Boy have I got the motivations. I am so eager to put something down (on paper) that I got the jitters. I’m even writing outside the bounds of good grammar, but I don’t care! I walked out of class that morning thinking I was finished school forever. No more essays, no more exams. Exams I despised the most. Hate being put on the spot. Maybe that's a reason why I have no stamina for regular blogging. The good news is I’m still not writing exams--though I continue to take advantage of my access to paid-for education. The bad news is, an old nemesis is back: waking up early. I despise it. I loathe waking up early like I loathe despising things. (I have been known to love to loathe, however.) Utter helplessness overcomes my body when I wake up most mornings, and when I don’t have to get out of bed, it’s all good. When I am forced to rise by some heinously early engagement--a class, a dentist or doctor’s appointment, an expedition to the passport office, an early lunch date, a church sermon, a phone call one must take to break up with one’s girlfriend--it’s all bad. Nothing worse than having to relinquish that warm foetal state. The jarring coldness of the new day takes me back to that first jarring coldness which I cannot possibly remember. The first day of class.
X was enrolled in classes on a steam Thursday evening in the Louisiana Bayou, a bar on Peter Street. X’s mother Effie went into the men’s washroom with a white male, approx. 6”3’, slightly greying brown hair, blue-grey eyes, with a circular scar on the back of his right hand and a Kafka essay on his mind. Effie proceeded to enroll X in classes which would begin roughly nine months hence.
Later: If a tree falls in the woods and a mute dives out of the way, does the mute make a sound?
