IX: Split and reconfigure

I think one of the worst parts of the prospective for failure that awaits me in the world of professional writing is the fact that this has more or less been a way of life for me for nearly as long as I can remember. Nearly. When I was in Grade 2, and we were supposed to come up with our own stories for creative writing, I was too lazy to come up with anything of my own and just recounted the plots of episodes of the Simpsons I had seen. The next year I was attempting to write books set in my own imagination with chapters and elaborate characters. If nobody had pushed me to explore my ability to create my own stories, I might be a very skilled accountant or lawyer or computer technician. Instead, I have lived the last 15 years of my life daydreaming and attempting to come up with ways to explain it to other people.

Well, it's one of my lesser regrets about my life.

I need a new desk and/or keyboard. It doesn't feel appetizing to use this keyboard anymore. When I think about having to type out entire stories on it I roll my eyes. It creaks, it's nearly as loud and annoying as Eric thinks it is. My fingers ache although that'd probably be bound to happen no matter what. I'd like a nice new black one with flatter keys. I like my dad's.

I'm having a hard time managing my desire for creativity lately. I have a number of projects I want to work on, but haven't for reasons largely stemming from holiday stress (and this was supposed to be my vacation?) self-consciousness about typing much around Eric, my own malaise, etc etc. I should be polishing off that new version of the script, but with all the buzzing in my head from work I haven't felt all that funny lately. I hate feeling like I don't have confidence in my comedy. I have stories I can write when I feel like that, but I'm stuck on some stuff.

Since about 2005 I've been piecing together this collection of short stories that would form a single narrative from different peoples' perspectives on a single night. I think it's the kind of thing a University class would be made to study but that's certainly not why I'm writing it that way (and I certainly didn't give a shit about that sort of thing when I first came up with it.) Initially I was very driven to put each story in the first person (from what I've read, quite a rare choice for a short story writer) but as time goes by I'm growing fonder of the idea of writing it from the third person (limited). Since every story is written from a different character's point of view, I keep having to hit reset with each new one, and act like the narrator has not been reading the other stories. Plus it's hard to come up with unique voices in prose narration.

So I don't know. I once read that Alice Munro re-wrote the entirety of Who Do You Think You Are as a first-person narrative, only to revert it to third-person. I think I'm going to have to try it both ways just to see. I think the nice thing about first-person is that it drives home the fact that these characters are living in worlds limited to their own perspective. If the narrator knows everything it kind of diminishes that effect, because you'd think he should remind the reader... not that he has to. Like I said, it's a trial and error thing. Why I am thinking about this instead of recapping my weekend, I don't know...

Christmas was... I had to be a dick but not my favourite Christmas ever. Between work and personal stuff and generally being high strung, I haven't been in the holiday spirit. I want to make something clear. I do love my little cousins, they're wonderful kids. But from the moment I walk in the door it's all about, can we wrestle, let's play Pokemon fight. He's into Pokemon cards and Chaotic and YuGiOh. He's not a dumb kid, but he should read more. Maybe I'm just saying that because I wanna be off the hook for providing entertainment. Then again, I had brothers to wrestle with when I was his age, and we were doing that kind of stuff pretty constantly, and he's only got me, so I guess there's that.

So the order of operations was dad's for a while, home for a while, Aunt Lori's for a while. I'm not disappointed in my gifts, although it was largely beer and clothes-based, with a DVD here and a Beatles Rock Band there (which to my pleasant surprise worked with my Guitar Hero guitar.)

My enjoyment was generally hampered by a few other things. One was the knowledge I had to get up early the next day to work. The other was a supremely awkward conversation Eric engaged in on the way home. Man, I hate car conversations. There's nowhere to go, if you don't like what's being talked about. It was Eric drunkenly rambling about Mom and Tim, well, to mom about Tim, and about dad, and lots of stuff. Not that I won't acknowledge the validity of what was being said, but, well, Eric was drunk and rambling, so there's that. And Eric did acknowledge my obvious irritation, although he thought I was kicking at the back of his seat, which I was not (maybe I was shifting somewhat but no kicks.) He had this plan (which apparently worked) to get as drunk as possible on Christmas, so you can't trust his testimony.

So I got up this morning at 6, promptly showered and whatever else, feeling miserable about my duties for the day, when I notice Eric is not in his usual location on the couch. I'm stumped, but I figure there must be a reasonable explanation. After I get out of the shower I hear my phone buzz. New voicemail. It's from Eric. He somehow managed to get so drunk he found himself out at Kerr & Rebecca at 6 AM, attempting to hitch a ride home somehow, "for two hours now." He told me this amidst a long, long, rambling drunk message that would embarrass him to death if he actually heard it back sober.

