Kanelol
Smash Lord
Wrote a rough draft of this, turned it in, and the teacher was like: Wahhh I don't understand WAHHH REWRITE IT.
So I rewrote it, tried to give a little more context. Help?
-I am in here. I am seated, posture consciously congruent to the hard wood chair, the anterior sides of my forearms resting gently on the massive stained oak conference table in front of me.
A duo of faces arrayed above paisley and beige kekulean half and full-windsor knots, respectively, are arranged across the table from me, one’s mouth running unendingly.
“-alled this meeting today to discuss a few concerns my colleague and I have with the continuation of Kane’s inappropriate behavio-“
The frizzy-haired form of my mother is residing in my left periphery, and without turning my head I can easily see the clench of her jaw making tendons stand out in her face and neck.
“-oday, as it stands, in light of recent events, I feel, and I’m relatively confident I’m not alone on this, that for Kane to continue attending WHS is not only a liability but quite possibly a danger to other stud-“
Towering with droopy shoulders and a shining bald spot on my port side is the mute, impassive man that people have told me is my father.
An interjection from the clearly beta-communicator that had been mostly silent at the flank of his bold chatterbox:
“-s’just a matter of respect, and gratitude, y’know, of which I’ve seen none from Kane since the beginning of this year, and several disciplinary run-ins prior to this specific incident indicate to me tha-“
The chronological chain of cause-and-effect that brought me to this exact moment isn’t remembered to me as a linear timeline, but more as a simultaneous series of internal states that are incessantly sprung to the forefront of attention in a way strikingly similar to the phenomena of some childhood memories only being evoked by particular olfactory and aural combinations.
The story (or ‘incident’), in-of-itself, is pretty boring. Truthfully, if I attempted to relay it to you, I would most likely misrecall the events, order, and possibly even the individuals involved and their roles in the debacle.
“-gret to inform you that we have no other choice but to enact a 180 day out of school policy for the remainder of Kane’s sophomoric year, furthermore, should he wish to attend WHS next year, or any year in the future, there would be a massive list of prerequisites and make-up work, which would only be required to indicate to me that there has indeed been a genuine change of heart and spirit in young Kane here, a maturing that I hope these unfortunate events will help bring about, additionally, the one and only wa-“ the initial speaker drones on, his voice like some kind of supposedly unrippable fabric being ripped over and over again.
This is supposed to be really, really important. I rest, barely registering sensory input. I know the decisions have already been made. Scores settled. Prejudices sated. I know this grotesque carnival of administrative motion-going-throughing is exactly that: a formality.
This concept presents itself fairly forcefully to me, and the pit of abstraction it (the concept, that is) not ungently drops me into feels soft, warm, inviting. Here I have found a catatonic stasis, a divorce from reality.
But unto the specific outcomes of this meeting, I remain unconcerned. The predetermined path of expulsion has already been chosen, the route already trod.
I am in here no longer. The subcutaneous belief that I am, in essence, different from everyone else fades in the lurid light of bureaucracy radiating from the faceless figure across from me.
And yet, it didn’t strike me exactly what had transpired that day until several months later. I was broken, in that fluorescent tomb. Ostracized from the most widely accepting system in the world. Helpless. But in the legitimately wee hours of night, when all other schoolchildren were snuggled up in their beds in preparation of the coming esurient Tuesday, I found myself supinated on top of a small hill, in a windswept field, under a parabolic dome glittering with neon fractals, my force of will and autonomy and retrograde indignation floating aloft like so much vapor in the atmosphere.-
So I rewrote it, tried to give a little more context. Help?
-I am in here. I am seated, posture consciously congruent to the hard wood chair, the anterior sides of my forearms resting gently on the massive stained oak conference table in front of me.
A duo of faces arrayed above paisley and beige kekulean half and full-windsor knots, respectively, are arranged across the table from me, one’s mouth running unendingly.
“-alled this meeting today to discuss a few concerns my colleague and I have with the continuation of Kane’s inappropriate behavio-“
The frizzy-haired form of my mother is residing in my left periphery, and without turning my head I can easily see the clench of her jaw making tendons stand out in her face and neck.
“-oday, as it stands, in light of recent events, I feel, and I’m relatively confident I’m not alone on this, that for Kane to continue attending WHS is not only a liability but quite possibly a danger to other stud-“
Towering with droopy shoulders and a shining bald spot on my port side is the mute, impassive man that people have told me is my father.
An interjection from the clearly beta-communicator that had been mostly silent at the flank of his bold chatterbox:
“-s’just a matter of respect, and gratitude, y’know, of which I’ve seen none from Kane since the beginning of this year, and several disciplinary run-ins prior to this specific incident indicate to me tha-“
The chronological chain of cause-and-effect that brought me to this exact moment isn’t remembered to me as a linear timeline, but more as a simultaneous series of internal states that are incessantly sprung to the forefront of attention in a way strikingly similar to the phenomena of some childhood memories only being evoked by particular olfactory and aural combinations.
The story (or ‘incident’), in-of-itself, is pretty boring. Truthfully, if I attempted to relay it to you, I would most likely misrecall the events, order, and possibly even the individuals involved and their roles in the debacle.
“-gret to inform you that we have no other choice but to enact a 180 day out of school policy for the remainder of Kane’s sophomoric year, furthermore, should he wish to attend WHS next year, or any year in the future, there would be a massive list of prerequisites and make-up work, which would only be required to indicate to me that there has indeed been a genuine change of heart and spirit in young Kane here, a maturing that I hope these unfortunate events will help bring about, additionally, the one and only wa-“ the initial speaker drones on, his voice like some kind of supposedly unrippable fabric being ripped over and over again.
This is supposed to be really, really important. I rest, barely registering sensory input. I know the decisions have already been made. Scores settled. Prejudices sated. I know this grotesque carnival of administrative motion-going-throughing is exactly that: a formality.
This concept presents itself fairly forcefully to me, and the pit of abstraction it (the concept, that is) not ungently drops me into feels soft, warm, inviting. Here I have found a catatonic stasis, a divorce from reality.
But unto the specific outcomes of this meeting, I remain unconcerned. The predetermined path of expulsion has already been chosen, the route already trod.
I am in here no longer. The subcutaneous belief that I am, in essence, different from everyone else fades in the lurid light of bureaucracy radiating from the faceless figure across from me.
And yet, it didn’t strike me exactly what had transpired that day until several months later. I was broken, in that fluorescent tomb. Ostracized from the most widely accepting system in the world. Helpless. But in the legitimately wee hours of night, when all other schoolchildren were snuggled up in their beds in preparation of the coming esurient Tuesday, I found myself supinated on top of a small hill, in a windswept field, under a parabolic dome glittering with neon fractals, my force of will and autonomy and retrograde indignation floating aloft like so much vapor in the atmosphere.-