I'm Not an Artist, But I Did Sweat A Little

NOTE: I wrote this at 7:46 am.

Do you ever wonder if those guys who are alone blowing leaves in the city are paid by anyone?

They seem to just wander and blow leaves into the street or some back alley. I rarely see them with some type of uniform. Even a graphic polo would do the trick.

Anyways.

My Understanding Theater class is largely made up of wannabe actors, circus freaks, and people just trying to fill their fine arts credit. The first day was fun, but at that time I hadn't realized my professor's capabilities of weirding me out.

She's done a lot of things over the last four weeks that push my eyes to the floor and my hand to my forehead, but it's mainly things other people do - just amplified because she's "an artist," to quote her majesty.

So I've just been trying to scrape by, doing every assignment during her lecture and writing play reviews in under thirty minutes. And I've been doing fine. High marks, no complaints - I've been flying under the radar. Until yesterday.

Now, before I take account for this interaction, I want to tell you I've written this poorly because I've done what writers call, "rising descriptive suspense," which includes telling small pieces of information about a character and/or a situation that will affect the scene to come. I want to warn you, this really wasn't all that grand, but it affected me nonetheless, so shut up.

We were done with our "mid-term," which was a 30 question reading exam which I swear she handed to us last week. All the same questions. All the same answers. It took 12 minutes for the class to be lined up and waiting to receive our "reading journals" back (don't get me started...a reading journal? I swear I enrolled in a University).

I'm about seven people back, and when it comes time for me to turn in my test she hands me a play review I did before my journal.

"This was excellent," she remarked sincerely.

"Oh, thank you," I said with hesitation. Excellent is a little strong.

"You have a wonderful way with words, are you a writer?" She asked.

"I am when you tell me to be," I fired back.

"Well I'm telling you to be."

"-"

What? I couldn't tell what was going on so I let the silence hang and pushed my eyes to the floor. She said this with her head somewhat bowed and her eyes lurching forward out of the tops of her glasses. It her tone was not stern, but sort of - I really don't have a better word - sexual?

"Do you have my reading journal?" my nervous laugh forced out.

"Yes," she said. "I think you're capable of more with this. You did a wonderful job, but in reading your review I think you're capable of more in your journal. Ask more questions. Give more insight into the reading. I think you can do just a bit more. Make the text alive!"

By this time there was a long line of people behind me waiting to get their reading journal and a sucker. Her last remark locked me up and I ran out of clever things to say. I took my journal and was walking away mumbling some type of thanks to her when I heard her exclaim, "Wonderful!" is a bird-like cry.

I didn't turn around to see if the exclamation was for me, because at that time I was escaping from Alcatraz for all I cared.