Well, hearing my brother had gotten himself stranded on the other side of town in the dead of night in the chill of winter definitely didn't put me in a good mood, but what else could I do? So I got on with my day, headed down to the mall, stopping at the Iroquois Timmy's across the way for a breakfast sandwich bagel and a coffee (en route I was crossing and some lady had the gall to honk at me while I had the pedestrian right of way. Strike two.)

The day was a bit of a bummer and I took every little screw up for the first half pretty hard but I managed to coast through the second. Nothing particularly interesting happened. I was then supposed to go to the bar with Cait and Jamie, but I guess things didn't work out. It's fine too, I'm kinda pooped after the holiday weekend. I've looked at some writing, thought about writing, talked a bit about the play with Cary. That's where the entry circles back on itself. I almost went out to his place mid-post to talk play but when he found out I'd already started a new draft, he said "Okay, let me read it then we'll talk." Makes sense.

All things considered this entry should be better but I am tired and my fingers hurt and my keyboard is noisy.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

VIII: I agree

In a way, I've been in an abusive relationship with myself for 10 years.

I don't mean it like that (or do I?) but I certainly have taken out a lot of frustration on myself, in various ways. This isn't even what I want to be talking about. A lot of my thoughts lately have been far more philosophical than I am equipped to handle, express, or even have.

Who's to say when an idea begins? Speaking as someone who has had one or two I certainly can't say. It starts with something, then that becomes something else, or many things become something together. There was something like that in Derrida, but I never got Derrida and didn't write about him on my exam for the explicit reason that I just didn't get it, to my detriment. Foucault I kinda got. Genealogy is a neat concept and probably has something to do with this thought. Look it up. I've got a copy of the Norton Anthology of Literary Theory, if you wanna buy it on the cheap.

Album cover art is a dying art, I once heard. I shared this thought with a customer who was buying two copies of John Mayer's Battle Studies because she said she didn't have the heart to copy it; she professed a belief that when you don't buy the CD, it's the people who design the package who really lose out, which is actually a shame. In the world of iTunes and such, cover art isn't much of a priority because you don't see it much. Yet a good album cover can really sell music, because after all, you often see the image before you hear the music, at least, if you work in a record store. A great album cover can suggest an idea of the music in a way that doesn't involve directly playing it. The act of saying something without saying it. That's art, man, that's poetry. I'm not stoned. I swear.

This was a conversation I intended to have with Alicia, but she has long since disappeared and I will likely never see her again and that bothers me some, but by now it's just one of many notches on the wall. More abuse for my relationship with myself.

I see a lot of album covers, obviously, a lot more than I hear of music. Oftentimes people ask me if I've heard something, usually it's stuff I haven't and probably wouldn't want to (eg, the comparison of the new Creed or Theory of a Deadman.) I don't have time to listen to anything but what I already like, or what's on HMV Radio. Somehow, Panama by Van Halen got on there, which is weird. Not that I mind. It's Christmas Eve and they already took the Christmas music off, which shows great judgment by them.

I had a great moment yesterday, perhaps the greatest moment of my entire CD-selling career, which is probably overstating, or perhaps hammering home the point about how crappy the job can be sometimes (still better than any other gig.) I was stepping out of the back room and I see a guy browing the Pop/Rock section, around the S's. I ask, as is customary, if there's anything I can help with, and he say's not really, but wait, maybe. He's buying a gift for a guy, someone who really liked Stars' last album, could I recommend something that is like that? with Stars, my mind went back to Your Ex-Lover is Dead, so I thought "Pavement?" "No, more upbeat than Pavement." I puzzled on it a moment then shook my head and walked away unsure what to say. A moment later I found him again and asked how upbeat he wanted to go, and brought him to the Sounds, a ridiculously energetic punk-synthpop group from Sweden more people should have heard about by now (she may not remember it, but one of my first cool bonding moments with Alyssa was when she was giving me a lift home from her place when we were working on a project, and the Sounds' first CD was in her dashboard player.)

He had never heard them, so he asked if we could let him listen, the answer to which is yes. I put it on for him, nervously awaiting his verdict, as though somehow by filling this man's request, whom I had never met before and will likely never meet again, (never say never, but often say likely never) would validate my taste in music. I'm not asked for my opinion often, and I feel qualified to give it even less since the people I usually talk to are the ones who know what they want. The people who don't know what they want don't typically want what I like.

