Off-the-cuff decisions are rarely my forte. I don't like to be put on the spot, but years of improv have trained me well for these situations: What to say, how to act, and when to know when I'm beat are all key things to remember when the spotlight drops center stage.
There I was, fresh out of my Anthropology class. It was a standard day in class; she hated men, as always. My fault. All mine. I'm the reason that women couldn't vote until 1920. Anyway, I walk into the Harris Art Gallery, which I'm sure very few people have ever heard of. With each step on the barren tiles of the room I hear a new verse from Noor and Cassie about their newest muse: Jon Smiff. I sit down and ponder what I'll be writing as my feature story for News Reporting, but before I can truly ponder, I'm alerted to the fact that I will soon be giving an impromptu poetry reading about something that I haven't yet written.
Always fun! Who doesn't love writing poetry in the span of four minutes to present in front of others? I sat there with a vague idea of what my audience would like; something vague and mysterious. Perfect for a short read. I used possibly the most mysterious topic that I'm familiar with; dreams. For years I've had some of the strangest dreams. Ranging from me selling people's noses to meeting and conversations with the devil himself. I don't think anybody knew what was going on while I read it, but that's fine. That's sort of what I was going for.
Toodles.
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