air mattress in my clothes, and neglected to fill it up or change. It was cold in that basement anyhow, so the hoodie I was wearing felt cozier than if I changed into my pj's.

The drive home, as uneventful as the one there.

It was just B. and I last night, we had a simple dinner and I watched TV and milled about. Today was a good ,relaxing day, a start to my break, which comes as relief from the troubles of my academic life. I registered for 1.5 courses, which is all I need but fewer than I aimed for. I'll have to run down to the Admissions building and change my paperwork, I guess.

I've been drawing - two comics yesterday, and most of one today, to form a RG buffer the likes of which I scarcely get, but is always a relief. Getting 2 comics ahead of schedule puts me in a good place to do 1 or 2 each week. Also working toward getting back to writing. Perhaps also I should study some this week.

I think I do better on exams than I do on papers, or at least these past papers. What abysmal results. My expectations for myself are usually so low it's hard to get disappointed but this has just been ridiculous. I'm not that dumb, I swear. I'm just willful.

And I have a problem with citations.

I keep refreshing my Inbox. I've had all these recent adventures with Craigslist, and they've been fascinating, but I've watched them drop off one by one via the process of being uninteresting (me, or them, or both of us.) The distance thing doesn't help. I tried to make contact with my mystery MSN chick, but she didn't respond. Back to wondering whether she's real.

It's after 2:00 and I should be in bed, but there's nothing on the docket for tomorrow, so why worry? I'll probably get out of bed around 11 tomorrow and find some random e-mails from one of my random girls (or perhaps a new one, there was a new one today.) It's a big world, you can't drink all of it at once.

I should get a past life reading, but I'm afraid of what I'd learn (also of being gypped - how would I know?)

That's what I've got tonight, in a nutshell. Hopefully we'll be back tomorrow with some fascinating news.

For now, though, courage.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

04: Somewhat more than none

SWP: Fuck that noise!

So, I'm in North Bay for the weekend, as I've been gabbing about for a while, and as is tradition (one I've become incrementally less fond of as the years go on due to Easter being "time to come back to Oakville" for everyone else.) I'm sitting here on a laptop dad brought from his work (I like to think, just for my benefit but not really) wondering what to do. I kinda wanted to re-watch this week's episode of Lost, but sadly I cannot install the flash player needed to do that on CTV.ca. Bummer.

We got in yesterday afternoon in good time. I'd brought all these books and stuff I should be reading but on the drive up I mostly just spaced out and stared out the window. I don't know why I'm more comfortable doing that, but maybe because when I do, my thoughts are my own. It's very peaceful, if not productive. I also brought pencil and paper to draw some comic strips. I remember back in 2001 when I did a whole bunch of pages for Journey into the Sewer #2 (I feel old now) in North Bay, or in the car on the way home. Now it just becomes a "Yeah, I could be drawing" scenario.

Last night after dinner, Dad and Deb went to see Grandad. They asked us whether we wanted to come. I was surprised we'd be given a choice. Taken off guard, I hesitated a while and we eventually all agreed that meant I was declining. It's not that I didn't want to go, but at the time, couldn't convince myself to go if I didn't have to. I've been concerned about feeling awkward on this whole visiting thing, not knowing what to say. It kinda sounds like a cliche when I put it like that. Maybe it is. I guess I'll deal with it when we go.

So instead, B and I hung back, went for a walk, talked about old times, came back and watched Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. Slept on air mattresses in the surprisingly cold basement where I deliriously couldn't sleep much, matters not helped by his snoring.

Eric didn't come. He told me back at Thanksgiving he would not come to Easter. I told him we'd see, and we have. At first it was fairly routine, he had a lot of school to deal with, nothing controversial. Then after Grandad got sick, it was thrown into doubt. He told me he really didn't know what to do. I didn't want to tell him to come. Dad had a van on reserve in case Eric did feel like going. At the time I asked him, he was sick, so he didn't. He calleed me last night on my cell and we talked a while, until his cut out, and the gist of what he was saying was he felt like he should've come. I don't disagree. Then again, if Eric were here, there's a strong chance he'd just feel stressed about the work he was supposed to be doing. There's no real way of knowing.

After Grandma died in 2005, I made a declaration to myself that I'd still come to see Grandad, and then after he was gone, that's it. No need to come back. I find myself somewhat mortified that this is coming into view, but it happens. I wonder if I'll be back for Thanksgiving.