Earlier that day someone came in asking for "good jazz," of the basic variety, so I outlined the big names, Coltrane, Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald. The names I know far better than the recordings. Still, Kas (a coworker) was quite surprised by my knowledge. Well, I know what to recommend, but my opinions may not be worth much.

A couple weekends ago, I saw a woman thoroughly examining the collected editions of Band of Brothers, which comes in a tin. She was looking at each one for flaws - dents, creases and whatnot. She couldn't find one that was perfect, but she narrowed it down to two and asked me to help decide which was less imperfect. After we decided which one, I helpfully pointed out she was looking at Blu-Rays. She had been looking so closely at the tins she didn't even notice the labels.

Sometimes, people have their own perspectives.

You become a very astute observer of human behaviour when you work retail. So many people don't see you as a fellow human being with thoughts and feelings. I'm just the face of a heartless corporation out to get your money. Do I look like I know why it's cheaper at Future Shop? Shut the fuck up about it.

Anyway, that's all my thoughts on the world of retail, and since that's all that's going on in my life lately, that's it. Eric and I are having Lostmas. I haven't wrapped any gifts yet. It is after midnight.

Merry Christmas and keep on rockin'
-Scotto

VII: I didn't think you wouldn't

It's amazing how little time I've taken for myself lately. Someday I will re-read this section of the archives and marvel at the gap between my last post and this one, but then I may or may not remember I spent most of this time working. Been busy.

The other morning I woke up and thought about what I'd do if they offered me a permanent job. They're gonna need people after the new year, they've lost one since I started and they'll lose another one in the new year. Karen really likes me, that much is clear -- she's been building up my reputation for finding things to where some of the other temps clearly see me as some kind of inhuman stock finding demigod. It gets awkward when I find myself at a loss for finding things.

But yeah, been thinking about that. I know it'd be a lot slower, which is good since I could really use some relaxation time in the New Year. I haven't gotten back to the script in a while now, which is fine since I haven't felt funny in a while... funny enough to confidently write comedy. It's nice to be able to work at my own pace yet at the same time there's pressure. If comedy were my day job I think I'd have to work hard to block out the frustrations and shit that impedes me.

Friday night I went to the bar with Jamie and Cait. Like Taylor, they have a lot more to talk about than I did so I drifted into awkward third wheel territory again. Bummed me out. Then I got home and Eric was there, so we've been watching Lost and just hanging out in general during the times I am not at work.

Right now I am writing this in the brief time before work. It is 8:10 AM. I wasn't booked, but I've gotten savvy enough to know when I'll be called in. I took shifts for the next three days but I'm hoping to dump my Christmas eve one.

I'll check back in later with more stuff later tonight.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

VI: Sometimes it means yes

Is it possible to procrastinate when you have nothing going on in your life?

I guess I do have something. I ought to be writing this play. I should especially be taking advantage of the fact that Eric is not yet home to bitch about my excessive typing. And I can't say I blame him. I guess I'm just a little exhausted to pick up working on it already. It may even have to wait until after Christmas but I hope not. I've got a lot of ideas, you know.

Yesterday I picked up a shift. I put off dinner and grocery shopping and whatever else I might've done or not done because Karen gave me a sob story about people not being able to show up for their shifts. I'll take every shift I can work until I no longer work there. That's not true. I need time off, but I'm flexible, I can be coerced most of the time. They offered me another one tonight and I turned it down. I'll be working Thursday through Sunday. I'm not booked to work after that until Saturday but I think we can safely assume this is not the way it will play out.

Cait and Taylor were working. It was a busy night. Lots of returns a number of fuck-ups. We're getting sloppy, at least I am. Afterward was quite chill. I had brought my Locksley CD for something to play after. Cait asked I make her a CD, but after balancing out all the highs and lows and levels of obscurity like I was John Cusack in High Fidelity, I realized my CD burner really doesn't work. So I don't know what I'm gonna do about it.

Afterward, we went out for drinks and pool at Monaghan's, the three of us. Cait and Taylor hang out a lot, and I felt just a bit like an intruder albeit a well-received one. Taylor seemed especially impressed by my playwrighting endeavours and that may mainly stem from how far back we go, how I've always been the writer, the joker. Maybe he thinks it's cool I'm using that to try to make something of myself. I lost at pool.

The trio moved along to Taylor's place, by River Oaks. After a brief whatever, I walked home, getting in the door around 2:30 AM. Today didn't have much to it except going for comics, which I have not yet read; a recurring theme in my life. My hobbies are piling up on me. I suck at free time. Someday soon I will be unemployed again. If I can get this play written before the second semester heats up, I might actually be able to give this semester the attention it deserves. Yeah, and other improbable occurrences.

