Surreal - Scene

In a dream of a similitude...

I was writing a paper for my class, and scribbled on the first draft, starting on the second. The deck was full of picnic tables and students. I saw an approachable fellow from another class and asked him if he minded proof reading my ideas. He agreed and I offered him both my drafts so he could see the clearer picture of my ideas and message. He deferred and chose to read the first with my notes. "It is messy, so bear that in mind when correcting my mistakes." I said.

I retreated to another table with friends. I dislike being present when my work is read, it makes me squeamish. The fellow plays with the pages, skim reading how many pages he will have to review, then flips back to the beginning. As he read, he made notes on a notebook. He grunts, groans, and chuckles, sometimes even snorts. Soon, he begins commenting out loud. "How is this idea supported? You would need to cite another who believes this. What an example here! I don't know how this pertains to the thesis. This idea is faulty.". He begins jotting notes that appear to construct a counter argument to my points. During one of my illustrations, he laughs out loud and starts narrating a first hand account that I never dreamed of doing, let alone writing in a school paper. The tale is a mock parallel of my perceived writing style and triviality of my points.

"So, I was going dancing the other night with my friends. Came across a place just down the way of Porphyria Alley and Night street. An Irish band kept time for a group of dancers, who made the floor rumble with the rhythm of their feet. My friends seemed to enjoy the atmosphere of the gathered revelers, while my focus was on the source of their merriment.
The lead singer treated the microphone like a friend who jilted him inexplicably last week, spitting passionate and colorful verses in a brogue that shifted the lyrical tones from old wounds to toughened leather love. Their lady drummer spun a rhythmic landscape from her fingers - in a moment they fluttered feather-soft before bringing an inner thrumming felt subsonically.
The violinist played with such controlled energy that it was a paradoxical precision of melodic strain and yearning. I was trapped between wishing the band to take a break so I could speak to them and the inner desire that they never stopped playing.
I don't recall the circumstances, but one of the girls in our group must have brought me out to the dance floor. It was there that I learned empirically the nuances of the reel, as a participant in its creation. Until then, I had thought myself a passive observer. Now, I have the revelation that no one can be passive - we all are a portion of some greater product. As I lifted my eyes up, the bagpipes were -".

The fellow finished his editing and walked over to my table, handing me my essay back. "It is my first draft of this response, so take it with a gram of molasses, a 'grain of salt' has lost its flavor to us all." Then he smiled and walked back to his own studies.