Now number 11, I’m already starting to wonder whether I discussed the topic in one of the previous pieces. It tells you a bit more about how I write. I write, publish and forget about it. Which is why it is therapeutic. And why I will continue, even on those days when it is a struggle.
As a student, I didn’t really like going to university for college. There were the ones where we were in a big group, easier for me to hide. Then there were the ones in smaller groups, with homework and all. Difficult to hide. I studied French, and I believe it was a literature related class. The teacher, French (of course — my apologies if the French seem to be recurring in my stories, it’s nothing personal) was inclined to talk for quite a bit of the class instead of making us talk or work. So we had to listen and take notes. Now that last part is the problem — I don’t take notes. Never have, probably never will. Instead I make endless random drawings. Really literally sheets and sheets filled with these drawings. The drawings were not images of anything, just shapes. It probably looked like a madman’s work more than anything. Anyway here I was, attentively listening, or at least trying. But, as I said, it was a small group of students in a rather small room. And the teacher was walking around. Until he came to my table and happened to see my notes. Or rather lack of notes. He was absolutely furious. And I couldn’t feel more embarrassed, though I tried to explain that this is the way it worked best for me. He wouldn’t hear it. I froze up, didn’t draw anything else that hour, or any of the other hours with this man. However, I also didn’t hear or remember anything of what has been said. A little later we had to choose a main topic, literature, linguistic or cultural. I will leave it to you to decide which topic did NOT become my main.