I just need to keep it together and relax. It's supposedly my break.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

V: Cling to me

I wonder if I've ever inadvertently repeated a blog entry title. I try to keep them irrelevant and I usually don't let them have anything to do with the content (no hard and fast rules or anything.)

I'm not happy tonight. I ought to be. School is done and I don't have work until Thursday. I've won a number of small victories including replacing the toilet handle after months of ridiculousness and getting Brando into Lost. Chantelle called to ask me to reschedule my Saturday shift to a time I was already intending on rescheduling for if possible. I want to write but I feel too scatterbrained to focus. I feel angry about something and I don't know what. I'm lonely. This is the same thing that has been bumming me out for five years.

It's stupid teen angst and it looks really bad on a 22-year-old and I need it out of my system before I try to get back into writing this funny play. I don't know who I'd be if I were happy with myself. I can't see myself being happy with happiness. This pathetic guy doesn't deserve a shoulder to cry on. He's spending all night trying to figure out exactly how to say all this without seeming too desperate for attention. He's already got attention and he's an asshole for using it this way. What a dick, Scotto is. Don't encourage him. And if you don't intend to seduce him, you should probably stay away.

I should be quarantined, man, I should be put away and studied, kept away so as to not harm society. You have to either be a way bigger asshole or a much nicer guy than me to get what you're after. I'm too good at settling, it's my fucking problem.

But hey, that's the contract, right? You click onto SWP, you agree to take on my problems, at least hear about them. 9 out of 10 times you come to SWP I'll be miserable about something, and 6 out of 9 it'll be mostly related to companionship (female.) I'm just a miserable self-loathing bastard and you're either used to it or you stopped reading in 2005. We all know the arrangement.

This isn't about anything specific, I'm just this lame.

Sunday was a fun day at work. We had a fire drill, was after all the aggravating insecurity about whether we should vacate the premises, became a nice little bonding moment for us all. Then after closing, it was real chill with me, Alan, Taylor, Jamie and Cait. We were considering getting drinks after, but as usual so far it fell apart. We are all still quite intent on some giant drinking trip though, so, that.

Nixing this entry for tonight. Not happy with the way I express my unhappiness. So needy. To hell with Scotto. Keep on rockin'
-Scott

IV: Candies for you

I'm feeling quite writery this evening. It is up to me whether I want to use this energy to write those long-put-off short stories or work further on my new play. The play is in the larger sense the more pressing, more important task. But I feel tonight would be conducive to some off-topic work that has been simmering below that level of my consciousness lately.

I wrote an outline for the play as I now see it. It's messy. Workable, but messy. hopefully it is a good kind of messy, unlike previous messy endeavours that fell apart.

Life since Wednesday has been calm. Thursday I was awakened by my buzzing phone. I hadn't realized I was being called until, per usual, the voicemail was left. Cait, my female friend, had called in sick so I was on deck to cover. After about eight seconds thought I decided it wouldn't be so bad. It was a Thursday morning and very little was going on.

When I got there, Karen asked how things were going and I guess it was so fresh in my mind that I mentioned that Max. Immediately after saying it I regretted it, nobody expects an honest answer to "how are you doing?" and I felt like I'd brought everyone down. But I suspect it was for that reason that Karen ended up paying for my coffee, in which case hey, free coffee. Had the unintended effect of saddening Chantelle, and then saddening me to say it out loud.

We all got over it eventually.

Friday I accidentally went to work early because I had wanted to see if my barber was in. I wound up visiting Manda and then eventually just hanging around the back reading Ghost World. The day itself was unremarkable, except it went late and I almost went out for drinks with Cait and Taylor, but couldn't get ahold of them and as I have so many other things in life gave up easily.

I bought a copy of Joel Plaskett's Three as an early Christmas gift to myself. Through & Through & Through was of course the theme song to Half-Past, and it's hard to believe I have only listened to it 40 times since adding it on iTunes. I felt it only fair I finally get around to buying the album, and just went ahead rather than rely on my friends to lend it to me or something. In addition to Cary, known to be a fan of Plaskett, Chantelle offered to let me listen to it on her iPod. I forewent all that. I'm listening right now, coming to the end of the first disc, midway through "Wishful Thinking." Liking it. Not instant love, but enjoying the general vibe of the album.

Reminds me of last winter when a spur-of-the-moment recommendation led me to Locksley's "Don't Make Me Wait." I downloaded a bunch of tracks and liked them enough to go buy the album -- two of the tracks I had not already downloaded became my favourites (The Past and the Present, and Up the Stairs.) And the album itself became perhaps one of my top five, fighting for superiority on any given day with the Coral's self-titled.

