could anyone manage to prepare for a life of failure?
i waited for close to an hour. i was high-strung, as usual, sweating in places, all i know i well shouldn’t be. i don’t know why but it was as if the anticipation inside me had build itself up with no external triggers at all, boiling and rising like it has a life of its own, totally devoid from my control. come to think of it, i didn’t really have anything to get excited about. it was just a class, like any other, a group of writers huddled together comparing notes and sharing their stories and work, like little kids who’ve just recently discovered that the sizes of their own dicks aren’t exactly all the same. what was there to get excited about?
black would be too formal, and besides, i would look to dressed up for a wednesday, and it would be such a waste that not many people would be able to see how such a well-made person i am. so i changed into this green “ex” shirt and in an instant, i was one with the crowd. the crowd which normally would have been there, paying no attention to a green “ex” shirt and the seemingly averagely “bleh” person inside it, but they wouldn’t normally have classes on wednesdays (like who does, really?)
i had to make sure i got the right classroom. upon further investigation, i did, scrawled on a loose checklist for the fine arts, for a course i would not have the guts to take in this lifetime: painting. not that it’d matter, but i heard she had required her students submit a folio or two for her class, she being a published writer and all (twice, i was actually tempted to even vaguely, remotely, unconscientiously (?) flip through her book, but twice and that was about it). i was already lefing through the layout of my own folio. sheesh, could anyone be more vain?
room 212 CAL bldg. the coast is clear, none of the students had arrived yet, and i was starting to get my hopes up that no one was actually taking her class this sem and that enlisting via her prerogative would be a cinch. there was this one guy, stereotypically writer-FOA (full of art)-grunge-mode in the room ahead of me, wondering what to do, endlessly fidgetting over a pen and a piece of yellow paper. he might have smelled that i was not yet enrolled in the class, so no conversation actually took place. we didn’t even look like we were about to be classmates anyway so why bother?
then came this guy, who seemed too full of himself. he must be a writer. “is this the creative writing class?” and i responded with an upturned brow. i didn’t know personally if i was answering his question or acknowledging the fact that we had exchanged lines before, when he asked if Fernandez was in her office about a week ago, about thirty minutes shy of the rice-in-the-mouth, fuming-rage, yell-no-like-hell, door-slamming incident which preceded. but as budding and assuming writers go, we were good at being indifferent and pretended both not to care. the other guy actually pretended he was alone, so he must be a better writer than both of us.
then came the messenger. finally, someone who is actually ENROLLED in the class. he told us that Fernadez sent them a message that she was not attending her class today and just brief the others of the activities that had happened last week. “so she actually had class last week?” by the looks of it, they might have spent the whole three hours, given the things they did, or she had them do, and the other stuff she wanted them to do for her class.
personally, i was numb. i have stalkled her for a week, got shouted at, and even considered flipping through her book and she was a no-show. i just wish she had informed me that she was not taking prerogs in the first place so as not to get my hopes up. but, what can you do? she’s the writer.
later, as i walked back to nowhere, i realized this might be a sign. a sign for what? i don’t know. how can i tell? i don’t know. why the talk about signs and suddenly cutting myself short as if writing all this down was some tremendous chore that i was forced to do at gunpoint (redundant-redundant)?