Written Saturday Morning
I could write.
I could go off into computer land, Max Payne 2, Oni, SCUMMVM, something that doesn't require a CD.
I could play with the dog. She's here with me, panting up a storm, though she seems mostly content to let me be and sit while I write. And there my decision is made.
Almost off to the ferry soon. My mind feels empty, unburdened. I do feel somewhat rueful of the devastation I surely have left behind me at the film school while I go on my break. Unfortunately, I'm paid to be one of the few adults on the premises, cleaning up after spilt messes and refilling whatever needs to be refilled, washing whatever cups and plates go unwashed.
It's amazing how limited these young human beings can be, how lazily they can perceive things. Perhaps I pick up on it too easily and judge the whole by it, but there's at least one student who, upon noticing my book, boasted that he'd never finished a book in his life, and that he was now in grade 11. "How does that make you feel?" he asked me, and I found myself wondering what kind of response he was looking for. I replied something along the lines of, "Filled with pity," and we had a boring conversation that began with, "Oh, you like books then, huh?" Well, yeah.
I don't like answering questions I feel are redundant, about as much as I don't like repeating myself. The latter can't be helped - sometimes I mumble words, or say them too softly, or expect too much of the person to listen to me. I've learnt to deal with repeating myself by waiting a moment, as if hoping the person will have their brain process it so I don't have to rewind, before finally repeating the sentence or inquiry for them. I imagine this would be the sort of thing that would drive a hypothetical future spouse crazy.
But the former, waiting for a person to cycle through limited queries until their brain catches up with what I'm trying to say, is more difficult. Example: A student asks me if they could just sign my name as Tito, without asking for my last name. I, wrapped in an engaging mystery novel (and feeling a bit under the weather), blandly direct them to ask their mentor. He repeats the question. I finally tell them that there's a very clear protocol that requires them to get the full names of almost every staff member in the school, and that their mentor could help them fill it out.
None of this gets through, and finally I ignore him as he rewords the question, speaking it a third time while his brain sorts out the reply I had already given him, until finally he realizes that it's futile to keep asking me and perhaps makes a note to ask the mentor. Or who knows, maybe he'll put only my first name down because his brain might hemorrhage if stressed with further problem-solving attempts, the meat of his cerebral cortex melting into a soup as he is forced to draw on deeper brain faculties, until his skull caves in from the pressure and a terrifying squelch resounds from its cavernous pit, horrifying every student in the vicinity while I, in my contemptuous shunning of him, read on in peace.
Having a brain superior to others in comprehensive speed makes one rather snobbish, I notice.
I better get ready. Off to the ferry I go.
I could go off into computer land, Max Payne 2, Oni, SCUMMVM, something that doesn't require a CD.
I could play with the dog. She's here with me, panting up a storm, though she seems mostly content to let me be and sit while I write. And there my decision is made.
Almost off to the ferry soon. My mind feels empty, unburdened. I do feel somewhat rueful of the devastation I surely have left behind me at the film school while I go on my break. Unfortunately, I'm paid to be one of the few adults on the premises, cleaning up after spilt messes and refilling whatever needs to be refilled, washing whatever cups and plates go unwashed.
It's amazing how limited these young human beings can be, how lazily they can perceive things. Perhaps I pick up on it too easily and judge the whole by it, but there's at least one student who, upon noticing my book, boasted that he'd never finished a book in his life, and that he was now in grade 11. "How does that make you feel?" he asked me, and I found myself wondering what kind of response he was looking for. I replied something along the lines of, "Filled with pity," and we had a boring conversation that began with, "Oh, you like books then, huh?" Well, yeah.
I don't like answering questions I feel are redundant, about as much as I don't like repeating myself. The latter can't be helped - sometimes I mumble words, or say them too softly, or expect too much of the person to listen to me. I've learnt to deal with repeating myself by waiting a moment, as if hoping the person will have their brain process it so I don't have to rewind, before finally repeating the sentence or inquiry for them. I imagine this would be the sort of thing that would drive a hypothetical future spouse crazy.
But the former, waiting for a person to cycle through limited queries until their brain catches up with what I'm trying to say, is more difficult. Example: A student asks me if they could just sign my name as Tito, without asking for my last name. I, wrapped in an engaging mystery novel (and feeling a bit under the weather), blandly direct them to ask their mentor. He repeats the question. I finally tell them that there's a very clear protocol that requires them to get the full names of almost every staff member in the school, and that their mentor could help them fill it out.
None of this gets through, and finally I ignore him as he rewords the question, speaking it a third time while his brain sorts out the reply I had already given him, until finally he realizes that it's futile to keep asking me and perhaps makes a note to ask the mentor. Or who knows, maybe he'll put only my first name down because his brain might hemorrhage if stressed with further problem-solving attempts, the meat of his cerebral cortex melting into a soup as he is forced to draw on deeper brain faculties, until his skull caves in from the pressure and a terrifying squelch resounds from its cavernous pit, horrifying every student in the vicinity while I, in my contemptuous shunning of him, read on in peace.
Having a brain superior to others in comprehensive speed makes one rather snobbish, I notice.
I better get ready. Off to the ferry I go.