The others, for those not already aware, are in order: Aerosmith - Rocks, Clash - London Calling, Weezer - Pinkerton, and Beatles - Abbey Road.

I never know if I am what I look like. If I am not, this is something I like about myself.

Run, Run, Run is a very lovely song.

Getting caught up in my thoughts. A friend expresses angst on Facebook, and I wonder if I should perform a rescue attempt. Part of me wants to, partly I want to stick to my original plan of writing.

Sigh. Oh me.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

III: The end of something, you can't put a word on it

I haven't talked about my dog in a while. Max. I've kept meaning to, I especially meant to last night but I guess I got really into my own shit last night. It's been such a constant over the last few months that it was really just one of the things I never had on my mind when I set down to blog. It has come up in recent conversations with Manda though, because they tend to be pretty all-encompassing.

Last week, he had a really rough week. Wouldn't move, or couldn't, but was eating. But you could tell, time was about up. We first talked about when it was going to be time to put him down like a year ago, maybe longer. I was the one who was most vocally reluctant. I mean, nobody was really enthusiastic about the idea, but I wanted to be sure it was the right time. I knew I could not bear it if we did that before we knew it could go no further. This morning I woke up and he was not in his usual spot. I knew what was going on, or sensed it. And I knew it was right. I got the confirmation via e-mail while I was in Toronto preparing for my exam. Mom had taken him to the vet, and he gave the word. Now was the time.

It was a very strong move to make the decision. We've owned many pets and never had to call it like that before. Tess, our first cat, just lay down and died one day. Chiquita ran off when we moved in 2000. Rocky did the same as Tess, at a far younger age. I think partly we all (or maybe just me) were hoping or expecting it would be the same. One day we'd wake up and he'd be done. But God bless him he was a fighter.

The story we got on him when we were first given him by an acquaintance of mom's was that he was rescued from some kind of breeding operation. This was in 1994 and to that point in my life I'd had a fairly intense aversion to dogs because I saw them as unpredictable and threatening. I was a cat person. But that first night (November, it was Christmas season) we took him for a walk and I immediately got to like him.

He was fully mature but young, maybe a year old. He had a stub rather than a tail and when he wagged hit his entire lower half shook. He could be intensely excited about things, especially about my dad getting home. Other adult males he hated, only mellowing in his later years. Barked fiercely at strangers, at any knock at the door, with disproportionate attitude for a small terrier dog. he was not a yappy little dog, he was a bona fide protector. I still remember his trumpet-like bark, which in recent times I mainly heard when he was older and he was outside and he needed to come back in.

Also, he was unpredictable and threatening. He never seemed to make peace with my best friend Drew, at least he would bark at him like a stranger every time he would come over, before eventually giving up. He had a couple of lingering problems throughout his life - a recurring rash that made him chew at his backside, making it often hairless back there, and eye-gobs that necessitated eyedrops sometimes.

For a while, we were not on good terms, because I learned the hard way not to engage in a staring contest with a dog. He was lying on my mom's bed, and I was in there with him and I decided just to get right in his face, and he responded by snapping at me. He was a fascinating study of rage. There was the warning barks he administered at strangers at the door (this made Halloween an unfortunate ordeal) this was not usually more than posturing. Then there was the low, sinister growl that let you know he fucking meant it. The top lip would snarl and bare that fang. He was usually quite docile though, so if it happened, you deserved it.

The big event of his live happened in, I think it was summer 2003, when some stupid lady didn't have a strong enough chain on her dog to keep it from attacking him, grabbing him by the backside and shaking him. After that happened there was some talk of hernias and ruptured insides that never amounted to anything major. I still remember Sunday mornings when he'd come into my room and we'd help him up onto my bed and just hang out. When he could still get onto the couch, I remember he used to be quite territorial, often settling on Eric's end, but one time I remember falling half-asleep on the couch and waking up with the dog on my chest.

I also remember his way of halting when on walks if we were going a direction he did not want to go. From 1998 until about 2007, my brothers and I had a rotation for taking him on walks, which was almost constantly bickered over.

Tricks in his repertoire at one time included shake (his trademark) sit pretty, and roll over. Then his back legs got a little weak and he couldn't roll, then he wouldn't sit up, and then he seemed nervous about shaking, so we just figured "fuck it, you're old, here's a treat for still being adorable and alive."

Then his vision started to go, he got dog-senile. Couldn't take him on walks anymore, over the last years we mainly let him out at appropriate times, and then as time went by, just got him out when we could and accepted there was going to be a certain amount of poop to clean up. When this became the norm, it was pretty clear the end was in sight. Except not, because, you know, he was blind (sorry, even when I'm reflective and sad I'm making with the jokes.)

He'd come downstairs and pat-pat-pat back and forth on the floor trying to nose his way around our messy living room down here... take forever to find his way to the exit, and then decide to turn back once he found it. It irritated me to no end as it was impossible to concentrate while this was going on. Often he'd find the stairs and wait for someone's assurance to go upstairs. Basically, saying "Go on, come on, Max, up, up!" I was better at it that anyone else, but my record wasn't perfect. For many months now we had been sure to keep the door closed, he couldn't do stairs. Yet he never seemed to have trouble finding his way back to the door outside even as recently as last week or so. Weird.

His lovehandles - which Eric had once irritated him by grabbing at playfully - disappeared, he started to waste away. It started slow, but sped up over the last few months. This is everything I think I will remember about my dog. I grew up with a dog, but I feel I haven't had a dog in months... just a pity, and a lot of poop... that's no way to live, you know?

I remember how much he liked his ears being pet. It would melt him into a little suck.

It's over. I'm glad about it, I'm glad I was right (or at least I feel I was right) a year ago when I said to give him more time. No more time was needed or wanted. I'm glad it has happened and can be put away. This one we were ready for. It was the right thing to have done. Before I knew it had happened I was thinking about it today - I thought about it often - and how much hesitation I would feel if it were solely up to me. It was a strong thing that happened, the way it did.

I was smart enough to take a few photos before he really started to lose weight, to remember him properly. Mostly they're of him poking around the basement, which is mainly what he did at the time.

I had the exam today in Short Story. I had read up properly, but there was too much of Jean Rhys in it. I read Rhys, but I didn't really engage with it the way I did Naipaul or even Beckett. I didn't necessarily understand Beckett a ton, but I engaged with it okay. Rhys just made my eyes glaze over the page and I hoped it would be de-emphasized, but there were more Rhys IDs on the test and both of the short answers were about her.

My essay talked mainly about Naipaul's Miguel Street before making some trite, obvious connections to Hemingway, which I'd feel bad about if she hadn't put it right there on the assignment sheet, and if my other options weren't trite, vaguely-missing-the-point observations about Beckett or out-of-context points about Munro.

I passed, and probably did better than my midterm, or at least as well. Not my shining moment, and it's a shame because I did try, to a degree. I thought I handled the "Ponzi Scheme Romance in Rhys" question well, or at least creatively; I don't think the marker will totally buy it though. More of a "You put down words and were on topic, pass for you." Nugh. I should be better. The weird thing is, I do feel like I have grown and comprehended the material... I'm just not fully capable of communicating it, which is of course the entire point.

In short: I only suck at not sucking.

That is everything. School is done, the dog is gone. The house will soon no longer carry that lingering odor of canine sickness and I won't feel too embarrassed should I want to have people over (for that reason, anyhow.)

Funny. 2009 has in some ways been a fantastic year, and yet with this so much death, and that I don't feel good about. Well as they say you take the good with the bad, and I've taken plenty enough good.

Tomorrow I have to myself, I can take to make sense of everything.

Who's a good boy?

You are.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

II: Continue

Over the past couple of days, I have done the improbable. I have hunkered down and gotten some real, tangible form of studying done. Tomorrow night is my last exam for semester 1. 24 hours from now I will be sitting here and the past three months will be confined to the notebooks of memory.

Practically-speaking, I'm a bit under-prepared. Per my M.O. I am still behind on my readings. The concepts I more or less understand but the identifications always trip me up. But we'll soon see. I intend on brushing up before the exam in a better way than I did for the midterm. I have a much better foundation now.

It hasn't been a pretty semester. I'm not proud of myself, but as I push further toward this crazy dream of professional writing, I feel less and less obliged to slave away for marks. Maybe this isn't healthy. In reality, it's the way it has always been.

Yesterday I went down to the city even though class is over, because Miguel Street is a short-term loan book and I wanted to, you know, read at least some of it. It was actually a quite good read, and I read as much of it as time permitted me. I have been missing the online journals all semester but I managed to get in the last one, about that book, as well as an optional one that is really the essay question for the exam. So hopefully I have recouped 6 of the 15% I utterly flopped. And I have plenty of room for improvement on the final over the midterm. And hopefully my journal fit the requirement. as I read Miguel street I took notes on each of the stories. Today I did the same with Jean Rhys' Left Bank, although I didn't get to Vienne as my mind started to hurt. I hope to finish it tomorrow before the exam (which is at 7. Consider the bulk of my reading was done in 2-hour midafternoon bursts.)

Sunday was an interesting day at work. Cait, a very nice girl (whom I think can't help but be fallen in love with by everyone she meets) was feeling ill and had to leave for the day. It was kinda slow so we made do without a replacement. Cary and his friend Brian stopped by. Cary and I talked shop over the play.

He's happy with it, except for a subplot that I'm happy to ax, because I liked it in principle more than practice. He also pitched me a subplot that I liked, and got an idea for, but now that I've written an outline, I'm not too fond of the territory it takes us into. The second act kind of gets hijacked by the play's subplots. I don't know. I should be better than this. I should also be studying.

This entry is rambling, frustrated, just like my general attempts to make sense of my life these days. Things will be better only 24 hours from now.

My self is a-shatterin'.

I can be anything but there.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

I: This chair

I've long since left behind whatever doubts I used to carry around that I shouldn't be in University. That ship has sailed, this is where I am and by and large I believe it is where I belong.

But that doesn't mean I always love it; there are times when I wish I were doing virtually anything else.

I've never thought of myself as a particularly smart person. I have plenty of evidence to support that. I'm smarter than dumb people, but dumber than smart people. A lot of the time in University I feel like I am out of my depth and when I strive to delve deeper I can't help but fall short. I keep trying to get to a place I feel is there in my mind, but I simply cannot access.

This semester has been one of my least favourites in all of my University experience. That includes last year's semester two, which was thoroughly hellish, but on my terms. This semester has felt lacking in stability and consistency. I have self-consciously fallen short keeping up in the readings in three of my four classes. In my Lit Theory exam this past week, I am sure I came off exactly like someone who attended the lectures and took notes but did not do the readings. It was a funny little exam, comprised entirely of short answers and IDs. Most of them, I could fathom or speak a little bit about. I must've gotten partial credit for everything, but some things are still clearly beyond me.

Everything in Literature Theory relates back to a lesson by Saussure in one of the early weeks of the course. The idea of "parole/langue" and the relation between "signifier/signified." Everything in Literature Theory relates to that lesson, and everything in the world seems to relate to that lesson. It became pretty clear to me after a few weeks that we weren't talking about literature at all, but how things are understood and represented. And that's cool. I actually feel I understand it. It's just hard to explain back (to someone who understands.) Ironically, that sort of phenomenon is a lot like the very thing we were studying. Sadly, I don't think my professor will grant leeway for meta-academic remarks like that.

It was one of three term tests I took this week. Earlier that day I wrote my Modern Drama exam. Funny how Lit Theory actually helped me understand that class better. In a sometimes awkward way, every play from the second half of the semester was about the same thing, construction of identity. Signified/signifier. Saussure. This time, I knew every single one of the identifications (doesn't mean all my observations were valid, only that they were largely accurate.) My essay was rushed. I have lingering disappointments with that because it was largely repetitive of the IDs, and the point I was going to make that a) did not related to the IDs and b) summed up my entire thought, I didn't have time to make. Well, it's over with. A lesson for next time. That point was going to be about Pygmalion, about the transformative properties of language, about how we are what we speak, and how we speak frames the way we are able to think about the world around us. But then again, I didn't get around the reading Pygmalion again, so whatever I'd have said would be a generalization and a misquote. I also wanted to comment on Jazz Singer as the first sound film and relating to the building of an identity, but as it stood I was out of time and nothing I said was original, and nothing I was going to say was original. Fucked it up. Living with the consequence.

So this semester has been one of the most frustrating for me as a student and yet one of the more valuable for me as a person. That doesn't mean it doesn't irritate me when every class suddenly starts to seem the same, and asking the big questions that seem somewhat detached from concerns of the material world I secretly yearn to address. I have spent my life in my imagination desperately trying to find a way back to reality. Most people go the other way.

I'm tired of problems of identity. That's what Short Story Collection was about too. I felt like I was suffering post-traumatic stress as Prof. Flynn was discussing Beckett. Suddenly I feel like I understand Beckett. That class has been even worse on my conscience than the others. Didn't feel bad not reading papers by Spivak and Derrida. Didn't feel bad skipping Playboy of the Western World and Mullato, although in hindsight they'd be valuable. It's my loss, however, that I haven't yet read Miguel Street.

I dropped the ball on those stupid online responses. They're not stupid, I'm stupid for not paying them the effort they required. I'm only human, and when I get home from school the last thing I want to do is log onto Blackboard and do more school. After Thursday I tend not to think about school until Sunday night, by which point the journals were two days past due, and late ones were not accepted. Two are still open. I don't feel like doing them yet. I was working all day, I am worn out (weak excuse.)

Final journal was worth 10%. Parameters of the assignment were vague. At one point she mentioned the possibility of getting creative, submitting collages or mix tapes, with at least a brief explanation of them. So I got creative. I wrote a story (based on an idea I'd already conceived for myself, polished by the Beckett lecture and embellished with some Hemingway and Munro ideas.) As far as the prose, it was not my best effort, but it served the dual purpose of being a story and an expression of my reactions to the stories we'd been studying. In it, a man is uncertain of who he is, years after a divorce, following a dream in which his ex wife was clutching onto his wrist. He awoke to find it was his own hand. He thinks about a conversation he had with his son earlier, worries they are becoming strangers. Heavy stuff. Heavy, vague, disaffected stuff. It's barely 1000 words.

I sent it along with a note analyzing in brief the influences of the course's writers on the story's theme and contents, and a note that it was largely open to interpretation. i also noted that I hoped it was appropriate for the assignment, although by now it's too late to worry about it though. What's done is done, and at least that much is done.

I called the story "The Reasons" both because it is evocative without saying anything explicitly, and because I was listening to the Weakerthans when I conceived of it. So there's that.

I have been walking a delicate balancing act in how I choose to apply, or ignore, these themes in my writing. I certainly would never want to be an ideological writer, I'm not certain enough in my ideas for that, I just want to write whatever I think will be amusing to people. There were times it seemed as though the new play would be "On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense: The Play." Nietzsche could use more dick jokes.

The test for short-story is next Wednesday. I intend to complete the readings for that class by then, intend being the operative word.

Anyway. Though the question of "what is the self?" lingers in the air, my personal question is "why does it matter?" What did self-examination ever get anyone? I want to adopt a philosophy: If it can't get you paid, and it can't get you laid, it's not worth your thought. Shallow, but happy.

The other final I wrote was for film, a brief essay in class. We had 5 or 6 choices, most of the class including me chose the same one. I was dismayed at that because I usually pride myself in being different, but it was just too easy. I wish I'd done the one that involved the Karen Carpenter Story. That seemed so obscure and yet I enjoyed it and maybe could have worked with it. Instead I copped out and bullshitted my way through comparative depictions of masculinity in Tightrope and Halloween. My problem was, though some of the other films might have been more interesting to talk about, none of the questions struck me as much. I could've written about Heaven's Gate for hours, but the question was about "How is Heaven's Gate a western, how does it represents the view of America at this time?" and that was bullshit. The real important thing about Heaven's Gate was that it was epic fail. If I could've spent an hour outlining that fact and its implications I'd have earned a gold star.

Most of the other questions were similarly bogus.

Before I get back into "what I did this week" stuff, I'd like to note that oddly enough, the lecture in Lit Theory that spoke the most to me was Queer Theory. I say oddly enough because from the sound of it, I expected it mainly to be about analyzing works of literature from the perspective that all the characters are secretly gay. Shallow conception, I know, but no moreso than some feminists seeing anti-feminist messages in innocent stories (I have no examples of this, it may not exist, but I believe it does.) What it's really more about is underlining the concept that all people are different - not just men different from women but women different from women, blacks from blacks, gays from gays. And that gender, rather than a biological fact, is a performed construct. Gender is the reason I'm not wearing a dress right now, even though there's no biological reason I can't be. Far out.

I think my main problem is that I'm tired of learning what the man wants me to learn. I am not an intellectual or an academic, have no desire to be one or write like one, or write for one. I do not intend that my books should be studied in university classrooms, but then again I suspect Alan Moore, Ernest Hemingway and Jerome Kearn (Showboat) did not either. I bloody well know Hemingway didn't, and I wonder whether Prof. Flynn grasps the irony of nearly fetishizing an interview with him where he basically shits on the notion of doing exactly the kind of thing she gets paid to do with his work. I guess the jokes on him since she gets paid to do it. I guess I just wouldn't want to live with the notion that people were being taught that my work was meant to be understood this way, and that not grasping that is grounds for failure.

If someone tried to teach me that Questionable Content is about the construction of the beta-male identity in relation to the influence of female figures, I'd probably just say "It's about a dude who owns a porn-loving robot." This is probably why Jeph Jacques is not taught in University classrooms.

Yet.

The balance between the entertaining and the intellectual. The high and the low. The interior and the exterior. Fuck me, I've just spent the semester learning the same thing four times.

I saw Joe today before work. We commiserated and I gave him the brief version of this rant. He knows the score, he reads SWP, and so do you.

Nearly 3 AM. I should get to bed. Don't think too hard about anything I've said. That's the point.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto