I didn't go to my first day of English class last Saturday (yes, Saturday), because I wasn't feeling so hot.
Today I had every intention of making it there by its start at 9:15am.
The only thing I really needed to do was find out which building and room it was in. I could have done this at any point during the week, after a certain time in the morning and until 11pm, when the online registration system is accessible. However, because I am myself, I decided to wait until this morning before heading out, to check online for my information. Which would have gone smoothly, were it not for Fate's giant finger-point/see-what-you-get-for-procrastinating? combo and the system being closed for the weekend. Fantastic. My only other option was to call or visit the English department's office and ask the receptionist.
At this point I'm doing the whole dropping the eyeliner on the floor before I can even get it near my face, "shit," not knowing what to throw on because everything needs to be washed, I need some Donna Summer immediately, "fuck," tripping over the shoes I plan on wearing before they're on my feet, "shit...fuck off," thing.
I get to school with about ten minutes of run around frantically time, and of course the English department is closed. Because it is Saturday, you know.
So I end up missing the second day of this class, and killing an hour in the library going through my email and deleting old messages.
After I'd had enough of being in the school where the reminder of my poor judgment was as thick as the tiled floor, I walked out and went to the city. It was a beautiful morning, weather-wise, and thankfully the subway wasn't in its rush-hour state. It took every fiber of my being to pass up the one-buck-book carts that are outside of Strand bookstore in Union Square, so needless to say I was looking through their selection in under 13 seconds. I picked up two thick, hardcover books circa 1950, for $2.17 and left with a smile on my face.
Riding the 7 train home never fails to amuse (or horrify) me. This afternoon's entertainment was brought to you by the guy sitting across and to the right of me, who, everytime I looked up and noticed his staring right into my eyes, whipped his head to his left and focused his attention elsewhere. He did this whenever I caught sight of him catching sight of me, through about eight stops.
I like the occasions where the guy that sings his song about fried chicken is on the 7. It's not only great fun listening to what he's singing or the tone in which he sings it, but seeing the reactions of the other passengers: some stifle their laughter and end up with that face that's akin to eating about a dozen sour grapes, while some tell whoever it is they're taking to on their cell phones about him, and even pause and hope they can hear him on the other line.
I put up a few new pictures, too.
What's great about this one, is that apparently my hand is on my crotch.
Here is a poem from one of the books purchased this afternoon, called "Delight in Disorder," by Robert Herrick (1591-1674):
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction,
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher,
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribands to flow confusedly,
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat,
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
Today I had every intention of making it there by its start at 9:15am.
The only thing I really needed to do was find out which building and room it was in. I could have done this at any point during the week, after a certain time in the morning and until 11pm, when the online registration system is accessible. However, because I am myself, I decided to wait until this morning before heading out, to check online for my information. Which would have gone smoothly, were it not for Fate's giant finger-point/see-what-you-get-for-procrastinating? combo and the system being closed for the weekend. Fantastic. My only other option was to call or visit the English department's office and ask the receptionist.
At this point I'm doing the whole dropping the eyeliner on the floor before I can even get it near my face, "shit," not knowing what to throw on because everything needs to be washed, I need some Donna Summer immediately, "fuck," tripping over the shoes I plan on wearing before they're on my feet, "shit...fuck off," thing.
I get to school with about ten minutes of run around frantically time, and of course the English department is closed. Because it is Saturday, you know.
So I end up missing the second day of this class, and killing an hour in the library going through my email and deleting old messages.
After I'd had enough of being in the school where the reminder of my poor judgment was as thick as the tiled floor, I walked out and went to the city. It was a beautiful morning, weather-wise, and thankfully the subway wasn't in its rush-hour state. It took every fiber of my being to pass up the one-buck-book carts that are outside of Strand bookstore in Union Square, so needless to say I was looking through their selection in under 13 seconds. I picked up two thick, hardcover books circa 1950, for $2.17 and left with a smile on my face.
Riding the 7 train home never fails to amuse (or horrify) me. This afternoon's entertainment was brought to you by the guy sitting across and to the right of me, who, everytime I looked up and noticed his staring right into my eyes, whipped his head to his left and focused his attention elsewhere. He did this whenever I caught sight of him catching sight of me, through about eight stops.
I like the occasions where the guy that sings his song about fried chicken is on the 7. It's not only great fun listening to what he's singing or the tone in which he sings it, but seeing the reactions of the other passengers: some stifle their laughter and end up with that face that's akin to eating about a dozen sour grapes, while some tell whoever it is they're taking to on their cell phones about him, and even pause and hope they can hear him on the other line.
I put up a few new pictures, too.
What's great about this one, is that apparently my hand is on my crotch.
Here is a poem from one of the books purchased this afternoon, called "Delight in Disorder," by Robert Herrick (1591-1674):
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction,
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher,
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribands to flow confusedly,
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat,
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
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That poem is a bit steamy, eh?
I was late almost every class, but I always blamed it on the bus I took to get there; which means I had to leave at like 7 in the morning from my house. Ack.
When the class was finally over, which for some reason I did awesome in even though I never read any book or passage we were given, the professor actually asked me to join his invite only creative writing class.
I got that all the time; in high school as well. I appreciate that everyone thinks I have some kind of knack for writing, but it only seems to get me into trouble. Even today, I wrote one business proposal for our company a year ago, and now I had to write every little fucking thing that we put out. Sigh.