The Last Day

It's the last day of the workshop and everyone is ready to go home. I don't actually go home until tomorrow and I'm still not sure what to do about tomorrow, whether I should go to the Odd Sundays reading or not. There's this matter of what to do with my luggage after check-out, before the bus ride. I don't think it's like the train station where I can check my luggage early in the day and roam around freely. Have to see.

Had a great time last night -- great food, company and wine. Doesn't get any better than that. I may have been the drunkest ever though because for the life of me I can't remember the taxi ride back. I remember raiding the refrigerator and finding a bunch of leftover pastry that I scarfed down before crashing . . . but nothing on the taxi driver. Maybe he was just an unmemorable sort of character.

This afternoon I'm reading at the participant reading. People seem really nervous about this, but I'm too numbed with exhaustion and dehydration to get nerves. I'm not reading a scene from the book, even though there are some like the funeral scene that are quite powerful. It's just too down. I would've brought some of the funnier scenes from Denise's Point of View or my call centre story if I had planned for the reading part. All I've got with me is a little creative non-fiction essay/commentary thingy. It suits the mood though because all week we've been talking about characters and stories. Maybe I posted it before when I wrote it because it was one of those middle of the night things that usually end up here, but what the hell, here it is --

The train whistles. I've lost track of how many times it passes through town each day. Not the same train of course, but many trains with many cars, much freight, numerous passengers -- where are they going?

Sheltered in my windowless bedroom, eye to the world outside, the whistle calls me, pulls my mind out of the loft, down the stairs, through the front door, across the field, onto the tracks, and into the passenger car. People sleeping. Murmurs from others. The swaying of the car, the whistle, the lull, the hush.

Everyone of these people are a potential story. I have only to reach out, tap one on the shoulder, force him to turn his head, look her in the eyes, and they will tell me their stories. For now they look away. They look at each other. They look out the window. They sleep. And I float through the aisles like the ghost that I am, passing undetected, too weak or afraid to reach out.

It's an oral piece, comes out sounding probably a bit stronger than it really is . . . I hope. People tend to fixate on that second paragraph where the mind is pulled from the loft and enjoy those images, so I'm hoping it'll be okay. But hey, what do I know? I'm too artistic for the MWW right? Someone make me a t-shirt please! I do remember that part of last night, laughing my guts out at the I'm too artistic song.

I asked some people about the official MWW party last night and apparently 80% of the people left by 10 p.m. another 15% by midnight . . . a few lingering until 1 or 2 a.m. I was apparently missed as a few people wondered where I had been. But I'm so glad I didn't go. This evening there's a social hour and banquet and I'm just blah about the whole thing. It feels like one of those terrible tourism functions or something . . . but I'm probably just being melodramatic. Took some more pictures today of the residence, will post all when I return. This might be my last post until I get home . . . but then again . . .

Mood: really starting to get the hang of this closing the bar every night thing which is so much more fun from the patron perspective
Drinking: food and drink are prohibited in the computer lab, as are small children and pets I would presume
Listening To: a get paid to think psa
Hair: glossy