To-day I've eaten pizza, drank coffee, and written.
I'm also feeling like there's something else I'm supposed to be doing but can't think what it is.
To-night's playwriting class. The schedule says we're supposed to be going to another literary arts festival thing. I sorta hope it's wrong--the one my class on Monday went to wasn't so great. Well, it had its moments, but I would've prefered going to class regular-like.
Monday's was supposed to be a "World-literature" thing; apparently readings of literature from foreign countries. This didn't stop one young man from reading Langston Hughes (which wasn't so bad) or one teacher from reading an excerpt from some hack-half native American author's book. How does a person who would read such swill at a literary arts festival get to be an English teacher? She couldn't even read it properly--constantly misreading words and giving no personality to the characters' voices. She sounded strangely angry at us, as though she wished to reproach us for enjoying the readings of Bertohlt Brecht and Rumi while not being as enamoured as she was with the crappy half-native American author.
What was even worse was that she followed this by reading a couple of irrelevant short poems, one of which was apparently written by her. Her flimsy excuse? Mother's Day was coming up and the poem was about her "beautiful" sons.
Some people were made for the bamboo cane.