I think I am sick. Not really sick, not the kind of sick that stops you from going to work or gets you out of doing things. Just the kind that feels a little off, tired, draggy. I didn't recognize it at first because I have not been sick in a very very long time. I was wondering all week why I felt so sleepy, why it was so hard to wake up in the mornings, why I was so tempted to lie down in the afternoons and go to sleep instead of doing my school work. Now I think I have to admit that I might be just a little bit sick. I would have written this in blood if I could.



*

did you feel close

I had begun to grow concerned about my mark in my Psychology Learning Processes course. I started this course feeling confident having taken lots of courses about learning processes during my Education undergraduate. But then the prof started asking hard questions instead of saying "good job", which is what I am accustomed to, and I began to wonder. I respected him for his questions, and was nervous about how he was grading me.

This week has been my week to moderate the discussion forum and an honest self-assessment is that I have been somewhat reckless. I have answered every single post which is expected, in my opinion, but I haven't exactly facilitated the most academic of discussions in all cases. I have wandered off on tangents about Albert Bandura growing up in the sausage capital of Alberta complete with photographic evidence. I have snorted a little during discussions of sexual dysfunction and I have told ridiculous stories about social learning theory as it connects to the fact that my father doesn't smoke and tucks his sweat pants into his socks. It isn't that these things aren't relevant - they are - but some people don't see how, and I know this. I do it anyway. I was unsure if my professor would understand, and yet was unable to contain the energy that overtook me in this process.

Today he sent me a note telling me that he enjoyed my week of moderation because of its balance between academic discussion and humour. So I guess he understands me better than I trusted him to. Maybe I should go see him for therapy. It used to be a requirement for everyone attaining a Masters degree in Counselling to go through therapy. I've never done that, but I probably should.



*



I gave the zebra back for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that I had reached spot numero uno on the Persons of Interest Board RW constructed in the Humanities prep room. The clues he'd connected to me were astounding. Not the obvious things, like the fact that the theatre has a multitude of hiding spaces, but strange things like, "Lisa- not as friendly lately" were scrawled on the board. With my friendliness in question, which normally rates 2 out of 10, I had to give in. I don't want to dip below 2. I didn't tell him it was me, I just slipped Zippy back into his spot as though he'd been there all along. Now I have to think hard, when there's more time to waste, about how to start this over again.

Meanwhile I seem to have achieved some measure of credibility with the strangers in the giant building in which I work who think that a reputation as a thief, a zebra rustler, makes me a better person. In psychological terms we're talking about antisocial reprehensible behaviour being positively reinforced externally and vicariously. Bandura would be pleased. I see him with a bite of sausage in his mouth congratulating me on my accomplishments.




*



*

it's getting kinda hectic

.

zebra

I stole the zebra today. I hadn't been planning to.

Well maybe I had. I mean the thought had crossed my mind a couple of times, but I hadn't planned to do it today. It was just something I'd imagined vaguely. Maybe I mentioned it to Shawn who told me to stop being a lunatic and go to sleep.

I was only going up there to say hello to RW. But he wasn't there. The door was wide open, no RW, no students in the classroom, nothing between me and the zebra. Except the fact that the zebra was too big for me to carry it alone. I went next door to borrow a couple of kids from the Program. If there's any part of this that might land me in hell, it's the fact that I used mentally handicapped children to help me steal the zebra and carry it down the hall, into the elevator, and out to the theatre. The zebra is now locked in the sound room and the Program kids are busting with their great big secret.

I don't know what happens next. I acted too fast without a plan in mind. I couldn't think all day because I could imagine the zebra behind that door, kicking at the walls and stomping its little hooves. I wonder what I should do with it.




*

concordance

A's paintings make me like him more which is interesting to me because I have found him hard to like at times, hard to stomach even. The fact that CC found things to love about him didn't help me to. When I bought his paintings at first it was out of love for her, not for his work, but now that the paintings are here in my house I can see something different. I can see waking by pale light, I see small bricks of ice and sunbursts and cliffs and people and water spray and shadows. And I see that there's more to A than I know, that he's not the same person I thought he was when I met him. Something's different but I do not know what it is. Is it me?



*

We rented a car and drove into Fort Liard because it had become important by this point -as other things like making it to the airport on time had fallen away- to make it across the border into the North West Territories. The experience, to say the least, was anticlimactic. More honestly it bordered on nauseating. On the Alaska Highway a man stood on one side, both hands over his ears, screaming into the wind, the perfect picture of fear. The car kept going straight, my head turned with him.

Jenny watched me through narrowed eyes. She said, I know what you see, and that's not what it is.

What?

He's not screaming, she said.

Is so.

She said, No, he's on a cell phone. One hand on the phone, Lisa, see, the other hand to block out the sound of the traffic.


She showed me with her hands. One hand on her cell phone, it disappeared behind her hair and her hand, the other hand over her ear. It made sense.

I kept my eyes forward. I thought she was lying because people sometimes will when it might make you feel better.

He wasn't screaming, she told me. He was just talking on the phone.



*