Today is making me angry.
What I thought was just a friendly reminder from my professor to not turn in a story about big-titted lesbian sluts having a naked wrestling battle is turning into actual censorship.
My professor pontificated about her “Grandma Rule” for a good 10 minutes this class period. I didn’t know I was going to William Paterson fucking Community College.
If anything, the actual lesson of this class is that Molly is an amazing teacher. My professor can’t get anyone to talk, and is incredibly boring. She teaches us nothing, and srsly lets people get by with answers like “I liked this ’cause it was um descriptive and stuff” and “I liked it ’cause it like creates a picture in your head.” News flash, Dayquon, the “picture in your head,” that’s what fucking reading is.
I’m listening to Benoît Pioulard’s 2006 album Précis, and it’s very good. It’s like acoustic shoegaze. Which makes things somewhat better.
But still, the toilet in our dorm room totally doesn’t work. I have to flush at least 20 times, and even then there’s a—remainder. They replaced the whole toilet last week, but I think it’s because they are using these completely useless “low-flow” toilets that actually do nothing. It’s infuriating to walk all the way up the hill to my dorm room, I flop down on the couch, and realize I have to walk down and up the hill all the way back to the student union if I want to use a toilet that actually works.
However, since we did our professor’s bullshit “pre-writing” that she easily could have given in a handout (it was like six questions that we had to jot down answers for), I have the OK to write my story now. I want to do it now, but my wrists hurt and my roomate just got back so I can’t use voice-recognition.
I have a huge Spanish test at 7PM. I have 4.5 hours to study. Hm.
I hit the Whole Foods in Columbus Circle, then took the E down to the Port Authority, so I was able to bring organic veggies, bread, and (always necessary) beer back to the dorm.
Finished We Have Always Lived in the Castle last night in the Port Authority while waiting for my bus back to Willy P. It was so eerie, especially with the added context that Shirley Jackson was basically a shut-in for the last years of her life and thought the people in the village hated her.
As much as I should have wanted to start those new Ballard books, I started Woman in the Dunes instead, because I’d never read Kōbō Abe. I only finished the first chapter last night, but I’m entranced by it so far. I can’t wait until I have time to read again. I also finished If On A Winter’s Night a Traveler two nights ago at Jonathan’s. Calvino is my new god.
So is Benoît Pioulard. I think that I can compare this album best to Ulrich Schnauss’ Goodbye, except for more lo-fi. Schnauss produces these fantastic walls of epic sound fit to score a scene of planetary (or emotional) destruction, where Pioulard is more suited to a day of fun along a country stream on a too-bright, crisp day in summer.
It’s too cloudy to really see Manhattan out the window today. I see a few buildings, like seastacks, sheathed in mist. I want to write today, but my roomates make it impossible. I think I’m going to commute next semester. Maybe. I think I’m going to have a snack and then wander down to the library, see if they have some kind of study rooms hidden away for people to use.