Oddly, I'm feeling relaxed for now. There's usually a point, about midway through the second day in North Bay, when I realize that as soon as I wake up tomorrow I'll be on my way home. So I just need to chill for the next 24 hours or so.

I don't know. Maybe these trips are good for perspective. Maybe I'm just bored.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

03: Everyone is something, I'm something else

SWP: A highly effective abstinence aide?

Sometimes, spilling your guts to the internet is a good, cathartic thing. I don't know why I've been taking my shit so seriously lately, but if I had to internalize that nonsense I'd go crazy. And while it doesn't keep me from stewing over it for a while, having it out there - largely uncensored but not totally - allows me to at least push it out of my mind. It is my own failing that every bad thing means everything to me. My mind has a habit of exaggerating such things.

Oddly enough though, it wasn't SWP at all that has enabled me to come to terms with my recent frustrations. It was a couple of random girls on the TTC, whose conversation I happened to overhear, as they discussed a friend of theirs who "didn't know how to chill" or "realize it was only 2nd year." It's as true for me as it probably is for those girls' friend. Maybe I've just taken too much to heart the concept of synecdoche. Maybe I've problematized the entire idea of University education. Maybe these are university words with no proper application in the real world. a good hint is that they don't appear in the Firefox spellchecker.

Over the past few days I've been coming to grips with the fact that while I may make some valid points on certain topics, the thread running through this slew of essay failures (or at least, non-successes) is that I just can't seem to write my essays well. I think Toby may have penalized me too much for writing less formally, although he also said I "took forever to get around to" my ideas, which were sometimes good. I guess this is the hazard of figuring out your essay as you go. it must show more than I thought it did. My bad.

The main problem to me, is that so many of them came at once I had no time to really sit and think about them, my mind was always darting around between the topics. I've already figured out how to fix this for next year, so the best I can do is hope I don't fail (not likely, not quite impossible.)

Altogether, none of this really has much to do with my future career, assuming I succeed in the field of my choosing (fiction or even journalism.) University is seeming more and more like grad school training, where they teach you skills you can use if you go on to stay in school until you are 35. I'm not sure why having a University degree would mean more than having a diploma from Sheridan, but it still seems like it does. the world doesn't make sense to me. I'm writing a book about it. It's going to be great.

What does have to do with the world of writing, is the Hart House Review thing. Well, them's the breaks. I was at first pretty bitter, but eventually forced to look deeper into it and realize that, at least in the 2008 issue, there was some pretty good stuff, so maybe I'm not all that good. We'll see.

Then again, I think we all know what this is really about. The only thing anything is ever about is girls.

A few weeks ago, while browsing Craig's List for job postings (fool's errand that) I got bored and started looking at the personals. I found this one posting from a girl who was making some very bold proclamations of the kind of girlfriend she was capable of being, and what she was looking for didn't seem too far off from what I might be. So I figured "What the hell, I'm bored and lonely, why not give it a shot?" I've already told this story on here, and it ends with her never responding and me wondering whether she was maybe some kind of scam artist.

A while later, I'm despondent over some of my recent educational failings. And as often seems to happen when I get down on myself, I do something ridiculous and impulsive. not seeing the harm in it, I decided to post my own ad. In it, I spoke modestly of myself, saying it was hard to meet people when you commute from Oakville to Toronto (true) that I was into some geeky things but not necessarily looking for a girl who is into those same things, just understanding, and that I didn't have any physical type in mind (other that, hopefully, vaguely attractive.) I didn't really have much in the way of expectations, and figured the ad would be largely ignored by the women of Craig's List.

So a few women actually did contact me. The first one outlined how comparably bizarre she was by noting her fascination with Archie Comics and her business card collection. She identified herself as Christian (but stressed she wasn't really a Bible-thumper) and chaste, and hoped that wouldn't be a problem for me (well, it is, philosophically if not practically.) Also, she wouldn't tell me her real name or send a picture, lives in Scarborough, and is only 18. Still, I kept talking to her as long as I could manage. The conversation has died down and I haven't heard back in a few days. This is standard.

There was a second, who was into a lot of the same geeky things as me, but she goes to Guelph. Apparently these women are missing the part of the ad where I specify I'm looking for people in the (let's face it, broad,) scope of my daily travels. Even Ryerson wouldn't be out of the question.

The last girl is the prime example of this. See, she didn't contact me directly. One girl (Jude) contacted me saying I sounded like I'd be perfect for her friend, whom she describes in terms that sounded, well, perfect. Jude even goes to U of T, which made me get my hopes up. Lastly, the friend (Sam,) was really good-looking, so I'm starting to get really into this whole concept.

So of course, Sam lives in Markham and goes to York. Thanks for that one, Universe, I was almost happy.

"Keep it local," Julie urged me. She'd know. The entire foundation of our friendship is that we met on a dating site, but she lives in Niagara Falls, so when were we ever going to meet? She and I commiserated a while, while I conversed with these random girls until they lost interest (I owed it to myself to keep each line going no matter how uninterested I became, except for one who gave me little to work with.) She said I was overthinking it, which may be true. I defended myself, pointing out that they say that the minute you stop looking for someone you find them, except I wasn't really looking between 2006 and 2008 (admittedly I had my eyes open but was not on any sort of active search) and found bupkiss (except for one rather notable failure which was nobody's fault except maybe mine.) So now I'm doing the opposite. Maybe it stinks of desperation, but I think I'm past caring about that, given this entire story.

Then yesterday, there's this girl, at school of all places, the place where I supposedly have been having trouble meeting people. I should clarify. There are plenty of girls at school, and I talk to some of them. Between people like Jasmin and Claire, whom I met in poetry, and more passing acquaintances like Chelsea and Allison, whom I met in particular classes but fell away from, and Rosanna and Martina who have become quite good friends, yes, I do have something to work with. Except it's the same thing that happens every time, I get way too comfortable with them as friends and stop seeing potential there.

After my presentation a few weeks ago, this girl came up to me and we started talking. It was weird and nice. The next week, during her presentation, she sat adjacent to me, and we talked some more. This was the last week, in an unusual room, the seats in a circle. For whatever reason other people sat next to me *(who'd never sat near me, and as opposed to someplace else) and she sat further down the line. But afterward we got to talking again, about how this was the end of the semester, and hey, why don't we exchange contact info so we can meet up sometime? There was an element of platonic-ness (?) to it that obviously keeps me from getting my expectations up, but still, better than walking off into the distance.

Well, I just don't know what to think. Good, I suppose. I'm certainly seeing some potential, although I'll come back to it after I get back from North Bay this weekend. Funny how I went through all this stress of attempting to meet girls I couldn't, because I couldn't find one nearby, and now here we are.

Oh, and the epilogue to this entire thing is that I got home from school a few days ago and found that the first girl (whom I had totally written off as a scam) had added me on MSN. I haven't taken it upon myself to talk to her yet, wondering what exactly I'd say.

So there you go. You never know with these things (although I generally take it for granted I'm a lost cause.)

More later. I'm tired, and have class nowish.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

02: Leave your neck in my hands

SWP: An Unfortunate Waste of a Former Child Prodigy.

Okay, I was never a child prodigy. As a kid, however, I made frequent appearances in advanced classes designed to take "gifted" students and give them a more free, encouraging learning environment. I never really understood what was so special about me, but I kept being told I was. And yes, I've considered the possibility that the class was actually the dumb class, but it doesn't seem likely, considering everyone else there seemed to be legitimately smart (I guess part of being dumb would be that I couldn't tell who actually was smart. I might be a retard.)

It's always been difficult for me to come to terms with those early expectations of me. Even as I've left them far behind and descended into laziness, idleness, and general mediocrity. I'm not serious, I'm not studious, I don't deserve anything resembling special treatment. I'm actually kind of an idiot. Unique, perhaps, but an idiot all the same.

I say that not because I am of low intelligence, but because I can't seem to do anything right lately. All of the papers I have gotten back have revealed the same tendency to wander off topic, to avoid following directions, and to attempt to make connections where none are apparent. If I'm to go by my academic record (which has never been terrific,) I'm kinda dumb. And I keep trying to tell myself, it doesn't matter, this isn't where I'm supposed to be...... so why the fuck am I here? I feel like I need to be here because seemingly, society won't let me do what I want to do unless I've been here, even though, as I've told myself repeatedly, it has nothing to do with what I want out of life.

So what the fuck?? Why am I pissing thousands of dollars away on a useless education that I am not terribly good at? Why am I trapped in this place? Why do I feel like I would be less than what I need to be, if I just dropped out, even though, quite frankly, it seems more sensible than paying $8000 a year to ride trains and get (Bs, Cs, Ds, depending on the course.)

And why, if I'm such a good writer, could the Hart House Review not find a place for me in its pages?

I hate myself, man. I am taking this shit way too seriously and way too hard. It's not fun anymore, I don't want to play. I'm writing this here and now (in the Innis computer lab) rather than attending my Shakespeare lecture (which I never skip) because I couldn't sit there and listen to the last lecture on Lear, because I did my presentation on Lear, wrote my paper on Lear, am sick of Lear, and sick of Shakespeare, got a very good mark on my presentation and got a shitty mark on my paper. Where's the distinction? Why one good, one awful? I'm not cut out for this shit, I'm not. The library thinks I still owe it a book, this time I know I fucking returned it. I can't stand for this shit.

I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. I've just been playing, been trying to do what's expected of me. It's not working.

Am I an idiot? Probably, if I keep going like this.

They told me I was different and I believed them. The mistake was thinking this was a good thing. I suck.

(...or do I? Two months from now a theater full of people is going to be enjoying something I wrote, and there's nothing more pure than that. They can't take that one away.)

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Addendum 12:10 PM: I dunno, man. It's probably (definitely) not healthy to react in this way to every little bad thing that happens. It should inspire within me a desire for self-betterment and improvement. Like, I can see what I've been doing wrong, so I should be able to do it in the future. So why does it bother me so much? It's just, I guess, that it keeps nagging at me as a reminder that I'm not getting to do what I want to, and so the things that I have to do come out wrong. It's just frustrating. I can't seem to do things properly no matter how hard I try. But my only option is to try harder (oh no!) Or, you know, give up, which I've proven to not be above. But then comes the awkward phase of trying to figure out something else to do.

Maybe it's just been a bad year. Maybe the 5-courses thing got me worse than I'd expected. Maybe I got lazy (the whole "not taking notes" thing surely didn't help.) Maybe I should actually try, I don't know... learning.

So I'm back to blaming myself, but this time it's in a slightly more encouraging way.

Um, I guess that's a step up.

Oh, and to them editorial types at the HHR, nuts to you. The poetry in your last edition is lousy and tedious, and if my stuff is lousier than that, (possible!) at least it's super-lousy in a more interesting way. Dicks. I'm off to stage my awesome play.

KOR-SAW

01: Hot under the collar

SWP: Tired and Cranky Prophet o'th'Blogosphere.

It was a rainy spring day today. A fittingly drab end to a week comprised primarily of disappointment. I've been in existential angst mode lately, railing against my own directionlessness. I can't seem to get it right lately. And all these little things that are going wrong, I'm taking them much harder than a normal person would.

I got a very disappointing mark on my AmLit paper. It was troubling because it had to do, largely, with the construction of the paper itself, rather than my own execution. Basically, I just did it wrong and/or awfully. I didn't think it was the best thing I ever wrote, but this, I was not prepared for. Basically, I passed, inasmuch as they pass you for writing the right number of words, all coherent sentences, on a topic vaguely related to the course. The anonymous TA (wtf?) that marked the paper all but called me a retarded possible plagiarist (I have a problem of citations, I will freely admit, and this does not help my case.) It's all on me, anyhow - I know I suck, or that at least in this instance I did, and have to deal with it.

I've never had the urge to burn a paper before, but this one is going on the barbecue. I need to destroy it, to exorcise it.

The other paper I got back this week was film history. They were to be handed out at the end of a very lively tutorial that veered into strange territory when everyone just started throwing in their piece trying to nail down the concept of postmodernism. It's a zero sum game, really. Whatever postmodernism is, it seems too all-engrossing to speak about academically (and so, it is taught at great lengths in universities.) Anyway, I had my number in mind (73) and was preparing myself for this (this was before AmLit came back.) But at the end of the pile my name had not been called, and Natalie asked everyone without a paper to come see her. (Uh oh?) She explained she needed more time with outs (three or four of us) and we could come see her the next day, Thursday, after noon. I have class Thursdays from noon until 2, so I'd be on the later side of her office hours, but anyway. I asked whether this was a bad sign, and she assured me no. Even again when I ran into her in the hallway, we made small talk about the end of the year. I mentioned I was taking summer classes so I wouldn't have such a heavy courseload in the future, and she said it was a good idea, because 5 courses is a lot to deal with, when you have that many final papers and stuff. So I ask, "Is that a hint?" Sure assures me, no.

The day proceeded pretty well after that. I discovered a green machine in Robarts that will keep me from paying ridiculous fees in the future when I need cash. A guy I thought disliked me (we had a mutual friend, and he would turn the cold shoulder at me,) saw me playing DS, asked if I wanted to play Mario Kart. Nice gesture. It was a nice sunny day, too.

Then the AmLit thing happened, ruined my day, made me feel worthless. Made me wonder whether I belonged at school, even if I was worth shit as a writer. It doesn't take much, as you surely know by now, to set off in me an explosion of self-doubt. Self-loathing. It's a natural instinct of mine. Not my most appealing trait.

So this happens, and then my writing doesn't get put in the Hart House Review, and I start to wonder what I think I'm doing with myself. Yes, Half-Past is on at EAS, and that's frankly awesome. I was talking to CB about it a few weeks back and I mentioned my dismay at the fact that my life's greatest work may have been when I was 16. Sure I've rewritten and revised plenty since then, but it's fundamentally the same. I then joked that, should an unlikely situation arise where I adapt it into a movie, then win a screenwriting Oscar, my acceptance speech can consist of the words "I wrote this shit when I was 16, motherfuckers!" They have a 7-second delay, and I have feelings of inadequacy to overcome.

So here's me, doubting everything about my goals, my skills, my place in the world. And somewhere along the line it got into my head that Natalie wants to talk to me about my paper because it's so great - which is weird to me because I was convinced it was an average or below paper, but maybe I inadvertently created a piece of genius - and as time goes by, and I've slept off my dismay at the AmLit paper, my hopes get built up.

Thursday was my History tutorial, where we had a good talk about the File by Timothy Garton Ash, punctuated by a puzzling aside from our conservative TA about Ignatieff's Thought Police. I say puzzling because it was weirdly off topic, fairly nonsensical, and considerably paranoid when one considers Ignatieff isn't an elected leader, just the leader of the opposition. But it's the same with people who hate Obama and people who hated Bush - if you don't like a public figure other people do, you'll find anything to hate about them. Just usually, you wait until they are actually in power. Also, Harper banned a British MP from entering the country due to some subversive/critical remarks he made (lord help me I can't remember who he was or what he said.) So, you know, let's talk about thought police. But if the Vatican will forgive a Holocaust-denying Cardinal, lord knows what this guy could've gotten away with.

So I skipped the lecture, in a somewhat ill-advised bout of zeal to find out my mark. The wait was killing me, because I was really convinced that this was an accidentally excellent paper. So I go through the labyrinthine halls of Innis' secret corridors to the TA office and find... not Natalie. It was the two other TA's, watching Eddie Izzard videos on YouTube without sound. While we waited for Natalie, we conversed about the course. It was nice, since they weren't my TA's, we could just talk like people (I sometimes talk like a person to other TA's, mostly Nayman, whom I don't have anymore, but it's rare and difficult. Natalie's cool though.)

We got to talking about the horrible movies that fascinate the Film History TA's, including this one masterpiece called The Room, which has become fairly well known by now. We had some laughs. Anyway, Natalie showed up after a little bit of this, gave me my paper, and noted that I was having a problem just recounting history (which is not unrelated to my AmLit issue) and other stuff, but generally good paper. The end result was neither remarkably high nor crushingly low - in fact it was close, and a little higher, than my initial expectation. So I was just disappointed because I'd had time to get my hopes up, and now am back down to Earth about how average I really am.

Friday, though, (today) was decent taken on its own. The Shakespeare tutorial was mostly conversation as only one person went today (the other person due to present went AWOL early on.) The girl who went, I first spoke to last week after class, as we made unusually involved chitchat about the course, getting along well. Today, she sat right next to me, which just goes to show that when it comes to women, there's no innocuous form of behaviour I can't interpret vaguely as a sign of interest.

I've been sick today, possibly stemming from a quest for comics yesterday. ColdFX. Me to dad: "I'll stop buying the stuff when I go through a container and still have a cold." Until then, I'm convinced it works.

I don't know, man. I've just been tired of feeling like life's giving me a gas pedal. Times like these, I tend to do something drastic that I'd been putting off. I'll let you know later what I did. To exhausted to get into it now.

All I want is to crawl inside your memory and live there. Liven up the place. Make a home.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott