Chapter Fifteen: It almost had to be fake

There are times when I feel my life is irretrievably glum, and times when I feel there is nothing to do but complain, and times when I complain despite the fact that there are other things I could do. But there are also times when, the fact is, my life is pretty decent and I'm glad to be doing it. Also, I've never had my stomach pumped, nor has it ever gotten to the point where it has been suggested I might.

It's been a busy couple of days for Scotto. Now, this may simply be busy for me, the guy who has two days a week for school and the rest of the time as an extended weekend. I like to think, however, I can recognize when other people would also be exhausted at the end of an adventure. Like I said, it's been a busy couple of days.

Yesterday I hoofed it out to Hamilton to see rehearsal. Surprisingly, I found the place okay after getting off the bus. I must be learning. I had vowed, last week, that I would see at least one more rehearsal before the show, and this is what I have done. It's not as though I'm a vital part of the rehearsal process. But I have fun going there and watching the actors do their thing, and then watching Cary do his thing. And mostly I sat in the back with the nice random girl who brought gummy bears.

I can't say enough about how glad I am the way this is all coming together. I enjoy this cast so much, the show they're putting together is top notch.

Afterward, we went out for some drinks. We ended up staying there from 8:00 until closing at 1, during which span of time Cary got repeated updates from his mother about how poor young Christopher had overindulged at the Waterfront festival. Well, we've all had our rough nights. Although I can't see much of what I've done with my life as being on par with what I heard went on over here last night.

Meanwhile, I hung out with ary, parts of the cast, crew, and other randoms. A few of them don't seem all that impressed with me (I wouldn't be,) others are quite welcoming, which is nice. It's probably just a matter of striking up the right conversation, you know? Same as anything.

Eventually, it got late. Cary and some of the guys went out for burritos, and then we went back to Cary's place, watched a bit of Minority Report. There was this girl whose birthday it was, who had wanted Cary to come out. She swing by, a league of her male friends in tow, one of whom was drunkenly fascinated by everything in Cary's place.

Bt I'll say this much, entourage or no, there's not an even distribution of pretty girls who want to come over to everyone's place at 2 AM. It was a good thing Manda's out of town so I didn't have anything going on the next day.

I got up the next morning at about 10, got coffee, caught the bus back to Oakville although the sad fact of Hamilton transit is that it neer gets you (me) to the GO station in time. You're always just a smidge late, at least that's how it's been with me.

I was only home for like an hour. This afternoon, after a good long shower, I went back out to the GO to get to Toronto and see Joe and Viki do the Starbucks show. Now, if I were being practical about it, I could bitch "Blahh why waste a ticket to go out to see those two playing the same songs I've heard them do at the Lost Lounge for a year, buh!" but the truth is I'm glad to do it, even if I'm just about the only person who did come. As must be pretty clear by now, I'm always glad to get out of the house and see a friend, to do things, in whatever city, whatever the nature (unless that nature if killing for sport or eating in a fancy restaurant.) It's really just good form, and the way I look at it... if I were to ever have something I wanted my friends to come to (like say, a play in Hamilton) I would want them to do their best to come, so this is me living that philosophy. Basically, I'm a good friend. Although, was today, the midst of a garbage strike, the end of Pride week, the best day to go out to Church st. of all places and see a heterosexual couple sing their duets? There was some rainbow-coloured awkward passersby.

Back ot Oakville for dinner, then went out and saw the Hangover with CB, which was kind of spur-of-the-moment. Went out for drinks and mused over life. Oh Charlie. Keep the faith.

Hangover, by the way, was excellent. We invited Chris Ferg along, but felt perhaps it might hit too close to home.

So now I'm finally writing all this stuff, after glossing perhaps more than if it were two entries or so. I'm a bit tired, should go to bed.

I've been having weirdly vivid dreams lately. A few nights ago I had this dream where my brothers, cousin and I were Ghostbusters, and the ghost had taken my form, and I beat the shit out of it. ThenI went down to Robarts and met up with a girl I barely knew from Sheridan. Last night I had a dream involving people I knew in high school having to join me as I repeated grade 8 classes or something. Like I said... weird.

I usually take that as a sign to write. I've got some projects in the work, but not pen to paper... or finger to keyboard. Whatever.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

Chapter Fourteen: She doesn't even speak my language

So, the blogosphere has exploded, the Twittersystem has ruptured and the Facebookverse has gone supernova and will soon form a black hole from which nobody can escape.

I speak of course of the aftermath of the double-feature deaths of Jackson and Fawcett. A few years ago, John Ritter and Johnny Cash died on the same day, and I had mixed feelings about it because I never watched Ritter's show and Cash's movie hadn't come out yet, although I did like some of his music. We were also years away from mass-communicating on such an instantaneous level as we do now. We would beam our every thought into the minds of everyone we know and thousands of people we don't, if the technology were sufficiently cool. Nothing tests the speed limit of information like the death of a celebrity - or two.

On times like these, of course, your Facebook newsfeed overflows with commentary. The death of a well-known figure encourages this. The problem is, with everyone throwing one pebble in the pond, suddenly the whole thing gets full of rocks. (You like that metaphor? Just came up with it. I'm a writer.) So it begins to feel like it's the only thing going on that day, like people have lost their sense of priorities and can only focus on one thing, when the truth is the lifespan for this kind of thing - unless it becomes an overwrought epic like the Anna Nicole, or Chris Benoit - is brief. People read the news item, update their Facebook status, and move on, or perhaps, if they don't personally care, mire in dismay at how many other people do.

So there's a lot of "RIP Michael you gave us so much good music" and a lot of "He was just a singer, you didn't know him." I guess one isn't really more valid than the other. Considering the exam yesterday consisted of the question "What is the story?" I can't help but focus on the bizarre facts of Jackson's life - that his unrivaled success in one decade gave way to unprecedented tabloid scandals in the next. That's the arc of his life. A lot of people I've heard from are trying to focus only on the music, but the music simply isn't the only thing. Remember Living with Michael Jackson? But listen. The harsh reality of a superstar shouldn't wipe away the entertainment they provided (unless they were a one-hit wonder like Gary Glitter.)

It doesn't diminish Elvis' legacy that he was a bloated pill-popper. The Shirelles don't sound worse because Phil Spector is a murdering scumbag. You can still listen and enjoy Buddy Holly's recordings with the knowledge that he was a serial rapist. (Okay, that last one isn't true. For some reason I'm finding that word a lot more funny than it actually is lately, and I need to get it out of my system before I start writing my next play.)

Prior to my hearing this -- which incidentally was on the train home from class as the guy next to me got a text and announced it to his friend -- it had been an uneventful day. It was supposed to thunderstorm - and it did, but only while I was on the train, between Oakville and Port Credit stations. There was a cool breeze in the city, leaving me to feel somewhat underdressed in shorts. Oakville was more humid. I spent the day pretty deeply absorbed in my own issues, largely tuning out of my Poli Sci lecture, which can't be healthy since I have a test next week. I felt like there was a lot of cleavage around and it was hard to ignore, although maybe it requires a more loose definition. Boob curvature.

Anyway, I'm still looking for that moment of relaxation where I can settle my mind. All this media theory, the Facebook stuff, is wearisome. Like, I'm not even as surprised as I should be about his death ("I didn't even know he was sick!") It seems awfully sudden, but I've had a lot of death these past few months anyhow. I feel like before long something too-big-to-process is going to happen and really shake me up. That's a scary thought.

What I'm really disappointed about is how I can't read Roger Ebert's review of the new Woody Allen movie. What's up with that, huh?

I think I'm done for tonight. Time to go find the center of it all, then drink there.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Chapter Thirteen: I will always be the one who smiles while he stabs

Ask anyone who knew me in high school. At some point, they all thought I was going to lose it.

I try not to dwell on my high school years, even though I probably bring them up a fair bit. There's a reason so much popular media is concerned with 14-to-18-year-old characters. Everyone goes through the same suffering, at a fairly crucial point in your development when you're really starting to get a sense of what the world is about. Whatever pain you have in high school stays with you. Usually it is only displaced when something hurts you more.

I have absolutely no delusions about those years. I am neither nostalgic for them, nor do I think they were some kind of black hole of existential suffering. They were what they were, and while a lot of the time they weren't good - and a lot of those times, I took it badly - sometimes they were pretty okay. Of course I do not wish to have them back.

If you need me to explain why everyone thought I was going to lose it, I'll set the scene. Although most of my best attributes (funny, smart?) were present at the time, I was also real quiet and shy. I was a classic introvert, a fairly mysterious customer, and nobody likes an unknown. Even the people I'd have considered my friends from grades 9 and 10 probably weren't all that sure about me.

And then there was the coat. If you know me, you know the coat. It's retired now, but all through high school I wore this gigantic overcoat that looked kinda like something Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold probably wore. Not a trenchcoat, but like, just a huge winter coat. Basically, I looked like someone who was gonna kill somebody. And I knew it. And, well, I didn't do much to correct people.

Because although it wasn't the most sociable image to cultivate, it probably kept a lot of people off my back. I'm not saying I never got messed with, but I think the fact that I looked a lot less harmless than I probably was gave people the idea that maybe someday I really would snap. I liked that vague feeling of power, knowing I really didn't have it in me to live out whatever revenge fantasies I may actually have had.

Cary and I reminisce about this occasionally. For the first three years of high school I was not myself, because I didn't know what being me would even entail. I struggled to find an identity. Nowadays, people know pretty well who I am from the first glance, at least Vasa did. And I am, of course, the charming, irresistible young man I have become. I think I may have this blog to thank for that. By chronicling every goddamn detail of it, and no longer bottling it up (which was a huge problem in those days,) and rather than keeping it for myself, letting the world stroll by and see it, I feel like I've done myself some good. My life is an open book, so to speak.

People feel they know me, and for the most part they do. Like I said, even the people who would've been considered my friends in the early years of high school probably didn't have much of a sense of who I really was. It was only in grade 11-12 I started to make friends with the people I would still care about here in my early 20's.

It's funny, I started this entry up because I had a title I liked, and wasn't sure what I'd end up writing about since nothing really happened today. It was gorgeous, I biked a lot, when down to the lake and bought comics. The title got me thinking about those "killer years" and here we are. The blog as therapy, a recurring theme of SWP.

I'm still on Twitter, although don't worry if you think it might interfere with my SWP duties. This is still very important to me, perhaps now more than ever. A few nights ago I did a bunch of random Lyttle Lytton sentences, because I'd seen Jeph Jacques and all his fictional characters doing them - and his were funny, but wrong. It's actually incredibly hard to tone down the "deliberate funny/outrageous" and do an intentionally bad opening sentence. I've probably done some really awful ones when trying to come up with something good - I often find that when I try my hardest to be good, is when I'm at my worst. Anyway, I was doing a ton of them, one after the other, and people started randomly adding me the more I did (some even replied back or re-tweeted, how novel!) So it's a more attention-getting medium, it seems. A bunch of people seem to find SWP through the link I have on that page, which is neat. I'm getting more hits lately, from places as far flung as Vancouver and Decatur, Georgia. Along, of course, with the usuals.

I left this entry pretty randomly like 50 minutes ago. I'm not sure where else I was thinking of going with it, but considering I didn't think I had anything to say tonight... good for me.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Chapter Twelve: Play it cool, play to win

Not that a lot is going on these days, but I feel like I have a decent-sized entry in me tonight. I just finished my Short Story course, which is bittersweet because I was enjoying it a lot more than Poli Sci. The change in routine will not necessarily be a welcome one, which is not what you'd expect from a guy who was just doing 5 hours straight of class. Amazingly, by the end of 6 weeks, I actually did stay in Short Story all the way to the end a couple times.

The finale of the class was a double-shot of trouble. A less-than-8-page paper (spacing unspecified, I went with double) due on the very same day as the exam. and since I'm a giant fucking procrastinator I didn't get around to writing it until noon of the day it was due. Honestly, I think the result may not have been the greatest thing I've ever produced, but it was as good as I felt I could get out of myself these days. Could it be burnout already? A certain number of tests and papers within only 6 weeks suggests possibly.

The paper was an examination of depictions of prejudice in Raymond Carver's "Cathedral" and Flannery O'Connor's "Everything that Rises Must Converge" (last seen being read by Jacob at the scene of John Locke's paralysis.) I'm not particularly fond of the observations I made and conclusions I drew, but they were there, and maybe the marker will be lenient on my.... sloppy formal style. Yeah, really gotta work on that.

The test had a broad selection of authors whose stories I could have covered, but I conspicuously avoided talking about those stories, perhaps to my detriment. It was a bit more free-form, and though my mind started to wander near the end...... yeah, again, maybe not such a great sign. But the ideas are there (aren't they?)

I've always been of the belief that if you know the material, you can't really go wrong on an English essay. At least, I was of that belief until last semester. Now I don't know what to think. Maybe I'm just being insecure. Maybe I'm really just a lazy fuckup. I can't even tell.

I was up early this morning, in fact even earlier than through most of the school year because I don't trust myself, and I was trying to catch the 9:00 train. The reason for this was that I was going to meet up with Vasa the train girl for our first official hangout. Sunday night she sent me this epic-length Facebook message explaining, you know, "I don't want this to be awkward, I hope there hasn't been a misunderstanding, I don't know what you're thinking but I have a boyfriend and we're happy but let's be friends okay?" It's the kind of thing I am really, really used to hearing from women. So I knew how to respond. Basically with the truth.

I told her not to worry about it, that I'm not the type of guy who carries around expectations, that I wasn't surprised that she turned out to have a boyfriend, and being friends isn't really going to be a problem, let's hang out.

I can't deny, it sucks being that guy, time and again. It's a role that I often find myself put in because of my own foolishness, and often just by chance. It sucks but I've gotten used to it. There are plenty of women out there to be rejected by, and I've got a lot of work ahead of me if I'm going to get through them all by the time I'm 70.

I kid (well kinda) but she's quite cool, we get along well. We met up early, because she'd stayed the night in the city but had to get home by midday, plus I had that paper to write. So we got some coffee (in my case a cold blended drink, because it was a warm day and we went walking.) We talked about, well, stuff, life, school, whatever came up. There was some awkward pauses, because hey, I'm a pretty awkward guy especially when you're just getting to know me. I tend toward quietness until something sparks the conversation.

The exception of course being when I'm drinking.

I dunno. I'm feeling kinda angsty tonight. Although I only took about 4 hours to write the paper, I was thinking about it for a while before that, several days in fact, and now that it's off my mind I just want to relax a while before I move onto the next thing. Sadly, the next thing is always right up against the last night, it's like some crazy domino metaphor. A bad one at that.

Well, I'm done for tonight. Perhaps tomorrow my motivation will be up. I'm all over the place these days, back and forth and never sure where I'll land. Tomorrow it'll be something else. I'm all about something else.

But goddamn today was gorgeous. This is what they were talking about when they said summer.

I... should be writing. But this entry has taken longer than usual to compose so I might as well pack it in for the night.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter Eleven: She's in love with the bomb

It's been a busy few days, both in my life and my mind.

I have a lot to go over, but I'm mostly going to skim because I don't want to go too deep. You're not, sadly, going to get much peppy, upbeat Scotto tonight. I'm not particularly feeling upset, but I haven't got that zest for life that characterizes my cheerful posts. I'm kinda down, reflecting on life and not being too impressed with my assessment.

Eric came home for the weekend, and I have kept typing to a minimum out of courtesy, because I know he has a (sometimes irrational) hatred of my supposedly-loud typing. He had some business to take cae of, and also of course it was Father's day. We got dad some DVD's and cooked dinner for him; steaks. Seems a bit lavish, except when you consider the DVD's were cheapies we happened to know he'd like, and the steak was for us as much as him. Still, it was a good day.

We spent most of the weekend watching Lost, which is partly a peacekeeping measure. There's a lot we can do to keep away from each others' throats, but nothing gets us as much goodwill as Lost, which I have been accumulating on DVD for the last couple weeks, partly in preparation for just such an event as this.

There'd been a hole in the back of my running shoe for a while, worsening as time went on. For the first time in my life, I have two pairs of shoes, but one is a hiking shoe, and while it is very good in the rain, it's quite tough to bike in, and rather heavy. So I thought, I can manage, let's get something light and flat-soled. And you know what's light and flat-soled? Converse All-Stars. Yes, I'm finally one of the millions of my generation to own a pair of Chuck Taylors. I've wanted 'em ever since I saw a photo of the Ramones all wearing them, which is weird since I'm not a huge fan of theirs (not to say I don't like them, they're just not my favourites.) I thought it was a cool fashion statement, and always notice when I see people wearing them. I'm very pleased with this purchase; I like the fit, and they weren't that expensive neither.

I was somewhat surprised to find out, a few days ago, that my friend Mansoor got engaged. I'm so happy for the guy, and a little jealous as you might understand. It seems to have happened quite quickly, but the guy deserves every bit of happiness he gets because he's an awesome dude.

Unfortunately, as I have a habit of doing, sometimes other peoples' happiness highlights for me how dissatisfied I am with my life. Some stuff gone on lately has left a bad taste in my mouth and, as I alluded earlier in the post, I'm not feeling so great about life at the moment.

I've got some stuff going on, and that's good. The play appears to be going excellently and is now under two weeks away. Cary has requested I write another play for him to direct, because he thinks we have a good dynamic and I agree. We have a similar perspective on things, but he's able to see things I don't and help improve the product, where we're both aiming for the same ends. And it doesn't hurt that I already had an idea on what to write, and was fleshing it out before he told me this. It adds to my motivation because it's a lot harder to write something when you have no idea who might end up reading it. When you have a reason to write, it's a lot easier. Recall that I wrote a 120 page screenplay in under 2 weeks on this philosophy, way back at the beginning of the blog.

Well, I was pretty gloomy when I started writing this, and even though I've covered - or alluded to - the gloomy stuff, I'm feeling better. Not great. There's still plenty wrong with my life, but I'm moving past it for tonight. My Short Story class is almost done with -- I need to do a paper, and then there's a test of Tuesday, and then there's my half a credit. Funny how six weeks goes by.

I got my Poli Sci test back the other day. I can't say I'm disappointed with the mark, since I was expecting to just edge out of failure, and so I'm actually quite proud with a low B. I should try to do better next time, and I won't have any other classes distracting me.

I've got some stuff to work on, although my motivation is slacken.

I met with Joe and Amanda for coffee today, and at varying times Andrew S. tagged along, and we ran into Viki, who was also there to pick up a phone, independently from Joe. The main focus was of course to hammer out Wedding music details as well as catch up. It was a pretty good time. I had thought Joe's Starbucks show was yesterday, but when I texted him saying "Sorry I can't make it today dude," he responded by saying "It's next week." Haha. Man, I'm a scatterbrain these days.

Well, that's a polite way of looking at it.

Man. I don't remember when the first time I ever had Stella was, but it really tastes like the old days, by now.

This has been one of the more rambling and vague entries. Perhaps someday we'll know the details. Well, I already do, but I choose not to delve deeper, and I know that I will later. They'll become apparent by then.

For now, keep on rockin'
-Scott

Chapter Ten: Nothing smells burnt

I tried it, I couldn't hide it, I just wanna get back to be -- aw baby, hoo-hoo -- back into the man I used to be. k-os sang that.

I have this mythical idea about my own past. That at some point I was some great, upbeat, hilarious guy. I was only ever that inside my mind, and I am no less that now than I was then. But I still get nostalgic for this time in my life, this person I believe myself to have been, even though it's all the invention of my psyche.

As long as this blog has existed, it has been a balancing act (high wire? teeter-totter?) between the self-loathing and the sarcastic. I would hate myself a lot more if I believed there was anything worth hating. As it is I just extract amusement from my own awkwardness. This is how it has always been, this is how it will continue, and I am powerless against it and I wouldn't change it if I could.

I was thinking earlier tonight. Although I was initially thinking, as per usual, about boobs, I got sidetracked into less important things. The impossibility of comedy in the 21st century. I know comedy isn't literally impossible, but I'm very frustrated in my attempt to find out where comedy exists these days. Irony is dead, satire took it out in a murder-suicide when Family Guy was revived. There is the harsh reality of FML and Failblog and Texts from Last Night. There are good webcomics, and there are a lot of bad ones. Mine's somewhere in between but I used to be a lot more sure where. There is the nihilistic "this is what's really going on" infoscavenging of Cracked.com, for which I could never write, especially as they move further and further from movies and video games and deeper into history and culture. They infiltrated the internet and are doing the unthinkable by assuming it can be educated, and I am gravely concerned this is a doomed mission, but kudos for the attempt.

Well, there's hope. I feel like I'm on the right track with Half-Past, and am secretly amazed every time I see someone else laughing at it, because I'm simply astonished anyone else could find it that entertaining. There's proof I'm overthinking it. All Half-Past is is me opening up all my insecurities and fascinations for the world, just letting it be natural. I wrote it when I was 16, when I was more natural and not as prone to over analysis, at least not until I'd already written it. It stands up (for itself.)

Over-analysis probably explains why my subsequent attempt to repeat the success of that play have been met with frustration. Paul was right; Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.

Where my frustration lies is that I couldn't identify what even makes a good target anymore. I felt out of touch with my own generation at the age of 22. How fucked up! I don't think I'm giving the generation enough credit. The fact is, the same things are funny now that always were, and 4Chan hasn't changed that. It's just a matter of doing it properly. Maybe I'm still funny.

Leonard Cohen's poetry is brilliant, but I really dislike listening to his recordings. Some of them feel like parodies. They just sounded better in my head. What the fuck, backup singers on "The Future"?

Well I'm the only one who cares tonight. Today was nothing. Rainy, kinda, but it didn't keep me in, except inasmuch as I got in before it started raining seriously, then sat around playing Pokemon, then didn't really go out again until after it stopped.

Yep, really making the most of my life. Well we'll see.

This entry's a write-off. Could've been better, but it is what it is. Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Chapter Nine: Say it ain't only in dreams

I feel like writing out summaries, plotlines and such before actually writing something takes away my incentive to write.

A lot of my writing is just done for myself without much mindfulness of where it's going, or whether anyone will actually see it. My webcomic is this way. I don't write out scripts beforehand, because when I did they just got in the way. I did used to write out plotlines when I was co-writing with Eric, because it was part of the collaboration process.

Back when I was younger, though, if I wanted to write a story, I wrote it. A play, I wrote it. I started the dialogue of Half-Past Eight PM without any knowledge how it would actually end, and it wasn't until a few pages after introducing the Billy and Louie characters I realized how they might connect to Mark and Beth. Nowadays I don't have the time or energy to actually write the way I did when I was in high school (and I never did my homework.) So for a long while I had a vague idea for a play, and walking home tonight it all sort of came together in my head, so I got home and... wrote a summary. So now I don't have to write a play, sadly, so I probably won't. I have several other ideas that exist only in summary form, although they are more daunting novel projects, or screenplays.

Summaries do help sometimes. When I first wrote Melancholy for NaNoWriMo, I was working off a summary I had first set out several months earlier. Last week, out for coffee/studying with Robyn, I took the chance to write a summary of a story for Curiosities, which is the first time I'd written a summary of a short story, beyond a possible character list. The one I wrote recently, I had done a character list somewhere, that I didn't refer to while writing it and thus only vaguely resembles the finished product. I love it when a product dances away from its origins in that way, and yeah, summaries kinda prevent that. If I ever had some kind of outline to work off for SWP, it would defeat the entire purpose. Here's an example.

Last week, I was bored before class and wrote out some thoughts that would be worth sharing on SWP later that night. They weren't really bad thoughts either, but when I worked them out on the page, it became sorta "Why would I just transcribe this? I'm done with it." Maybe I'll come back to those thoughts later. I never got back around to them because that was the night I met Train girl (Vasa.)

I ran into her again tonight, which is probably my hint that I am being stalked. No, not really, she has a job and she gets out when she gets out, and she just happens to know when I get out too.

She finally made explicit reference to her current boyfriend, but only because I asked (we were having random question time and I asked "Longest relationship?" I have a ton of conversation starters squirreled away in my psyche.) I had already known she was unavailable due to Facebook, which is a handy tool for this sort of thing. Manda and I had a discussion on the weekend about a theory of mine... well, more of an observation, that if often takes girls a long time to get around to admitting they have a boyfriend. I have no idea why that is, but I'm working on it. I don't prefer to think they're being malicious, just that they don't consider it important to talk about. The problem with this is that if they happen to meet a random single guy (like me) it may send the wrong signal. I need all the help I can get, quite frankly, and I don't like being misled.

Anyway, this observation first cropped up way back in first year at Sheridan when I met Rachel's friend and, for pretty much the first time in my life, flirted my ass off, only to hear the next day, from Rachel, that she had a boyfriend. I've come up against it a few times since.

Anyway, I began to worry that this girl isn't getting the best of me. The funny, cool Scotto - she was getting the "tired, I don't really wanna deal with awkwardness end-of-the-day" Scotto. Not my favourite me.

Which led me to wonder - who am I? Who am I to myself, and who am I to the world? It's a question of perception. I think maybe readers of this blog, for better or worse, are probably getting the best view of me, both the funny clever Scotto and the bummer one. But the trick is, since I'm writing all this anyway, aren't I still in charge of the narrative? So I am basically constructing myself. It goes all the way back to Cobb's class, part of the lesson he was trying to get across, invoking things like Facebook, were that we build narratives about ourselves to explain how we want ourselves seen. Obviously this is mine.

A friend of mine once described me as one of the most (laid-back/easygoing) people he knew. People who have seen me get stressed and freak out would balk at this. so it causes one to wonder about the history I am building with different people. I did indeed get very stressed out at Sheridan on multiple occasions. About a year ago I was very notably shaken when I felt like a friend had betrayed my trust, and I probably seemed to react too extremely, out of character, although that can be attributed to bottling things up and generally being insecure, though I try to hide it (I'm insecure about seeming insecure.)

I used to talk with a girl in high school repeatedly about how who we are depends on who we are with. It's a pretty elementary statement but it holds true.

School was pretty boring; had guest lectures in Short Story, about stories I mostly didn't read and wasn't that interested in.

I drew three comics over the weekend. Also, bought Lost seasons 2, meaning I'm one away from having the complete (as yet) set. It's good not to have to borrow them anymore.

I could use a bit more organization, a bit more time management, but I'm getting better at stuff.

Well, I'm just me.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Chapter Eight: It's all the same machine!!

It seems like the world is keeping me down lately. Last night I stayed in by a combination of choice and circumstance. Tonight it's against my best efforts. I'm 22 years old. It's summer. My life should be more interesting than this.

I guess I had this idea in my head... summertime, people will be around, you know, whatever. It would be easier to find people to hang around with. In fact, though, it's harder. People, shockingly enough, have their own lives. I don't seem to. Well I guess not every weekend can be bowling. A few weeks from now is the play. That promises to be big.

Last night, Cary threw a party, one of those do's that everyone on Facebook gets made aware of. Normally I like to go to these events because they provide a mixture of familiar faces and new people to bother. I usually end up spending the night fixating on some female or another, with varying results, usually just shy of public embarrassment. Frankly I'm not sure I have that in me these days, but it'd be fun (and potentially humiliating) to find out. Get some liquor in me and I never know what I'll do. I may not always be very easy to be friends with, but I like to believe I provide entertainment.

Anyway, I didn't go. The official reason for this is that in these cases I'd rather get a ride than take transit to Hamilton, and CB, the go-to guy in this scenario, went MIA until finally turning up in the middle of the evening, admitting to being half-wasted at a Stanley Cup party. By this point it was too late to really consider transit, and I was beat from the (mostly inconsequential) events of the day, so I took it as a sign. Parties that occur the same night as a big hockey game (which is pretty much any hockey game, especially during those interminable playoffs) never seem as lively.

I had taken a Gravol earlier in the day, and while that's never stopped me before, it's like the morning after taking a late-night sleeping pill (which I've only ever done once, with memorable results) where you're woozy and still feeling the effects. The reason for having taken this Gravol was that I was going out to dinner with my dad and brothers and I'm still so socially maladjusted that I get somewhat nauseous at the idea of going out to eat in public. If my family is aware of this issue - which I've never really explained because I don't even know how to approach it - they don't seem to care, and really I don't want them to. I'd rather fight through it because goddamn I do not want to be a victim.

So my solution is this. I go along. We went to a Jack Astor's by Eric's place. We sat outside in the open air and breeze with the oddly comforting (to me) sound of landing airplanes. I ordered a salad with chicken breast - a fairly light meal - and when it arrived I excused myself to the washroom. What I did in there is between me and the autoflush, but I remind you I had taken a Gravol sometime before. I returned, with Dad and Eric having finished their steaks, and dug into the salad portion. I hardly ate the chicken, got it wrapped to go, and ate it at home around 8:30.

