The Police and 7th Ave.

Last night, Sunday, I left the Tea Lounge at about 12:30 am.

Not having had a sufficient dinner -- the leftover 10 pieces of rigatoni I consider to be insufficient -- I went to the 24-hour diner down the street and bought some donuts. Dessert.

I then went down to begin what was certain to be a long wait for the F train. The 7th Ave. stop is quite popular, and numerous people are always getting on and off the train. At this time of the day, though, the subways are sparse, save for a few late-nighters who don't consider Monday morning to be as terrible as it is.

I took my spot at the end of the platform against one of the mustard-yellow-painted iron pillars that line the length of the platform, each about 20 feet apart. The Manhattan-bound side is visible, with its identical mustard-yellow-painted iron pillars and back-to-back staircases at equal intervals from one another.

It was cold and I wasn't moving, accept to shovel the cinnamon roll in my mouth piece by piece. Although there were other late-ish nighters on other parts of the subway platform, I was pretty much alone on my end. I like it that way. It would have been better had I had music with me, but that's another story for another night.

I looked across to the other side and noticed a police officer descending the staircase. He was looking at me from his side the entire time down. I watched him the best I could without turning my head. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Of what, I'm not sure. But nevertheless, I didn't turn my head. At some point, I had to rely on my peripheral vision, which allowed me to see that he kept his head turned toward me while he walked ahead.He then stopped on his equally sparse end of the platform and turned his body toward me. And he stared. I finally did turn my head to confirm this, believing that, perhaps, my peripherals weren't in total working order. I was also confused as to why he could possibly be looking at me. So I looked down. Maybe I was doing something out of the ordinary. Like flipping him off. Or jumping up and down and shouting expletives to no one in particular.

But nope, I was doing nothing of the sort. I was just standing there with my Foucault and notebook in one hand and my bag of donuts in the other. He maintained his position for a couple of minutes and then began walking slowly to the other end of his platform. Maybe he wanted a donut. I have a friend who told me pretty much that I was theoretically ill-prepared to write my thesis.

She insinuated that I was doing my degree wrong, because I didn't have three or four books she did. Even though I have seven or eight of my own. She is a friend, and a good one, and I decided to ignore it. Especially because I have pages due on Wednesday, of which I've written seven.

I'll fill them out some more tomorrow with the theory that I'm evidently ill-prepared with. We'll see what happens next week when I'm to face the 11 people who will have taken my pages home and marked them up for critique. I started in the middle of the thesis. And in the middle of the film. I analyzed the scenes surrounding and the performances of "Angry Inch" and "Wig in a Box." I'm enjoying it.

I could have done without the pressure of the Wednesday deadline, but it did get me writing, which I knew it would. Which is why my hand shot up in the air. I imagine I'll be done with the Hedwig bit in two weeks. And since I've decided to abandon my analysis of Orlando, I feel I can really dive into the pit.

It's hard for me as a writer (I think that may be the first time I've publicly copped to the title) to turn something in that I know is nowhere near polished. I'm just trying to get my thoughts at as clearly as possible. I'm making claims, of course, but there is still much more work I will need to do as I go through this process.

Hence, the "process." I'm looking forward to the final product. I called in sick today. I've been sick now for eight days. My ear and throat are hurting now. I've been on a regimen of Aleve, Advil Cold and Sinus, Vicks cough drops, water and, because I slept only four excruciating cough-filled hours last night, Nyquil. I visited a lot of places in my head during the past few days. Many times I have been faced with my natural reaction to recoil. And I've tried not to. But I think I'm going that way again. It may last a day. Or it may go into another week. I don't want to get depressed. So I'll just try to sublimate. If only I knew how. One way is this thesis. Another way is to change around the memoir essay I wrote last semester into something I can turn into a readable article to answer the topic "Dreaming of America" for the GF's literary magazine. I'm almost done. It, also, is due Wednesday.