I’m just from the meeting with the girls. I didn’t want to come but it was an obligation for me to keep up. The first thing I was afraid of was questions about private life and talks about a relationship. Recently I found out that it’s hard for me to verbalize all I think about, to say nothing about sharing. All those New Year decorations and need to buy gifts made me feel so upset. That’s almost reflective for me. Moreover, I can’t see Mary’s success (selling and workshop), it strikes my senses.
What is it for? I mean construction, study, domestic routine, people at the Uni. What this lack of money and constant shame for? What my loneliness for? No life. No problems. No problems, no life.
There was an odd emptiness, though we were in the beautiful valley near the college. We drunk delicious wine with cheese. It doesn’t heal my New Year time blue mood.
Girls were pretty, but I couldn’t speak out on some topics and haven’t really talked. I made jokes, commented and fumbled wine stopper. That’s all. That’s all my role. I spoke kinda confident when we discussed news and no more.
It’s a pattern, less you write (draw, learn) less you want to start doing it again. But someday I must to return and do it like there was no time gap.
This morning I was in rush, again I overslept extra thirty minutes and had to get ready faster and without proper exercises. Surely, I was a bit crushed. I reviewed my report on the bus and reviewed it again and again during the workshop itself. There was stuffy air in a room, and I got a headache. Everybody was badly reading a text from a list while I was looking through a narrow crack in the blinds. It was snowing outside. When it was my turn I did all the same as usual. But this time I found out problems in my speaking skills, it was hard to connect ideas with each other. Linking phrases simply fell out of my head. And, speaking critically, the content was scarce though I really tried to tell about Alexander Pope’s core ideas. Then I took another report, John Milton this time.
After a short compulsory lecture, I went home. Lately, I have a strange situation with books. As I finished “Why art cannot be taught” many self-help books appeared on my phone. There are about three of them and all are wishy-washy. But I need something of such kind now.
Today is one of those drawling days of Autumn when everything is highly repulsive. I didn’t want to go to the lecture but force myself because of the gathering after. The streets were filling with snow, more and more snow every minute. The houses became cold and distant, the view out of the trolley-bus blurred. All the way to and fro I tried to clean my mind and got a view.
At the cloakroom, an attendant refused to take my hat and a boy beside twice grabbed it to try. I couldn’t stand it and emotionally and unwillingly cried something like “Why people are so wild here?”. The boy answered, “It’s university”. Rubbish isn’t it. At the back benches of an auditorium, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. During the lecture on local history, I was forcing myself not to yawn.
She was talking about roots and the idea that finally, we must know the tribe we behold. Another time I found out that it’s not that evident to me to attach my own self to the idea of tribe. Even when she asked about belonging to the certain district I had no instinct to raise a hand. Strange.
There is the danger to fall down to little depression, there is an abyss full of potential triggers for sadness. I looked through apartments, houses, draw a bit (which helps a lot). The evening is good.
When the mist is soaked with the gingerness of light and black lines of the naked trees. It’s a mystery spilled around the streets. Romantic light of busy roads with a crowded transport full of tired and ugly people.
The day was stressful, tiresome and boring. The first lesson we were just sitting in the class and making English. I felt devastated even then. The misty view of the dormitory suburbs and the sound of the saw. I took a cup of cappuccino before the lesson and talked a bit with the girls. A tender street cat came to us gently. At the English, I was amazingly worrying about my reading and did it without an inner pressure. I simply could see those poems no more. And then when it came to the words I’d already been too overwhelmed for conscious learning. However, after the lesson and quick lunch at the canteen, I run to the library to do Russian homework. It was calm and secluded.
The next lecture was terribly boring, I couldn’t stop yawning. That was a torture to push yourself to the last lesson. Before that, we were sitting at the other canteen and drunk tea. It was nice to talk, not deep but fine. At the last lesson, we all were passing a test. That was tough, I wanted to close my eyes, to relief shoulder, to stop this dull work. It’s too much for me. At the road to the bus stop, I was talking with a group mate, she seemed me pretty and adequate.
And then there was a mist, with light in the depth of it.
The Sunday has almost finished and it’s a pity. Again there is five days before the next weekend. Tomorrow I will go to Dean’s office to be dissected because of my absence. I will tell that this behavior won’t continue anymore, I will ensure her some way. Maybe there will be their manipulation, pressure on me, tough words, an approach like I’m nobody but a piece of shit and other harsh tricks. It seems to me that it repeats again like I had already had the similar situation. And I actually had at least twice.
I’m tired of languages. Or it’s better to say I’m tired of this type of monotonous, boring, timid study. I feel dead. The Friday’s occasions were the clear signs of the teacher’s unhealthy nature. In parallel, I’ve got that I cannot work for other people at all, I need autonomy and initiation. There is no sense of doing something if I haven’t consciously come to this myself. I’m sick of the system got down from someone ahead. I like to be an initiator of the process (or at least some elements) but not it’s executor.
But I must demand myself firstly. There is no hope, no reliance on the outer world with teachers, systems, and strange people. The only person who is really concerned about my education is me. Nobody cares more.
I haven’t gone for either English or Latin lessons today. At the morning I busied myself with Russian History and contemplating on my letdown. Then at the lunch, I tried to cheer up myself and listened to the comedy talk show. That’s why I lost my time and was late for the Physical Culture. However, I managed to talk to a groupmate and change dress fastly. Then there was a counting of our reaction with numbers and regular jog around the hall. During the intensive running I was talking with Kate, she was worrying about expression she makes on the other group mates. She thought they see her as a monster. I saw no point and voiced silly idea about treating them on the Birthday. How calculating can I be!
Farther we did strange exercises in pairs. My partner spoke out a funny thing: What a natural crab you are! When came to my least favorite activity – volleyball, a man passed to us and started selecting for something. I used an interruption and went to other girls, they were playing badminton. That’s not tennis, but it’s near to it. We played a bit when the trainer came and immediately I was playing with her and girls were playing with each other. I liked it a lot! Yes, I hardly managed to be in time, the speed was much faster, but still, it was something I truly love to play in. (Tennis is better though, and the trainer doesn’t know technique)
Surely, I lightened after the training, mind became clearer and soul got a comfort. That’s what I needed and please, don’t mention English homework!
That is obvious that I’m too irritated about lots of things and it’s not good for me. Only thing I want just to hide at some place where people won’t achieve me. There won’t be any stupid questions directed to me with the pure wish to hear an answer, no comments to which I “must” respond. I’m craving to listen to clever people (or read them). This desire is so normal for me but now it’s felt like my brain is starting to rust. And it comes not only to the brain but also to the aesthetical part of life. I crave for beauty. The autumn’s gingerness, it’s misty air and variety of colors relieved me a bit. However, now when leaves finally dropped down, the trees don’t cover the ugliness of the building. And this upsets me dramatically. People wear their poor not-stylish clothes, there are many ungainly people in the ridiculous outfit. Nonetheless, there is no surprise, it still struck me on the same fragile level as it had been when I was in the fourth grade.
But the major reason of my irritation is the pettiness of life around. And it’s not gravity, it’s exactly littleness. People aren’t interested, not curious, they are strangely inert about their life (education in my case). And it doesn’t matter how many times would I say to myself “Work with your own life!”, when I see pettiness I often want to throw a spare in them.
Certainly, I don’t want to share my irritation with people but to pour it out. Frequently the major trigger for this condition is me. I’m not satisfied with life, with the way it goes and I see no soon improvements possible. I cannot even imagine a Happy New Year Eve. I see limitations and they gnaw me. Even the simple need of physical activity is impossible because of my cough. So I need to get out of it.
I found out that again I was involved into the net of the videos, articles and other short pleasure that made a full illusion of activity. It seems so stupid if I take a step back and look. All those videos do no more than deceive me, I feel like I consume an interesting content with good information. But actually, there is no point and interest and really profound information in there. However, time is wasted. I must to make a step out and do work for real movement, not a fake one. This isn’t a neat work, it can be disorganized or blended, but it will certainly be better if it’s real.
So it’s better to write something but today that make a perfect post but never.
After yesterday’s occasion with the absence of the majority of the students, I was up to attend the first lecture today (8.20 AM). But I feared to miss the alarm clock so much that I couldn’t sleep until 3 AM. And then, yes, I skipped the first lecture. But the morning was good despite all the strangeness of rehearsing the presentation on my way to the bus stop. (Yes, I speak to myself in English about all those marvelous topics). Today I presented the British Parliament. I was the second presenter. And I must say it was a bit better than the last time, at least I caught the attention of some students (normally nobody listens) and talked almost everything but the numbers by myself, I even improvised. It was short though the topic is huge and very interesting. However, I was satisfied with my presentation.
The rest of the time I couldn’t get what drives me crazy more: boring, impersonal downloaded somewhere presentations of the students or the silent content of the teacher. It is clear that the axis here is the pluses, marks, and exams, not the knowledge. Yes, they probably make the presentation in PowerPoint and print a list of the text (some even highlight is). Yes, they can read it aloud more or less accurate. But if I ask anyone about the content, it’s a crash. There is no comprehension of the subject and what is sadder, there is the complete absence of any interest. It looks like they don’t care to be curious and the teacher doesn’t care to have the curious student (as far as she doesn’t have it by herself).
I read in one long article about education that pupils\students at the modern school rather “busy with school” than with “learning”. How truly it is!
Whatever, I personally got the strategy of being what I want to see in the world (at least I try my best) and not idly complain about everything. I cannot make them understand the value of time and education but I can do it by myself.
The going to the theatre left an odd impression of misunderstanding and social life which seems to submerge again.
I came to the local theatre an hour ahead to redeem the tickets. There were the autumn leafs everywhere and nobody in the hall. My reflection at the glasses was fine, at least I liked it and felt kinda Parisian. The small coffee shop in the calm Sunday trade center welcomed me. For half an hour I spend like a book heroine, reading the tale of Kazuo Ishiguro (who is the winner of 2017 Nobel Prize) and drinking coffee. The forgotten pleasure of reading fiction prose.
When I came back to the theatre there were much more people and a girl with the easel. Waiting for someone at the theatre hall is one of the least joyful things. I even filled in the questionnaire to which options of the favorite local theatres I added Vakhtangov’s. Then I started to speak with the girl by the easel, and evidently, she was from the art college. We had shortly discussed the teachers before Mary came to us. I tried to make a conversation but it cracked. Then she often came to her husband and I had no idea what to do. They seemed to be busy. Afterward, their third person came but he didn’t join our silence as he was eating something. I started to think that Mary was offended by me ( the odd situation with the tickets) but she lively talked about the local artist whose pictures were hung on the walls. The friend of Mary’s husband greeted me and made some jokes as we met before at the Quiz.Please game.
The performance made a really good impression at the beginning. There were two characters who played queer creatures and played them really good. Even at the moments, they weren’t at the focus they played. But after a few stories, the main idea has begun to melt their massages hardly matched. The composition of grounded stories about people and some pathetic temptation to touch “The Sacred Question of Art”. At the end, the artist who appeared from time to time during the whole performance turned the big picture to the audience. Frankly, I expected to see a key for the play but it was a messy unclear drawing which didn’t tell anything.
The talk we had after was full of men’s loud impressions, they got it was rubbish. And partly they were right but not in that expressive way. I found out that it was really hard for me to grasp and answer smartly on the man’s jokes. That was fast and non-straight-forward. (I spend to much time with less clever people). Mary’s husband dropped me at my bus stop.