Bright light radiates outside within distant white snow-piles glowing in my eyes. Cold is the new norm. What ever happened to warm? I think of this as it is sunny out. Where and why are we born? Did our parent’s parent’s parent’s choose this place because it was the perfect clime, or did they just stop trying? They must have given up after some time. I don’t know. The snow-piles around campus are prominent, asymmetric, and bemoaned.
I carry a cup of coffee with a single shot of espresso; black (Espresso Expose’). Walking in such wind, in the sunlight, nearing the Student Center, I begin to realize the temperature on my face. My exposed flesh is being clawed and scraped. Some gnarled existence, transparent, invisible, is touching my very bones. I carry some sort of overpriced bean salad in my gloveless hand. I wear my Chuck Taylor’s today, it is cold, it is February, and I look like a 5 year-old.
Not before the expensive bean salad ($8.00), before the walk to work (20 minutes), not before the coffee ($3.49), before all this (above), I was walking down a flight of stairs. I thought, what a way to die- I fall down these stairs in full view of all, breaking limb after limb; not dissimilar to Samuel L. Jackson’s character in Unbreakable. My head smashes on the edge of the stairs, my feet slip initially, and head-over-heels as they say. What would bruise, what would scab; two things that do not happen. This dream allows for it not. Coffee spills on me, I scream-once, and then silence. This adds insult to injury, very serious injury. My body lies at the bottom of the stairs, in front of the Student Center, motionless, still smoking from the fancy coffee beverage-what a waste. At least my bag (Duluth Pack) will look nice in the frigid-day sun. My Windows phone (Nokia Lumia 710) will vibrate unnoticed. At least I won’t be able to use my credit card (Visa, Flex Perks) anymore, thankfully-for my family’s sake, life happened like this. Sometimes life happens like this. The other idea was a horrible gym accident…
I was dead. But that was all imaginary. I walked in, without falling, buy an expensive meal after waiting for some time in a slow line. Complete bullshit: two registers and one person working. The other, the manager I assume, is swooning with some bro in the corner. She has bejeweled pants and is unkempt. Come help me please, I give that look. I became impatient. My earbuds (iPod) still too loud, my headache getting worse, and I think of class earlier. I was never so happy to get a “C”. The reason I was so happy to get a “C” will only make sense if I explain the story of getting a “D”, and how it made me very unhappy. This was all not unlike the expensive salad and the unmoving line.
College is easy, the student makes college hard. I made college hard, and as Aaron says-sort of: If it isn’t hard, you aren’t learnin’. Bro… And Derrida completely fucked me. The center is somewhere where I am getting fucked by post-structuralism and discreteness, ambivalent ideas, and conclusive answers on subjective topics (and I use both of those words purposefully, the sentence becomes oxymoronic). Language has baggage and there is no originality. We all use the Origin Text. These are someone else’s words and works; it has all been done before.
I sit in class moderately confused, moderately ecstatic. I am handed back my paper. It reads: “disorganized: C”. …
YES! I got a passing grade! All the excitement, all the jazz, all the show, only moments before our professor basically told us if we couldn’t answer his questions about plot and narrative properly that he would walk out of the class, walk to a Wal-Mart, or “wherever”, purchase a gun, and blow his brains out. This is true-fact. I saw it this morning with my D-student eyes. Thankfully, we answered the question half-right, so he said he would just blow off his leg; only one. He then described how he would come into class on Wednesday. He would be late because of said gunshot wound. I held my paper. The sun’s reflection momentarily held my attention. He didn’t ask me to answer the question. I could not stop laughing on the inside. On the outside I was lost. I told him “Man had to follow the rules of God to become more like God.” He told me I was wrong, and that nothing in the Locke reading had anything to do with God. He was half right. The snow-piles were so high across the way, out the window.