poly_chromatic | ║ eighty-ninth stanza ║ action

[The recent events in the City - the unusual pattern of the curses, the odd snippets from the deities, the general feeling of elevated unease among the population - are certainly taking their toll on Todd. The City is his home, as far as he's concerned, and he's worried. There have been incidents before, times that he was terrified that it would all crumble away and he'd find himself tossed out of it. Best case, back in his world where Neil's dead, Nuwanda's expelled, and he's certain to face some as-yet-unknown form of discipline. Worst case? Who knows what else could lay beyond the barriers of the City.

So he deals as a poet deals; he writes. He sits on the steps outside the library, after he's done with his shift, and he takes out his notebook and he writes. He hunches over it, so passerby won't glimpse the words, but his hand moves furiously. Writing, re-writing, scratching. The catharsis of getting something out on the paper, of spilling his thoughts and then refining them, sculpting them from an expulsion of primal emotion into something more cohesive, is precisely what he needs at this moment.]

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[Jimmy likes the library. He tends to go there on his days off, gets immersed in the books, loses track of time. People might not expect it of him, but he enjoys reading. In fact, he enjoys it so much that he has a book in one hand as he leaves the library, meaning he doesn't see Todd as he's walking out. Meaning he nearly trips over him.]

Oh, shit! Sorry.

[Todd is jolted, of course, but he collects himself, and clutches his notebook close to his chest to keep it from tumbling down.]

Oh-- no, no, it's all right, sorry, I, um... I should probably find somewhere else to sit.

Sorry.

No, you're fine, I was just...

[He gestures to the book sheepishly.]

Readin' this. Distracted.

[When he looks up, Todd just so happens to notice that you're the guy who looks exactly like his roommate. The one he's not dating, that is.

Forgive him the slight delay of awkwardness that causes, before he shakes his head and nods toward his own notebook.]

Yeah-- I was, too.

It's, um-- it's okay, though.

You writin' somethin'?

[He does look curious, shifting the book of collected TS Eliot poem from one to the other.]

Uh-- yeah, I am. Sort of.

[He takes note of the book - and he'd definitely rather talk about that than his own poetry, so he arches his brows and nods towards the book.]

TS Eliot?

[He looks down at the book and nods.]

Uh, yeah. You ever read him?

Yeah. He's, um... actually, he's one of my favorites.

No shit? He's one of mine, too. What's your favorite poem by him?

Really?

[Todd smiles at that - hey, talking about poetry is always good.]

It's... sort of hard to pick one, actually. Maybe The Waste Land. How about you, what's yours?

Y'know, I really like The Waste Land, but I gotta say, I got a thing for that one -- what's it called? The Prufrock one.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

[He gives a small nod.]

Yeah, I like that one, too. I mean, it's... kind of difficult to pick, with something like poetry, each poem is so different that the reasons I like them are almost imcomparable.

Yeah, that's for sure.

[A pause.]

You ever write your own? I try, but y'know, it ain't the same. Not like I'd be like Eliot, but...

Um... yeah. I mean, I try to. Not to be like anyone specific, just.

[This he has much less confidence talking about.]

It sort of helps, to get things out sometimes.

Yeah, it does. I mean, it ain't likely anyone's gonna read it, but it's helpful.

Yeah... whether or not anyone else reads it, really, that's... kind of besides the point. A teacher I had, he told us-- well, he said we write, that we create at all, because we need to. That it's why humans go on living, to find a way to convey the passion we all have...

[There's the slightest smile along with it, and then he seems to have just realized--]

Oh, um. I'm Todd, by the way.

I never had a teacher say anythin' that smart. Lucky you.

[He grins at Todd.]

I'm Jimmy. Nice to meet you.

Neither did I-- I mean, not until then, anyway. He was sort of... unusual, as far as teachers go.

[And he gets a smile back.]

It's nice to meet you, too.

[PS You totally look just like one of my friends.]

Probably woulda stayed in college a lot longer if I'd've had a teacher say somethin' smart for once.

This was in high school, I... never actually got to college. Wound up here first. I was lucky, though -- I mean, we all were, to be in his class. Everything he taught us was all about thinking for ourselves, doing something that mattered, contributing something meaningful to the world.

And... I guess I should be more surprised that you didn't have any teachers like that in college, but... I'm not. Not really.

Yeah, but you seem like the kinda guy that woulda stayed in college if you'd've had the chance, y'know? I don't think I woulda made it.

[He shrugs.]

I had some smart professors, but... nobody really inspirational, or anythin'.

[And he got in a fistfight with one of them. But he won't mention that.]

Well... I wouldn't really have had a choice but to finish it if I'd stayed at home that long.

[There's a little smile there.]

I think inspiration is more than most teachers or professors aim for. What were you going to school for?

Well, I think my... uh...

[An awkward scratch of his head.]

The guy who paid for my college woulda wanted me to go for business, I think. I wanted to go for literature.

That... actually sounds a lot like what would have probably happened to me, too.

Did you end up picking one, or did you leave first?

Nah, never ended up gettin' the chance. I joined the army.

║ eighty-ninth stanza ║ action

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