I went to a reading at Columbia College on Monday night and it REignited flames of how it felt to be in a classroom, listening to others deliver their work in a shared group of enthusiasts that enjoy the art of literature. Well, there's my blurb... as honest as it REALLY is, I had the dishonest illusion/disillusion of being the judge; the critic who's opinion is sought and who's clap is heard. It was nice and it sparked a nostalgic flame that hasn't been present in, I don't know, going on two years. TWO GODDAMNED YEARS... already!?
The judge, I am, and still, I am, overly critical, perusing the thoughts of the creator, wondering why he/she chose what they chose and how they arranged the piece, commenting mentally on why they did what they did and why it worked and why it didn't work. It's, in my opinion, that fresh open platform of uninterrupted and vulnerable self indulgence/craving-for-criticism/or, just that notion and yearning for someone-to-finally-fucking-comment-honestly-and-openly about the piece and give ME SOMETHING, that really lit the fires in my eyes on what it was like to be in a classroom. Nostalgia, that sometimes obscure term that equals pathetic-ness, but really doesn't, is what was really generated.
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