No, not the Dionne Warwick song. I actively dislike the vast majority of poetry; my appreciation for it pretty much begins and ends with, “There once was a man from Nantucket…” I flatly refused to participate (aside from turning up in the class) in an entire unit of English because I had already an average high enough to pass with a decent grade, and I thought poetry was a stupid waste of time. I said, “I’m not doing it. I’ll take the zero.” If you have something to say, for Christ’s sake, just spit it out, never mind fussing about with flowery words. That said, some of Chaucer and Shakespeare (both rather naughty), and A.E. Housman’s A Shropshire Lad (somehow, that’s supposed to be about the Greek dude, Narcissus, I think) are pretty good, and I do recall a few lines from Wordsworth’s Intimations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood (WTF is with the mile-long name?). The class had to discuss and dissect the Wordsworth poem, which I thought was an utter waste of time, but in order to get credit for the class, I had to be in a discussion group, and there was nothing else going on, so I sort of listened. Apparently, Wordsworth (FFS, even his name is long) believed that we are born knowing everything; that a newborn is not a clean slate, but an old soul in a new body. We are born knowing everything, at one with God and the natural world, and as we live and age, we lose the oneness and the knowledge, until we eventually die; our soul to be reborn in a new body. Interesting (if depressing) theory, I suppose, but without a belief in a higher power, or a human soul, and with some biological knowledge of the human brain, one to which I cannot subscribe. Anyway, that’s what the poem is about, and according to the discussion, that’s why we experience déja vu. It’s not just a funny feeling of having been somewhere or done something before, even though we know we have not; it’s remembering something that our “recycled” soul has experienced, or at least in this theory.

Today is rather warm for November (68F) but it’s grey and dull, and looks as if it will rain soon. I looked out the window, and for some reason, was reminded of a day I’d skipped school. There were many of those days, of course, but I didn’t always do the same thing. Sometimes, I’d go to the school and then take off somewhere with friends, and sometimes, I’d just not go at all and stay home to drink gallons of coffee, chain-smoke cigarettes and talk to my stepmother. Bless her, she’d tell me I should go to school, and she meant it, but she never once ratted me out for “missing the bus”. Most of the time, though, I didn’t want to be around anyone; I just wanted to be by myself. Sometimes, I’d just skip class and go to the school library to read. The librarian knew that I didn’t really have all of those free study periods, but he had a soft spot for me because he, like all of my teachers, knew I was a really smart kid, but a world-class underachiever, and quite a “troubled child”. Mr. Drake also knew I absolutely loved to read, so he’d try to use that to his (really my) advantage. He’d often hold back new books and magazines at the counter because he thought they might be of interest to me, and when I’d go into the library, he’d “not notice” that I didn’t sign in, and he’d call me over to show them to me. I wore shoulder-length earrings back then–seven on the left, three on the right–and I remember one magazine article about the history and significance of tribal markings (tattoos, piercing, scarring) that was really very cool. I must admit, the man truly understood my interests, and looking back, I know that he was trying to get through to me without kicking in the contrary, “Fuck you–you don’t tell me what to do!” aspect of my personality for which I was famous. I’d do it even to my own detriment…I just would not let anyone tell me what to do, even if it was in my best interests. I didn’t know then that he was trying to gently “redirect” me, of course; all I knew was that Drake was cool because he didn’t report me, or kick me out of the library even though I’d perhaps been there for the whole afternoon. I didn’t sit at tables; I’d go to the last booth in the back corner of the room…that one was “mine” because no one would disturb me back there. Drake did get pissed off the few times I just walked out with books instead of signing them out (line too long, couldn’t be arsed, and I knew I’d return them), but I honestly liked and respected him, so I stopped when I realised it really was that big a deal to him and he wasn’t just trying to get a paper record of my having been there when I should have been somewhere else.

Other times, I’d take off for the university library instead. It wasn’t much of a walk from the high school to the university, and the thing I liked the most about the uni library was the anonymity. Nobody knew who I was, and nobody gave a goddamn, either; I was just another face in a sea of faces. I’d go to the library, poke about to see what caught my interest, and read to my heart’s content, sometimes until it was so late that I had to run like hell to catch the school bus home when it stopped to let off the town kids from the high school and pick up the junior high kids. If I was there all day, or most of it, I’d take a lunch break and go to the cafeteria on the second floor of the Student Union building; I used to sit by the windows and look down at the people walking by. I thought they looked like little ants, scurrying from place to place, looking very busy and important, when really, none of us is very important at all, at least not in the grand scheme of things.

Occasionally, I’d go in the other direction, to the shopping centres in NM. Back then, there were two malls, plus the whole business district. I never had a lot of money because Dad knew I’d buy drugs if I had a lot of spare cash (and he was right), but I always had some, so I could buy lunch, and maybe a cassette (god, I’m old) or two, or a new Iron Maiden T-shirt or whatever. That’s what the light today reminded me of…one time I was walking from the school, up the hill toward NM. I didn’t dare hitchhike because if I’d got picked up (cops did watch for high school kids), I would’ve had to explain it to Dad, and even if I didn’t, there was always the chance that someone he knew would pick me up. If you’re on a sidewalk, drivers don’t pay much attention, so I felt pretty safe. I did make a little detour when I went by the driveway of Co-Op, since that’s where Dad worked, but for the most part, I was again, just another face and nobody bothered me.

It was cloudy and grey that day, and trying very hard to rain. Not cold, but chilly and damp, and as I crested the hill, I saw the power lines against the grey sky, and the very top of the Zellers mall building, and I got the strangest feeling. I felt like everything wasn’t real; like the whole thing was an illusion, created to distract me and keep me from remembering something that was critically important, and that I had once known, but forgot. As I got closer and could see the whole building and the people in the parking lot, the feeling went away, and I still don’t know what the important thing was, or if it ever even existed, but when the sky is grey and the light is right, that feeling returns, and again, I just can’t remember. I wonder whether I’ll have an epiphany before I die? Maybe, maybe not.