Day 108, 24 April: School Again; Story Exercises

Norfolk Terrace, Norwich, Day 108. School Again; Story Exercises

Today I started buckling down on the short story—more in the stressing-out than the redrafting, though. Office hours reminded me of the ‘easy’ nature of the critical self-commentary, a part two to the assignment. I hope it turns out well.

Colours!

      I was efficient in my cooking (time-wise) and day overall, as far as I could be with three hours of class and some necessary time to email and chat with Katya before tomorrow’s day-long trip to Stratford-upon-Avon and back to Norwich (with starts and stops in London in-between).

      I have to admit, having a Romanticism seminar felt odd. I was in school again after so much time not. The sublime, an emotional phenomenon Edmund Burke explains as a paralyzing astonishment one has in the midst of witnessing something as obscure and ungraspable as a mountain with its peak in the clouds, intrigued me. In essence, the sublime transforms in different guises in the Romantic poets—Wordsworth takes on an egotistical approach (‘half-creating’ in Tintern Abbey) and Charlotte Smith challenges Wordsworth with ownership and dis-ownership from half-creating the sublime in poetry (see, a mountain itself is not sublime; how we describe it in obscure, mysterious, dark, and even threatening ways fills us with this un-fillable uncertainty that can never be filled. Milton’s description of Satan is the poetic epitome of the sublime, for Burke).

      Then onto the Chamber of Whiteboards for my last creative writing introduction class at the University of East Anglia ever. The exercises were interesting. At one point, we had to take figurative expressions and write a short story of how it can be taken literally. Here’s mine, pardon my French:

The shit hit the fan

I was carrying the bucket of manure from one end of the house to another that morning. I really don’t know why I decided to do that. Maybe it was the quick peak I could get of the television screen coming to life in the living room. I had heard it loud and clear, explosions and all, when I had been in the backyard watering the plants.

                It was now some cartoon without explosions. Yawn. I strolled past and into the kitchen, proud that I remembered my task this morning. Fertilizing. Ahh, so boring but it’ll be over soon.

                Oh  no, here comes Johnny—annoying, annoying Johnny.

‘Mommy, mommy, can I get this new toy? I saw it on the tele! Can I—‘

Boom. That was all it took. He ran into me. He flung his hands in front of him and all. That’s probably why the bucket suddenly lifted from my hands as if it was an offering to the fertilizing gods.

But apparently the gods don’t like it going upwards. The ceiling fan was on full blast and it only took a second for me to realize what was going to happen.

‘DUCK!’ I cried, throwing myself to the ground.

My brother didn’t move, though. He was petrified. But I was rolling in laughter as I saw the shit hit the fan and absolutely cover him in fecal confetti.

I laughed for the next hour while he cried. I was so happy.

It’s almost twelve now and I’m up at 4:15am tomorrow. Luckily, I’ll be able to sleep on the trains and coaches.