A day full of strange occurrences and odd coincidences.
Am taking two classes this quarter; one of which I've already spoken, and a class that will prepare me for a tutoring job next quarter. The first class for the Tutoring course was today. I met the woman in charge of the Writing Center (who told me, lo and freaking behold, that my professor from last quarter, of whom I so often bitched, had given me "SUCH a glowing recommendation!" She actually came up to ME and told me how glad she was that I'd come... Weird...), and I really liked her. We clicked, I think. And I had a sudden spark of intuition:
"Hey Sandy? Where are you from, may I ask?"
"Upstate New York," said she. "Connecticut, originally."
"Where upstate?"
"Oswego."
I don't know quite what gave it away; I just knew somehow. We know our own, I guess. Funny; the tutoring director in Santa Fe was from upstate New York too. Weird. I told Sandy that she rocked. Then I made dinner and went to the library.
The only reason I was in the library was because I didn't want to be in my room; my room is very distracting. So I went, equipped with a book and some words I wanted to look up in a dictionary. Well, then I couldn't find a dictionary. You'd THINK, in a library, there would be a big shelf full of dictionaries! It's the most important book in the library! If you have a dictionary, you can read ALL the books in the library! ...I mean, in theory. Sort of.
So, I wandered around for a little while, looking for a dictionary. After maybe half an hour of searching (and asking the librarian, who also didn't know), I did locate one, and went to find a nice desk by the windows. Except, walking with this big dictionary, I accidentally slammed into a shalf full of magazines, and one of them fell on me. I went and put my stuff down -- had to claim the Good Desk, after all -- and went back to pick it up... And I'll be damned if it wasn't an old issue of "Slightly West," the school's literary magazine. And I'll be damned if, when I picked it up, the page wasn't turned to a story by Norman's brother.
Fucken WEIRD.
Even weirder, it was a true story. Or at least partly true. I recognized bits and pieces of it from a hundred million evenings of staying up late with Norman and chatting about nothing just to hear each other chat. I've seen the house in the story; last August, it gave me a nice creepy feeling, so I stood and looked at it for awhile. Imagine! A story drops out of the fucking SKY onto your head, and you start reading it, getting all these nice mental images in your head, and then you realize that the mental images probably aren't too different from those of the author? Imagine: a story drops on you from heaven (well, a shelf anyway), and you're reading about some stuff from the childhood of your lover and his brother. It's fucking WEIRD, let me tell you.
Am going to go to bed now -- got to break this habit of sleeping all day and staying up all night; my class starts tomorrow...
~Helena*