In Soviet Russia, beer drinks you
It's been a full week and I'm having a hard time settling into my normal routine of sublimating lonliness via coursework. I actually missed a quiz on Tuesday because I thought it was scheduled for the following week. It's a big lecture class so I was surprised when the professor emailed me asking what happened. I haven't responded and I don't plan to--my excuse wouldn't go over well: 'I'm sorry, but I thought the test was next week and I only attend class when we have exams because your course is stupid and the Powerpoint slides are available online.' But to put things in perspective, worse things have happened. I wasn't angry about screwing myself over as much as I was angry at myself for reverting back into my old routine which had caused me to leave school in the first place. Skipping classes, oversleeping, not handing in work, etc. Kind of like being a fratboy but without the friends or parties or getting tea-bagged for passing out with my shoes on.
While I haven't been dutifully going to class, I have been working. I don't know what sparked it, but I've been experiencing a burst of creativity that I haven't tapped into since high school. My own personal renaissance. Every morning I wake up and the first thing I want to do is paint, and so I do. Before I even shower or brush my teeth I spend the first hours of the day at my desk, half-naked, squinting through bleary eyes and slumped over a notebook. The best part is that when I'm finished I have something to show for it. That's what I've been missing, really. It's nice to be on the right track again.
Post script - Jocelyn pulled me out of class at 2 on St. Patrick's Day to go out drinking. She wins best friend status for the week.
Carried her unprotesting out the door.
Kicked back the casket-stand. But it can't hold her,
That stuff and satin aiming to enfold her,
The lid's contrition nor the bolts before.
Oh oh. Too much. Even now, surmise,
She rises in the sunshine. There she goes,
Back to the bars she knew and the repose
In love-rooms and the things in people's eyes.
Too vital and too squeaking. Must emerge.
Even now she does the snake-hips with a hiss,
Slops the bad wine across her shantung, talks
Of pregnancy, guitars and bridgework, walks
In parks or alleys, comes haply on the verge
Of happiness, haply hysterics. Is.