It was a decent night. Dad brought us up to speed on the handling of Granddad's estate. I was content with just the hat and the TV, but I got a little more; how much I'll not say, but it's enough. They sold his house extremely quickly; I had no idea the North Bay real estate market was so hot. Go figure.

So tonight I'm left to my own devices. Mom's got the dog at Tim's. Amazing how we were all "This dog is totally dying" last week, and now he's as stable as any 16-year-old dog might be. Whatever the secret is to that dog's longevity, slice me off a piece.

Amusingly enough, Manda and I both got on Twitter the same week - many months after it ceased to be cool. I first became aware people had it plugged into their Facebooks back in November, when I met a girl at Cary's ArtSci Halloween who had me add her on Facebook (which was weird.) People who used Twitter as the Facebook status immediately climbed to the upper strata of my pet peeves, I have to say. Some of my best friends do this, but I find it irritating to get a chain of Twitter-style status updates on my Newsfeed. now that I am actually on Twitter that feeling has increased somewhat. So I don't have them linked. Although that's not because I'm worried about being annoying, because I've never been averse to that. It's because I believe in the challenge of coming up with unique statements for both, and I challenge you to do the same.

So far I do about one to three Twitter updates per day... I use it to advertise what's on SWP, to create random poetry, or legitimately say what I'm up to. If I think it's something someone might want to reply to, it's more likely to be a Facebook update.

This is in the top ten most irrelevant discussions ever on SWP. Anyway, you can follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/scottowilliams. I may or may not still be using it a month from now, although it's sometimes worth it to watch Jeph Jacques talk at himself through his fictional characters.

So I did end up watching the third period of the hockey game last night. It was as interesting to me as any hockey game, which is considerably less than any given Mighty Ducks movie. I'm the only Canadian male who would say that. I feel zero attachment to the sport of hockey; same goes for basketball and football, both the American and European versions (the latter of which is Soccer.) The only sport I care about is baseball, but the Blue Jays are really starting to break my heart, so I'm considering abandoning them for the rest of the summer, unless they start to catch fire again. They started off so strong too. What a waste. They lost 9 games in a row and never recovered, because how the fuck do you recover from that?

My dad once said to me that Toronto was not a hockey town, it was a Leafs town. The Toronto Maple Leafs attract a certain type of cult unheard of in professional sports. I can think of no more devoted fanbase, except perhaps those of the Red Sox and Chicago Cubs, who saw their teams through lengthy droughts, the latter of which is a century and counting. But the Leafs are something else. Year after year Leafs fans watch in heartbreak as they fail to make the playoffs, of fail early in them. Or whatever. And they take it hard every time. They will never lose faith in their team. Toronto Maple Leafs games sell more tickets, I would imagine, than any other team in the NHL, particularly those with records as bad. Wikipedia says they've sold out every game at the ACC since it opened ten years ago. It's like there's no incentive for them to win games because people will keep paying to see them anyhow. A fear of abandonment is important for a sports franchise to thrive. It's what inspired the Cleveland Indians to hire Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, and the Chicago Cubs to put 12-year-old Henry Rowengartner on the mound.

Well anyway. We'll see what happens if they manage to bring the Coyotes to Hamilton. I think it's a good idea, split up the Leafs nation, and make them work for their fans' loyalty.

My Short Story prof, as he has an amusing habit of doing, wandered into a tangent in the middle of lecture the other day, talking about how when he was young all that was on TV was wrestling, and to this day he was unsure if it was completely fake, or if it was partly a real competition, or what, and if someone who knew could e-mail him. I've been toying with the idea of writing up an essay on The Nature of Pro Wrestling as a Storytelling Medium for his benefit and for my own amusement. I know more on the subject than most people, although it's not hard to learn.

I got a pretty good mark on my midterm. not great, not as good as my paper, but the instructions for the midterm were even more ill-defined so I really had no idea what the result would be. Fittingly, the main criticism of the paper was that I didn't go deep enough into my ideas, which makes sense as I really had no frame of reference as to how deep I should go, as I was writing it. I was mainly just name-checking various stories and writing a brief summary of how they used death and/or failure. It was an interesting experience and if I'd had more time to ruminate on it I think I could've done better. Interesting exercise, and I suppose that's the point innit?

As I bought Lost season 4 the other week, I'm now buying thew other three, one by one. They've dropped the prices on them so it's pretty worth it so that I can really put effort into getting people (such as dad) into it. I was glad to find that my aunts dug it already.

That's all for tonight. My life should've been more interesting. This is why I write fiction; reality is far too horrifyingly tedious to bear.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter Seven: Massachusetts Catfish Disaster Relief

There's no real explanation for tonight's title. Well, there is, but it would take far too long to explain. It's just something I wrote down from Poli-Sci lecture that amused me. Probably one of the most intriguing word combinations I've heard in a long while.

This just in, Firefox does not believe "Combination" can be pluralized.

It was a nice, if uninteresting day. The evening was nice to walk home in, a light rain. In short story we talked "The Lottery" and "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas," which I read on the wrong day but greatly enjoyed. And I ran into the train girl again today, talked TV and geekdom.

Yesterday was a busy day, lots of zipping around for comics and such, then went out for a study sesh with Robyn. I used it to catch up on some other short stories as well as writing out a summary of a story I intend to write, whose idea had been in a very vague state prior (whereas most are well refined.... in my head.)

A few nights ago I was privy to a rather intense discussion about circumcision. It was actually kinda fascinating to see how it stirred up people. Without getting too into the gory details (about the process itself or about the argument) it came down to the question of "why should women care?" My major contribution was an Arrested Development reference: "Hands off our penises." Perhaps because of the obscurity of the reference, that touched off a lot negative backlash, including "Hands off our legs/breasts/fannies/uteruses." Apparently a lot of women equate circumcision with leg/bikini waxing. And abortion. It was a very confusing argument at points. Some women were against circumcision, saying they did not prefer the aesthetic (mostly being neutral or occasionally anti) and/or didn't buy into the hygiene issue.

But a lot of women, as I said, no matter their actual opinion on circumcision, took offense at asking why the appearance of a penis mattered, because of all the guff men give them about their aforementioned breasts and bushes and other parts. A lot of them wouldn't take the (perfectly reasonable) counter-argument that hair grows back and breast implants can be removed, and are done in adulthood when they can consent to it. Some men, but far from the majority, get to a point in life when they think "I should get this foreskin removed." And then, whatever. But we're talking about a procedure that is done primarily on infants, when they can't get a say one way or the other. So this choice, made before rational thought is possible, is then used as a measurement of penile attractiveness? I don't get it.

My personal take on it is that genitals are not attractive, and aren't meant to be. Yeah, guys like hairlessness on women, so there's vanity there, but as someone once said "It all looks the same in the dark." All I wanted to know was why a woman should care, and I guess I got my answer, albeit indirectly. If I had to draw a conclusion, it would be that the women who do care harbor resentment about male aesthetic preferences for the female body, so this is them taking their measure of payback. It's not equal, it's not even close to the same thing (neither, for the record, is female circumcision - that's way worse.) I'm sticking with "sex parts are ugly no matter what, but they're fun to use." Let's leave it at that.

