My writing teacher was only four minutes late today.

As he walks in, he distributes copies of Sting's lyrics to "Lazarus Heart".

"Do you know how many copies I have to make a week? In fact, I am in the process of preparing a law suit against the university for hair loss on account of radiation leaks."

(It's funny, because he is balding prematurely)

"Do you ever move the paper around while copying, just for the heck of it?"

Uhm... no. Not really. Not at all, in fact.

"Just to see what will happen? Little swirls, and the letters are all drawn out...it looks very artful."

I'll take your word for it.



Next, an unwelcome question:

"Catrin, did you bring your essay draft today?"

(It was due a week ago.)

"Uhm, I thought I'd email it to Molly...my roommate was still sleeping when I wanted to print it out, and the printer is in her room."

Oh, shit. That was the worst excuse ever. It is the truth though, except for that "wanting to print it out" part. But do you know what the funniest thing is? I actually have a four page draft, but it is so personal that I would rather die then let random people in this class read it, and smear some hippie-ass comments on it. It's bad enough *he* will get to see it next week.

"Well, you were supposed to bring three drafts."

"Uhm, if anybody else wants to give me their email address, I'd be happy to send it to them too."

Silence(Has anybody else ever noticed how deafeningly loud those clocks in Humanities tick?).

I smile at my two neighbours, and try to talk without opening my mouth too wide: "Come on, give me your email. It's not like I am going to send you anything- we all know that."

They reluctantly do so, since they believe me(on account of my by now legendary laziness, which, I won't lie to you, also played a large role), and with that, the danger passes.



Then:

"I am cleaning out my office right now, and I have a bunch of old short stories lying around, from when I made a copy or two too many- so, for your next essay, I'll give each of you a random story and make you incorporate some aspect of it. I'd like to also point out how extremely proud I am of how I managed to balance the crass utility of getting all that stuff out of my office with the breathtaking creativity of this exercise."



After that, we talk about the lyrics:
(here's a short excerpt)

Though the sword was his protection
The wound itself would give him power
The power to remake himself at the time of his darkest hour
She said the wound would give him courage and pain
The kind of pain that you can't hide
From the wound a lovely flower grew
From somewhere deep inside

"I mean, she didn't stab him and say: that'll make you tough, sonnie. It's imagery. So, if there wasn't a picture of Sting on this sheet of paper, could this pass for poetry? Catrin?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You can tell these are lyrics by the repetition of certain lines. In poetry, repeated lines are extremely significant, and therefore rare."

Another student cuts in:

"Yes, unless it's a fixed form, but it's not- I mean, the iambic pentameter is all wrong. Oh, shit, I actually have no idea what that is."

He looks at her, and says:

"Great, that is just what we need in this class: polysyllabic bullshit."




And, for a great and glorious finale, this comment:

"There is a scholarship out there for people who are considering a master's in library studies. Who wants to do a master's in library studies, you ask? Well, none of us here, that's for sure. But you just have to be considering it. I mean, I am considering training for a marathon as we speak. So, unless they shoot you up with truth serum and you tell them that you don't even like books, but that in fact, you want to burn them, you'll be fine. Just don't get caught urinating on books in Cameron or something."



On April 20th or so, I will go to his office, and hand him the URL to this site. I can't wait. Please, somebody take his class in Spring/Summer(M T W R F, 09:30 - 11:50), because I am dead certain he will make reference to this blog then constantly. I mean, What would an egomaniac do?

Exactly.