English majors and minors

The world appears pleasantly discordant today. Tensions, misfits, and paradoxical whims whistle through my thoughts like a good emo song as I walk down the street to Uni. I've one paper left today and quite a lot of reading before Thursday, and I'm coming to terms with a few disappointments rooted in the academy. First, classes aren't all-inclusive or transcendental. Second, if I could express the wonder of a work or the greatness of a text, in a paper or in class, would it be so great? So I'm thinking, the thing I want to engage with, the experience of a film or a book, is not to be learned in graduate school.  I've a feeling that everyone who has been to graduate school would read this and say, 'Of course! What did you expect?' 

Yesterday I was walking out of the English library when a man of middle-height, a bald head wearing a sweater (jumper) passed out of his office in front of me. He was singing softly and he carried with him a great deal of preoccupied peacefulness. I instantly longed to be that type of professor, that type of English major. And I knew that man couldn't be a postcolonialist! 

I meet with my advisor for the first official time this Thursday. I haven't a clue what kind of outline I will bring to him. I haven't a clue what I want to write about the films of Barry Barclay and Zacharias Kunuk. Right now, I only know I want to watch them with a bowl of buttered popcorn and an electric blanket, with friends and my sisters. 

The men to my left right now keep repeating the word 'hobbit' in their heavy Yorkshire accents. Some LOTR is in my future this Christmas.