Oh, and yes, some women equated it with abortion. That's messed up.

One last thing was that a lot of women immediately assumed I was sexist/bigoted/chauvinist/shallow. I'm not. I'm just mystified as to the thought process, trying to understand a different perspective. It was the Arrested Development quote, as I said, that touched off the firestorm. This just proves the theory that the world would be a better place if everyone had watched that show. Not only would we still have it, but then you could make a reference at any point and not worry if they were going to get it. On the downside, you'd lose that disappointed-yet-superior feeling if they didn't.

I guess that's as good a place to leave off as any. Wow, I talked a lot about genitals tonight. That's just how boring my life is. The to-do list has gotten lengthy again though. So I have tomorrow off to take care of something or other.

Last week or so, I was on the subway, and from behind I see this couple snuggling up on the seat. I have mixed feelings about public displays of affection, as both a desperately lonely guy and an avid voyeur. So as I passed to get off at Union, I paid them a (hopefully non-judgmental) glimpse and just as I see the little spoon pecking the big one on the cheek with a kiss, I notice they're both women. I get this feeling that lesbian couples think that any stranger that so much as glances at them is judging them, or at least gawking like they've never seen (real) lesbians before. A lot of people probably are. I imagine this is the thought they had of me as I walked away, but of course, I am somewhat proud to say this is not the case, although I don't make a point to talk much about it, because people are people, right? Anyway, I hope I gave off more of a "good for you" vibe, but one has so little control over these things, and in the end the moment was so fleeting, what the hell does it matter anyway, right?

Psh. I'm not so enlightened from knowing people who are gay. I'm just less inclined to rubberneck.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter Six: I'll kill us all!

So thank goodness I didn't post last night. I had a fraction of an entry going, but it was getting awfully morose and I could tell, so I nixed it.

So, for example, I wrote:

I'm feeling a little detached.

It was a lonely, quiet weekend. Too much solitude, despite seeing Amanda. Getting buried beneath my psyche, feeling isolated. I don't know what to do with myself. I'm a little bummed out about nothing in particular.

From there I went into a kinda halfhearted, ineffectual attempt to cheer myself up with words, eventually going into the "I'm so lonely a bu bu bu" sad-sack Scotto nobody likes to see, but we get plenty of anyway.

So, still having some semblance of self-awareness despite my detachment (which I still kinda feel) I stowed that one away, knowing I'd just regret it later if I posted the whole thing. Nobody wants Sad Scotto, except possibly when combined with Drunk Scotto, which is apparently very amusing for everyone (myself included, to a point.)

Anyway, the change of heart didn't occur after a good night's sleep or some life-changing moment. All I did was read some stories for class, "The Lottery" and "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas," which are actually incredibly dark stories, so why they brightened my spirits I don't know. Also, apparently the dates on some of these stories were switched without my awareness (?) so we ended up discussing "Death in Venice" the entire class, since it's basically a novel and I wouldn't have read it even if I'd known I was supposed to.

I finished a story for the first time in what-feels-like-years the other day. I mentioned I was getting back to writing in the previous post, but the feeling of finishing something, even something short, is very pleasant. In fact, knowing I didn't succumb to the desire to lay out every character's background and motivation and stretch the 6 pages (as is) into 12 is somethiong I'm very proud of. I mentioned the other day about brevity - really, the key word for me here is subtlety, because for once in my goddamn life I was working with a metaphor, and really metaphors are fragile things, and if you wring them out to much you just crush them to pieces. This one, back when I was overwriting by habit, I thought "Oh there's not much to this concept, I'm going to have to tack on a bunch of shit," but I'm sure that I got it right this time. It's exactly what I needed it to be. I'm not going to go back and re-write every story into vagueness -- although when I lost my harddrive I lost two stories I was not particularly fond of, that could use some mystique now that I have the perspective.

Man, I'm fired up. I love thinking about writing, and I flat-out just love having motivation to write finally.

So two weeks ago -- on my birthday as a matter of fact -- I described an inadvertent creep session frm St. George to Union and onto the GO train between me and this girl I described as "kinda plain-looking" not meant as an insult to her, but to de-emphasize her looks that I wasn't, like, slobbering over some hot chick. And then I wrote "Whatever. It's done." Except it wasn't.

What I'm getting at is that I ran into her again at Union. I was tossing out my coffee cup, bobbing my head to "U-Mass" by the Pixies, when this girl tosses me a nod of recognition. I glance over and realize I don't recognize her, so I think, "Am I having one of those days where I look like Zac Efron?" And it turns out that, no, no, I never look like Zac Efron. I eventually recognized the fact that this was the girl from two weeks ago, so we stood next to each other a while, waiting for the train, iPods in. When we got on, she sat across from me, and finally it was like "Okay, we're doing this." So we started to talk.

It was just a normal conversation, the likes people have when they are first getting to know each other. It is a lot easier meeting someone in person than online because the impetus for conversation - natural conversation, with flow and body language - is there, rather than the awkwardness of the blinking cursor. We both agreed it was nice, but weird, to actually talk to someone on the train. I've written stories about it but never thought it was actually possible. I often find myself in situations similar to those I have already written about.

I should write more stories where I get laid.

Anyway, she was a pretty cool girl, and rather than re-enacting Serendipity (I'd rather re-enact High Fidelity) I added her on Facebook. She doesn't seem to be unattached, which takes away some of the appeal but hey, still, new friend.

Hell, I even mentioned my play, and she asked when it was. When I told her, and she said "Oh too bad, I'll be in BC after the 30th." So I asked "Would you really have come to the play of some random dude you met on the train?" Apparently so!

We also talked about the various associations one has with the song "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey. For me, that song has a very particular association now, although that's not really my story to tell.

Well anyway, that's all got me in a pretty good mood. I've filled my quota of being part of society this week, nothing left to prove.

Tomorrow, the plan is to help a friend study. Good luck with that. Thanks, me.

The rest of you keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter Five: Will you still love a man out of time?

I should keep more snacks around the house. As I write this, a bag of popcorn is brewing in the microwave. Been eating a lot of popcorn lately. Whenever I buy other snacks (crackers, eg,) I end up frustrated with myself not having time to eat them, letting them go stale. Popcorn stays good. Now I'm craving crackers. I can't win against my appetite. what else is new?

Yep, this is what I'm writing about. You knew what you were getting into when you logged on. Don't pretend you don't love it.

The title of today's entry is from an Elvis Costello song - a poppy, well-orchestrated ballad whose lyrics don't mean much but sound pretty when strung together. That song, and the album that birthed it (Imperial Bedroom) have been considered by critics as both some of Costello's best work, and his attempt to do Lennon-McCartney. What I like about it - what I've heard anyway - is that while you can sense a sort of Lennon-McCartneyishness in it, it's still very much Costello, in that the lyrics are intellectually obscure to be McCartney, the arrangement too lush to have been Lennon, and so comes off as original. Because as aficionados know, there are John songs and Paul songs, but rarely do they overlap into something so well blended as the song that Costello wrote there. That's kind of what I love about music. You can track influences all you want, but it's so joyous to find a song (if it's a good one) where the supposed influences remain somewhat obscured by the artist himself.

