Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

college

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How, oh how, am i failing one of my Journalism classes? It’s my favourite class. It’s my major. And i’m failing… miserably.

What i comes down to is that i love writing. Love it. When it comes to doing articles for my Voice class i have no problem — i often exceed the required length and have to edit my way back down. But for my straight Journalism class i’ve got nothing, because it isn’t just writing. I have to research and delve and interview. While i want to have all of these skills, and surely can succeed in their implementation, i don’t have the time or interest right now. When am i supposed to find time to go out and do investigative journalism for a couple of hours? My sources aren’t exactly available at one in the morning, when i’m usually wasting my time blogging, and i don’t tend to just sit around twiddling my thumbs during the day.

I hate this feeling… of walking into class knowing that i owe work, owe time, and owe effort. And, i have until Friday to fix it before making my imminent failure (or at least a C) a reality. Oh boy…

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9645929/

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Yesterday my journalism class was walking around outside of City Hall in unbelievably bitter cold as Clark talked about the statuary, and my body was in flux. Outside in the crisp air i was round and padded, trying to catch all the places where chill was sneaking past my defenses. As we moved into the building my defenses were forgotten as the four stories of freestanding concrete stairs crept up through the soles of my shoes to leave my whole body gray and heavy as i plodded upward. At the top we walked into cool marble halls, and again i went through a sort of transmutation, everything sliding past me without leaving a mark. Finally, we found our way into the Mayor’s conference room, and i was as wooden as the carvings in the spectacular mantle — solid, but not resistant to the changes that had been worn into me since i was last in that room — almost three years ago with my chopped-off-ponytail hair and my weary sunburnt cheeks, looking unbelievably forward to college.


It’s been twenty four more hours now, but i still feel so much that that mahogany… smooth and polished surface that is hard but malleable… that belies the concentric rings underneath.


Each one shows how much i’ve grown.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9441405/

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Does everyone remember my essay? You know, the painfully embarrassing one that i seem to find entirely more hilarious than i should find it? Well, my Journalism instructor just emailed me some copious commentary on it, which was headed off with the following glowing review:

Assuming you’re not gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that!), I’m left with the feeling that your approach to romance is more like sabotage than flirtation. Like Lenny in Of Mice and Men, you crush rather than stroke. Unlike Lenny, you know exactly what you’re doing. My advice: STOP doing that. I heard a great line from a forgettable movie once. The Matthew Modine character turns to his mouthy cohort and says, “Never miss a good opportunity to shut up.” Those awkward silences you mentioned may have existed more in your mind than the moment. Either way, you’ve acknowledged your inability to trust silence.


I’ll bill you later for the romantic counselling.

Wow, apparently i did manage to summarize my entire romantic existence in 1200 words, and he just thinks i was trying to be witty. I mean… “crush” rather than stroke? Little does he know…

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9389436/

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There we were, on the median of Broad Street with nearly three thousand dollars of camera equipment, and it had suddenly gotten so dark that we were raising the exposure between every shot. And then, just when i was expecting a downpour of icy rain to trickle into every nook and cranny of our digital camera, down came a smattering of cottony white flakes.

Snow against the stunning red brick of the building was perfect contrast, and i was set on shooting through the storm so we wouldn’t have any continuity breaks in our footage. However, within minutes the smattering had turned into a horizontal blanket of white, and even with my jacket wrapped around the camera and my hands cupped around the viewfinder it was obvious that nature had gotten the best of us. We packed it in and sprinted for the stairs to the subway so we could wipe off the dissolving white flakes from the silvery surface of our Sony.

By the time my trolley came up from underground we were back down to an F-Stop of 8 — the sun was out in force, reflecting back up from tiny puddles lying on darkened cement. I smacked myself squarely in the foreheard with the end of my tripod.

I’d given up before the most beautiful part.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9388565/