Monday Mornings

Every couple of weeks I when I force myself to go to my Monday morning 8:15, I leave the classroom very proud of myself for breaking away from my very warm and incredibly comfortable bed, though sometimes no more learned than when I arrived to class. Shakespeare, I fear, is better understood when I have had time to process my weekend and its usual eventful memories. This morning however I was delighted when the professor love of my life Jimmy Taylor presented me with some unintentional humor that I have come to know and love. He makes me laugh, only because he’s not trying to and he has no idea how funny he is. So of course when he very seriously tried to explain to our third year class the difference between Plato, Pluto and play dough, I pretty much lost my mind. This being an inappropriate time to laugh combined with that fact that no one else in my class thought it was quite as funny, meant that I shook uncontrollably for about 10 minutes, being a general disturbance and cracking up those around me. I finally calmed down until he started talking about ‘the technological marvel that is the word processor’ and how lucky we are to be able to cut and paste our essays when we’re typing. That’s not really funny but it was hysterical when he started telling us that he literally used to cut and paste his essays, “It’s true… I had scissors? he says. So I lost it. Not quietly by the way.

I pretty much laughed the entire walk home. As I hurried towards the village by myself, heeding stares of baffled strangers as to why I was alone and uncontrollably giddy, I started to think about a conversation I had with Shauna a few weeks ago. I find that people stare at me a lot. Maybe I am just paranoid or a little self involved, most likely a little of both. I feel like they’re either staring at my because as an extremely vocal and 6 foot tall female I realize I am an oddity (though sometimes I forget how tall and loud I actually am), or it must be the fact that they know who I am for that pesky past of mine that seems to get me into trouble, even in the present. A nickname like ‘Drunk RA’ is something I feel like might travel around, and the other unmentionables which have taken over my day to day life and basically my every thought lead me to believe that I am some kind of pariah on campus. This may just be the paranoia, but there’s really no way to tell. I stare at people a lot too so I feel like I shouldn’t be offended because I don’t mean anything by it. I just do it because I have nothing better to do. I’m always thinking and my mind is always racing with ideas and my eyes kind of take off and do their own thing.

The only thing that really makes me feel like I’m connected to the real world in any way without immediate judgment or awkward stares in writing. In a way it is so safe, like right now. I’m not walking down the street wondering who is thinking bad things about me. I’m not speculating if someone is staring because I’m weird or loud or whatever, or if their own eyes are just wandering as mine often do. I am sitting comfortably on my bed saying exactly what I want to say without any fear of what anyone thinks. I am alone, and I my only critic. It’s like as soon as I close my door I am in some protected fantasy world where no one is really going to read what I am posting.

On the other hand, I want people to read what I’m writing. I can’t live some banal life where everything is always the same and nothing ever changes. My inner Fanny Brice forces me to be, let’s face is, a total drama queen. Ugh, the two words I dread hearing and make me resent whoever’s mouth they just left. Not a drama queen in the sense that I want to attack somebody or make a giant deal out of nothing, but in a sense that, as I have previously stated, I refuse to be quiet, about anything. I am far too vocal and far too opinionated not to be a writer. As pretentious and ostentatious as it seems, I really feel like there is a lot of respectable things about writing. While there is that aspect of it being so safe, I feel like the art of writing, for me at least, is the scariest form of expression.

You have one shot. One shot to say your piece and get it right. When someone else reads what you've written you're not there to defend it. You aren’t present to exchange facial expressions. There’s no body language, no voice to retort ridicule and reword your argument. You get it all out at once, and there's no going back. It is a matter of taste, I suppose, how people will receive what you write. People are going to take from your writing exactly what they want, whether it’s what you intended to say or not. I like being that scared, the feeling of not knowing. It’s like you're free falling, with no way of knowing when you're going to hit the ground. I like not knowing how people are going to respond to my words. It is my drama.

That's the beauty of writing though, being scared. You let go of all your inhibitions, knowing that not everybody is going to like it or accept it, or even appreciate it. It’s all worth it though, knowing that some people do appreciate it, although lately it is not needed. Lately I have been writing for me. Yes, I am glad my comical misfortunes generally amuse people; I would be upset if they didn’t, because then they would be totally pathetic, rather than just partially. I also hope that people can relate my experiences to their own lives on some level, and in a twisted yet accommodating way I offer some sort of support or far be it, rationality for them. (I just couldn’t force myself to throw ‘wisdom’ in there, I laughed too hard and I’m far too adolescent to use the ‘W’ word quite yet.) Oh my, how I entertain myself.

As a general rule though, I think I write to validate myself. I write to convince myself that everything I’m afraid of is going to work itself out. It makes me walk a little taller. Sometimes I feel like I’m traveling through life just waiting for the other shoe to drop. There’s always that tension, that worry that I’m going to make the same mistakes, that I’m not getting it right. That’s the part I love though. If I didn’t fuck up so much I would have nothing to write about. If I didn’t over think everything, I would have no future career. Isn’t it amazing what the mention of play dough before 9am can spark? Thanks Jimmy.