It's part of my ongoing mission of "Let's find something new to listen to." Eagle-eyed readers of yesterday's entry may note that I ended with a lyrical shout-out to the Pixies. The Pixes are one of those bands... like Velvet Underground and My Bloody Valentine... that I was always aware of, from hanging out with music geeks, but I resented the reverent tones used to speak of them, so I stayed away out of resentment. I seem to recall Cary name-dropping them one time back in grade 10, then turning to me (or somebody) and going "That's a band" as if I (or they) didn't already know, or couldn't deduce. Or maybe what he said was "They don't play the kind of music their name sounds like." Or something? I don't know. Like he needed to explain to me what they were, although I knew a thing or two. I was way into Allmusic back in the day and knew that Kurt Cobain was way into the Pixies. Cary and I weren't all that good of friends at this point, and wouldn't be for over two years, and this exchange, however it went, probably explains that dynamic. In the case of the Velvets, it was Josh Weichel's brother who did the hoity-toity music-geekery.

I'm a lot less sensitive about that kind thing nowadays, and am usually glad to hear musical recommendations. My initial impression of the Pixies, which may have been before or after the Cary conversation (which there's a possibility I outright fabricated, my pre-blog memory is duff) was based entirely on "Where Is My Mind?" which I didn't like the first few times I heard it, making me think the whole band was overrated. Eventually (years later) I revised this opinion and allowed "Where Is My Mind?" on the iPod, although for whatever reason I never investigated much further, and then got tired of that song.

So the way the Pixies re-entered my life recently was that I was rewatching season 4 of Lost, and there's this scene where flashforward Jack pulls up to the funeral home and there's this weird, loud song is playing on his car stereo that intrigued me, and the briefest investigation ever revealed it was, in fact, "Gouge Away" by the Pixies. So I think Okay, this I can get into, let's see what else they've got, which, not being inclined to dig deeper than "Some fan-favourite songs by the Pixies are..." led me to "Debaser" and "Here Comes Your Man," the latter of which I really dug.

So there's that.

I blame video games for having sidetracked me over the last year or so away from movie-watching and writing. Most of the time, when sitting around bored, I think, instead of "Let's check Movie Network OnDemand" or "Let's write something!" my mind goes to Guitar Hero or whatever else. My best writing (okay, well, most productive times anyway) were when I had no interest in video games whatsoever, didn't own a system newer than N64 or maybe after we got a PS2 but I didn't play it much. Now it's like "Bored? Let's try to beat my high score on Santeria!"

Well not last night. I did write, and write fairly well. Well, I mean, we'll see later if it turns out to be any good, but I enjoyed doing it. I'm back to short stories, back to Curiosities, finally writing some more of those stories I've been smoothing out in my head for two years, after stalling. It's probably the influence of the short story class. It makes me want to take my cues from the likes of Hemingway and Flannery O'Connor. Hemingway in particular, I could learn from, since he was all about brevity and succinctness, and one of my stories clocked in at about 15 pages in Word. Now, there's nothing wrong with length in and of itself... "Sightseeing" from first year had some fairly lengthy numbers in there, but I feel as though certain stories benefit from keeping a lid on things. Leave lots to the imagination, let them piece it together. So I'm trending towards shorter pieces, then I'll decide later what to do with the longer ones.

So I did the writing and I watched some movies lately. I watched a documentary called "American Teen" which was not totally fascinating but re-watchable. I also sat down to watch WALL-E finally, which was very good.

I could've sworn I had more to say about today, although it wasn't a particularly interesting day. Max spent the night downstairs last night, probably disoriented. Before going to bed I considered sleeping on the couch so as to be nearby him, but I ultimately decided to leave him to his own devices. He rewarded my faith in him by only peeing a bit, and this was discovered well after I should've woken up and let him out, so I guess we're even from my 4:00 feeding the other day. We're all really kinda obsessed with the idea he could go anytime, even though, if anything, he's shown improvement over the weekend.

But yeah, we're not letting our guard down. It's been on our minds for over a year. We're all just waiting for the other shoe to fall.

Well, there's still a ways to go. In life and dog death.

Bored last night, I started a Twitter account. I'd link you to it, but.... I don't want to. I'm a little ashamed to even have it. Not sure what purpose it'll serve, mixed in with this blog and Facebook and whatever else I have in my life. I have an acquaintance who uses it to keep people updated on his bowel movements. He has two followers, including me.

Well it'll all get sorted out.

I should be writing.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter Four: If you're lonely you can talk to me

Hey Bulldog!

What did people do for allergies before pills?

I need some new friends. Not to replace the ones I already have, mind you. I love my friends. It's just that sometimes you get those nights when there's nobody around, and that's going to happen but if I had new people to hang out with that would happen less. As it is I'm inside tonight, crying out to heaven for some company, considering an early bedtime watching a lukewarm repeat of Saturday Night Live.

Of course you know where I'm going with this. It seems fairly clear I've met everyone I'm going to meet in Oakville. I should leave this town, I should leave this town, I should leave. I'm too young to be stuck in my ways. It's another notch in the "move to Toronto" column.

So today. Not an unusual Saturday, although I was up two hours after getting to bed last night, at 4 AM to give the dog a little nosh, then four hours later to let him out, discovering that he had avoided crapping anywhere since before I went to bed. I was pleased with that, went back to sleep for a couple hours off and on, then got up to get coffee with Manda.

It was the usual, although I bought the Dr. Horrible DVD and Punch-Out, which is a fun game so far. We ran into Robyn and Liam toward the end of it, officially marking the first time a high school friend of mine has met a Sheridan friend.

I got home to find Max had yet to make any significant mess, which was interesting. Looking back, I feel weird about having quarantined him upstairs pretty much all day while I sat downstairs and procrastinated against mowing the lawn. I did the back, then badly did the front as the light was dying, late in the evening, around 9-10.

In lieu of Risk I've just been sitting back all evening. I let the dog come down, and he walked around a while and now he's curled up into a sleeping, shivery ball in the... hallway, I guess. I never gave a label to the area just outside the door to the basement apartment.

Where were you when this was me, every night? And where was I when you were crying? I guess we owed each other that much. I need something I can touch.

Is that poetry, or am I just rambling? I think I'll crack open a drink. After contemplation and meditation I feel like writing, finally, for once. The to-do list is getting backed up but it's manageable. What I intend to write next isn't on the list but I'll be glad to do it.

Here comes your man.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter Three: There are many names...

I kind of want to write about my life right now. There's not a lot going on, and it makes me think. A few times in the last few weeks my Facebook status has been "...is rewriting everything," and in my head that's true but I can't seem to get my motivation up. I find it so much easier to write, these days at least, when I have a destination in mind. Poetry is one thing, I can just scrawl it whenever. Sitting down and working out a story or a script... I don't know. I guess my mind is too scattered to work the way I did when I was in high school.

Being in short story class just makes me want to write. I'm getting a good sense for how most writers structure their short stories, the kinds of things they put in there and how. I was reading some of my old stories for my book, and while some of them were quite good, some were not really what I should've done. I'm starting to understand. The problem was, giving too much information. Hemingway touted the iceberg theory, where 9/10 of the story was still under the surface. And of course that's pretty clear when you read "The Killers" or "Hills Like White Elephants." The man was succinct. And I like it. I should take it to heart, although perhaps not to the extreme he does.

I had a test in that class on Thursday. Prior to class I was sitting out by Sid Smith eating my lunch sandwich (completely different from my dinner sandwich) and reading through the anthology of short stories (in particular, "Gusev," by Chekhov,) and this lady approaches me, asks if we're in the same class and if I'm ready for the test.

Well I just shrugged my shoulders and said, "I don't know." The prof has a habit of saying a lot without really clearly outlining the exact nature of the test. The thing we all knew was that we'd have to address ten stories addressing two themes (split any way we want - 5/5, 6/4, whatever) based on the 17 or so stories so far, from both the course and the paper. I had rad just enough to eke by when I decided to choose themes of death and failure from a list of 4 (that also included loss and compatibility. Hm.) Somehow I managed to rope all of my stories together with a stream-of-consciousness musing about how the themes manifested themselves in 5-6 stories each. Some overlap. I think I did well, because the assignment was so all-encompassing that there was barely time for deep reading.

that same class I got my first assignment back. It was quite good, and I'm glad to see. It was another case where you could barely tell what you were supposed to be doing. Three journal entries, write honestly about your impressions of two stories each time you read them (three times each.) So I did a lot of musing and wondering and I think he appreciated it, based on how high the mark was above baseline (50.) It's the kind of mojo I lost over the last year, the kind of thing I ought to be producing. I'm pretty proud of the way I handled it. I think things will be okay in that class.

Poli-sci needs work. I really got caught with my pants down on that test. My own fault. At least I know I'll be able to focus on it after I'm done short story.

A few nights ago I was heading up to bed when I saw Max standing in the hall. And I thought "Okay, we'll let him out before I go to bed" and I did, and when he came back in he was acting a little weird. Maybe he was acting weird before but I just didn't notice but he definitely seemed weird afterward. He stood on the landing a while, didn't move, then threw up. Then after I told mom (Max has rarely thrown up - not never, but rarely) she cleaned it up, and I watched over him a while before he just lay down.

He's been pretty ill since then, apparently thrown up a couple times and had some none-too-flattering bathroom incidents. He's gotten a lot thinner than he was, and sometimes subtle shakes. We're all keeping a close eye on him because we're pretty convinced this is the end. Except we can't go to the vet and get a confirmation because the vet is apparently very busy. I have mixed feelings about that. Mainly frustration because now mom's away for the weekend (is that really the best idea) and I have to look after this possibly-dying dog, who seems ambulatory and responsive, just a little frazzled and poopy.

So I laid out some newspapers all over the carpet, because I know Max really doesn't like pooping on newspapers. He'll find other carpeted area to go on, or possibly the hardwood (which would, by comparison, make my life far easier, so I welcome it.) Because we can't be around to let him out every time of the day, particularly early in the morning when mom would typically be around.

I don't know what to think or how to feel. We've seen a lot of death these past couple months. It's really depressing. I want to believe in Max, but no dog lives forever, and he's 16, which is an astounding age for a dog especially given all he's seen and been through. So every morning I wake up and brace myself, then go see if he's still kicking.

So that's what's been weight on my mind lately. I live hardly the most dramatic life out there. I was saying this to Robyn, as we met up earlier tonight for our first coffee in a while, despite my pledge that we'd see a lot of each other over the summer. She was actually the one who called me, which is astounding. She had like an hour and a half to kill and decided to see if I was available (and indeed I was.) It was a very good night, especially since it was shaping up to be kind of a bummer, one of those nights spent hanging around the house not doing much of anything.

Life could be better, but it has its moments.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Chapter Two: Let the shadow win

Given how infrequent posts have become, it's strange that I'm posting twice in a day, but I've had quite a day and I wanted to get it down, rather than coming back in a couple days and going "Yeah, some stuff happened."

So I got to school thinking I had a Poli-Sci test, but that's not until Thursday, which is the same day as my Short Story test, so... cheers for one day to prepare for two tests. The Poli-Sci I can handle, the Short Story I'm a little iffy on because of how nebulous it's going to be. I've got to read some stories tomorrow, is what I'm getting at.

So as I was getting out of Poli-Sci, I got a text from CB asking whether he could convince me to skip class and come to the Jays game. Well I was reluctant, but intrigued, especially when he said it was $5 ticket/$1 hot dog day. My rationale is that although lectures have been useful, for the most part the value of the course is in reading the material. I'm also really lazy and was feeling keen on skipping. Shh.

So I met CB and Chris Ferg down at Union and we walked over to SkyDome (or Rogers Center, although there's still a SkyDome sign in Union someplace.) It was a pretty eventful game, Halladay pitched the full nine and got the win after letting up 4 runs in one inning. when it was over, we rushed to make the 9:43 train, amidst the throng of people. I found an entrance to Platform 5 ahead of the concourse (I've gotten to know the ins and outs of the station pretty well) and pulled CB and Chris Ferg away from the group to just barely make the train, which hundreds surely didn't.

Of course, as consequence of this, neither Chris Ferg nor I managed to punch our tickets, which meant that the entire time we were worrying about getting fined $110, which didn't end up happening, so... awesome!

All in all, pretty wicked night. I must've seemed pretty down in my earlier entry, and yeah, maybe there are some bummers, but the truth is, life is going pretty swell. I just need to enjoy things s they are.

And also tomorrow, I should study.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Chapter One: Adventures in the Eternal Present

A quick one before I go off to school for the day. I'm feeling a bit bummed out about my place in life. I've got that general sense of "what am I doing?" And all that. I don't feel particularly impressed with myself - neither for the actual factos of my life, nor the fact that I am actually getting down about it.

I guess I just figured that by 22 I'd be further along. I was gonna be a whizkid, a child prodigy writer. Doesn't seem to work that way but you know, I haven't spent enough energy trying to make it work, anyway.

I also have yet to move out, and some female companionship would be nice...

My friend Julie has introduced me to this girl. I actually dig her, and she seems to dig me, and this isn't one of those fake-seeming "Oh maybe we'll meet up" online acquaintances because there's someone bridging the two of us. Well it's kind of a cheat to say that, because after all, Julie was one of those online acquaintances and in fact I have yet to meet her in person. But we've come to be fairly good friends over the last 8 months or so.

I don't know what else to say other than this looks to be the first opportunity I've had in a while that can actually work. She lives way out there, but at some undefined point in the future (as in, the process is slowly underway) she's moving to Toronto. Geography has often been my enemy but I have the run of most of that city, if I've got good reason to.

I don't know why I'm so down, though. Maybe I'm not, I just don't have the energy to bring myself up. After all, the play is going awesomely, the cast is amazing and everyone is going to love it. This is going to work. I may actually have a future in this, although let's not get ahead of ourselves, this is just one potential hit. Still. I'm not really in a bad place, things could just be better. It's up to me if I want to make the effort to make them better.

The title of this entry relates back to my short story class last week, which the Prof invited the writer, Joe Davies, to come read at. I didn't mention it in the last post because it was already plenty full and this seemed less important. He'd written a story in the present tense, that moved back and forth along the timeline, and Prof. Kuhn used the phrase "eternal present" and I liked it.

That class makes me want to write, and to be a better writer. The thing I'm slowly and repeatedly learning about prose is that it's not always about how good the story is, but how interestingly it is told.

I try. I like to think I've got potential.

Well, speaking of class, I have to get going now. It's certainly keeping me busy, although I'm not staying on the ball as much as I ought to. Tests this week. We'll see.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott