30 March 2006
bets/bombs
Once, 3 or 4 years ago, I bet my dad 1 million ($US) that ameliorate means to blow up--to wipe off the face of the map, if you will.
He was right, of course. (lesson: believe your father when he says that he never bets unless he's absolutely sure). Ameliorate means to make better or more tolerable. This was the last time I made a bet with Pops. My gambling debt had to hit 8 million ($US) before I learned the lesson he was trying to teach me--it's better to reach for the dictionary than your wallet
This morning on the radio someone said "Yes, well we are trying to ameliorate the situation in Iraq."
Maybe there's some sort of compromise in that word -- a geographical nuance: "We are trying to make the situation better in Iraq by blowing it up."
(Note: M #1 is up to 23 million ($US) while M#2, the only one of us kids who has any of my grandfather's business sense, is still her own woman, free and clear)
He was right, of course. (lesson: believe your father when he says that he never bets unless he's absolutely sure). Ameliorate means to make better or more tolerable. This was the last time I made a bet with Pops. My gambling debt had to hit 8 million ($US) before I learned the lesson he was trying to teach me--it's better to reach for the dictionary than your wallet
This morning on the radio someone said "Yes, well we are trying to ameliorate the situation in Iraq."
Maybe there's some sort of compromise in that word -- a geographical nuance: "We are trying to make the situation better in Iraq by blowing it up."
(Note: M #1 is up to 23 million ($US) while M#2, the only one of us kids who has any of my grandfather's business sense, is still her own woman, free and clear)
29 March 2006
redeeming love has been my theme and shall be till i die
Here's a poem for today. It seems appropriate.
Can't you see?--it's not just about them, or only about romantic love. It's about all of us. About the miracle that holds our hearts together and keeps us from being alone in a crowded world.
For Jason & Erin
I have searched high & low for the perfect poem
to mark the wonder of today.
That in a world where moth & rust destroy
and we forget our neighbor's name --
this tall, fine boy, all heart and long long limbs
found this golden girl who moves through the
days with the lilac poise of a summer night.
Oh, there are plenty of poems spilling over with
impassioned fervor -- Let me count the ways,
my soul takes flight at your touch, and so on.
But they all lack the composed conviction of
seven swans, the flinty sweet of iron mixed with wine.
Then there are the poems full of weary admonisions;
the echo of wailing babies;
the order of operations for turning two into one,
multiplying and then staving off division and undoing.
It is true: Love can tear us apart.
There are things we know and
things we should not hope to know.
His handwriting on the paper could destroy you
but her voice in from the garden will raise your
heart from the dust.
Somewhere, I'd like to think, the perfect poem exists.
The poem to draw this pool of joy from our hearts and
play it into words strong enough to hold the hope
of this marriage.
Perhaps this poem sits in a book, high on a shelf
in a fire-lit room, where an old old man with an
overgrown heart takes the hand of his golden wife
and together, bow their heads, thanking the Creator
of the Universe for the privellege of witnessing one
another's life and the joy of sharing the elegance
of ordinary days.
Can't you see?--it's not just about them, or only about romantic love. It's about all of us. About the miracle that holds our hearts together and keeps us from being alone in a crowded world.
For Jason & Erin
I have searched high & low for the perfect poem
to mark the wonder of today.
That in a world where moth & rust destroy
and we forget our neighbor's name --
this tall, fine boy, all heart and long long limbs
found this golden girl who moves through the
days with the lilac poise of a summer night.
Oh, there are plenty of poems spilling over with
impassioned fervor -- Let me count the ways,
my soul takes flight at your touch, and so on.
But they all lack the composed conviction of
seven swans, the flinty sweet of iron mixed with wine.
Then there are the poems full of weary admonisions;
the echo of wailing babies;
the order of operations for turning two into one,
multiplying and then staving off division and undoing.
It is true: Love can tear us apart.
There are things we know and
things we should not hope to know.
His handwriting on the paper could destroy you
but her voice in from the garden will raise your
heart from the dust.
Somewhere, I'd like to think, the perfect poem exists.
The poem to draw this pool of joy from our hearts and
play it into words strong enough to hold the hope
of this marriage.
Perhaps this poem sits in a book, high on a shelf
in a fire-lit room, where an old old man with an
overgrown heart takes the hand of his golden wife
and together, bow their heads, thanking the Creator
of the Universe for the privellege of witnessing one
another's life and the joy of sharing the elegance
of ordinary days.
Better 1/2
In the past Laura, has convinced me to:
-work for the school newspaper
-take medicine for ADHD
-manage a campaign for state representative
-keep my mouth closed.
and I have talked her into:
-switching her major from communications
-reading The Glass Lake
-asking Alec Frazier (2nd baseman) to the senior dance
-keeping her mouth closed.
I have:
written politics papers, cover letters, emails to boys, for her.
taken her to buy Red Bull at 3:00 am the night before finals.
carried her pack when we were camping in the rain in New Hampshire and she was on crutches.
She has:
sketched me a picture of a tree on a hillside.
sent a vase full of the orangest gerber daisies.
come every time I've needed her.
Together we have:
-been rear-ened on the NJ turnpike 5 times
-crashed many, many parties
-shopped for dresses
-watched every episode of Friends.
At night, on the phone, we talk about our mothers, recipes, the Holy Spirit, boys/men.
I don't know how it sneaked up on me or when it took root; this love I wouldn't want to live without.
-work for the school newspaper
-take medicine for ADHD
-manage a campaign for state representative
-keep my mouth closed.
and I have talked her into:
-switching her major from communications
-reading The Glass Lake
-asking Alec Frazier (2nd baseman) to the senior dance
-keeping her mouth closed.
I have:
written politics papers, cover letters, emails to boys, for her.
taken her to buy Red Bull at 3:00 am the night before finals.
carried her pack when we were camping in the rain in New Hampshire and she was on crutches.
She has:
sketched me a picture of a tree on a hillside.
sent a vase full of the orangest gerber daisies.
come every time I've needed her.
Together we have:
-been rear-ened on the NJ turnpike 5 times
-crashed many, many parties
-shopped for dresses
-watched every episode of Friends.
At night, on the phone, we talk about our mothers, recipes, the Holy Spirit, boys/men.
I don't know how it sneaked up on me or when it took root; this love I wouldn't want to live without.
28 March 2006
your comments and suggestions are welcome
Sometimes when I go into gas stations or fast food joints and the floor is sticky with spilled coke & the people behind the counter look worn, tired, surly--I am overcome with the urge to roll up my sleeves, grab a mop & bucket, and scrub. Behind the front register, my apron would be clean, my smile genuine, as I hand you your change, the bag of food with your complete order. At the end of the shift, after all the coffee pots are rinsed out and the counters wiped down, I disappear, leaving an establishment resting on the the 4 pillars of order, cleanliness, good cheer, and customer satisfaction.
Somehow I need to harness this impulse toward temporary, part time work and turn it into a career that doesn't leave me smelling like french fry grease or gasoline and supplementing my paycheck with welfare...
Somehow I need to harness this impulse toward temporary, part time work and turn it into a career that doesn't leave me smelling like french fry grease or gasoline and supplementing my paycheck with welfare...
what?
A to me, as we drive home from his psychiatrist appointment last night: I'm not worried about myself. I know I'll be fine. It's you that I'm really worried about. I mean, look at you. Where will you be in 5 years? Do you think you'll even own a house by then?
PL to me in 5th period: Sugar, go on! You look like Kanye West dressed like that.
PL to me in 5th period: Sugar, go on! You look like Kanye West dressed like that.
27 March 2006
want ad
Have decided it's time to trade current life from pages of "Teaching for Dummies" and Journal of Bulgarian Psychiatry for life with cool gloss & sheen of Banana Republic ad campaign.
You wear this:
and I will wear this.
It'll be grand. Trust me.
You wear this:
and I will wear this.
It'll be grand. Trust me.
things I can't seem to get enough of these days:
- hommus, cucumbers & cheese (together or apart)
- the following songs, rotated throughout the day:
These Words by Natasha Bedingfield (so cheeky)
Denial Twist by The White Stripes (so hot)
Sodom, South Georgia by Iron & Wine (so lovely)
- paper clips, hair pins, rubber bands (the implements that hold my material life together)
- Burt's Bees original chapstick (too much kissing)
- Psalm 17:5-8
- the following songs, rotated throughout the day:
These Words by Natasha Bedingfield (so cheeky)
Denial Twist by The White Stripes (so hot)
Sodom, South Georgia by Iron & Wine (so lovely)
- paper clips, hair pins, rubber bands (the implements that hold my material life together)
- Burt's Bees original chapstick (too much kissing)
- Psalm 17:5-8
book of love
Like a stack of new &
favorite books on the
bedside shelf-- you sit at the
corner table--waiting for me.
I am late. Your tie, green and
orange against the darker
green of your shirt, is already loosened.
The beer before you-- sweating
in the thick heat of this bar
that could be anywhere.
In the next moments we will trade
the requisite adjectives
before moving on
to the verbs of the day, reporting on
objects and proper nouns we
hold in common.
The premise of our story:
we are human--
and the inevitable conclusion:
our brittle love, laced with
self-reference, is bound
inexorably to doubt.
Look! the page filled with I's.
A birthday sweater for you
in my favorite color.
Even so: in the next moments
we find our pacing, the unique syntax
of our separate voices
woven through with
the rhythm of us. In the
telling and re-telling we hear
those elements we can't supply.
We feel their gracious
weight and by them we
enter again a world we could not
have imagined for ourselves.
favorite books on the
bedside shelf-- you sit at the
corner table--waiting for me.
I am late. Your tie, green and
orange against the darker
green of your shirt, is already loosened.
The beer before you-- sweating
in the thick heat of this bar
that could be anywhere.
In the next moments we will trade
the requisite adjectives
before moving on
to the verbs of the day, reporting on
objects and proper nouns we
hold in common.
The premise of our story:
we are human--
and the inevitable conclusion:
our brittle love, laced with
self-reference, is bound
inexorably to doubt.
Look! the page filled with I's.
A birthday sweater for you
in my favorite color.
Even so: in the next moments
we find our pacing, the unique syntax
of our separate voices
woven through with
the rhythm of us. In the
telling and re-telling we hear
those elements we can't supply.
We feel their gracious
weight and by them we
enter again a world we could not
have imagined for ourselves.
26 March 2006
Dreams about Teeth
Lately I've been sleeping the wan, creaky sleep of an old woman--as though I'm one of those ancient characters in Southern fiction, rocking through the twilight, gauzy memories floating through my half-conscious brain of my barefoot childhood and snakes; the jilt that left me living with my spinster sister in this yellow house after daddy died.
When REM and I have met up in the last weeks, more often than not, the union produces sleep more troubling than restful. The other night I had the most horrifying nightmare since childhood. In it, a friend (a real friend, a trusted friend--a friend I know well and who knows me, too) chased me through the woods, pinned me on the forest floor and then bashed the teeth out of my mouth with a hammer. The dream was so real and terrifying that I woke up crying, searching my pillow for blood and lost molars.
I dream about teeth frequently. I don't know why. Once, when I told Laura about it she said Well, yeah... it makes total sense. You're always talking about teeth, too. About teeth and smiles and mouths and lipstick. Face it: You're a freak. I didn't believe her at the time, but now I see she's right. There are the ridiculous poems about my last boyfriend, how I loved him for his teeth and the way that his left handed formed the letter A on the page. Once I wrote a short story that began with "My father's singular goal in life was to marry a girl with good teeth." The last line was even worse.
I don't like this about myself--that I have some sort of subconscious(?) obsession in the first place is bad enough. But that it should be about teeth, of all things. How weird. How Freudian and gross.
When REM and I have met up in the last weeks, more often than not, the union produces sleep more troubling than restful. The other night I had the most horrifying nightmare since childhood. In it, a friend (a real friend, a trusted friend--a friend I know well and who knows me, too) chased me through the woods, pinned me on the forest floor and then bashed the teeth out of my mouth with a hammer. The dream was so real and terrifying that I woke up crying, searching my pillow for blood and lost molars.
I dream about teeth frequently. I don't know why. Once, when I told Laura about it she said Well, yeah... it makes total sense. You're always talking about teeth, too. About teeth and smiles and mouths and lipstick. Face it: You're a freak. I didn't believe her at the time, but now I see she's right. There are the ridiculous poems about my last boyfriend, how I loved him for his teeth and the way that his left handed formed the letter A on the page. Once I wrote a short story that began with "My father's singular goal in life was to marry a girl with good teeth." The last line was even worse.
I don't like this about myself--that I have some sort of subconscious(?) obsession in the first place is bad enough. But that it should be about teeth, of all things. How weird. How Freudian and gross.
24 March 2006
always/never
I always regret buying Vanity Fair.
I routinely have trouble reading maps and telling my right from my left.
I frequently eat ice cream out of a coffee mug instead of a bowl.
I seldom forget birthdays.
I rarely feel comfortably talking on the phone to anyone other than close friends and family.
I never drink milk.
I routinely have trouble reading maps and telling my right from my left.
I frequently eat ice cream out of a coffee mug instead of a bowl.
I seldom forget birthdays.
I rarely feel comfortably talking on the phone to anyone other than close friends and family.
I never drink milk.
any old life
(This is a true story, sort of):
She likes his name--Byron. After the poet, of course; she had paid some attention at West Roxbury Latin and Grammar. His easy gracious manner set him apart from the young men who brought her their smudged forms to file, all of them so nervous, their hands so clammy. He held his hat in his hand in a way that suited her. Once he had even winked.
Thankfully, that morning she had pinched Edith's yellow silk blouse (even though Edith would pinch her when she saw) and was feeling presentable enough with her lipstick in place, her grown- up shoes, the spring light filtering in from the window behind her, warming the top of her head.
He walks in, hat in hand, and comes right up to her desk. Thank you Anne, for all your help these past weeks. I sure wouldn't have been able to keep all this paperwork straight without you.
All in a day's work, Byron. Congratulations on your fellowship. I bet your family is proud. Imagine! Byron Henry going all the way to Europe. Smile! she tells herself. Chin down, eyes up. Don't be such a perfect dope, she can almost hear Edith's coaching.
His grin is wry and warm in return as he pulls something out of his hat. Say Anne, I've got two tickets to the College Symphony tonight. It's my last night in town and I sure would like it if you came with me.
Later that night, well into the second movement he finally takes her hand. Afterwards, they walk across the Yard, through the Square and the students milling about, to his graduate club on Brattle Street. He orders gin for both of them. He laughs his easy laugh when she tells him stories about some of the professors and life with the girls in her boarding house. He tells her about architecture and the hold it has over him. Columns. Arches. Space. Numbers and angles, Anne! It's art and science intersecting with society! She forgets to remember to keep her chin down, eyes up. She can't stop smiling, dopey or not.
It's a shame I'm leaving tomorrow. We hit it off, I think. First thing, when I arrive in London, I'm looking for a motorbike. I could find one with a side-car he says slowly. She can't think of how to respond, so she laughs what she hopes is a tinkling, trilling laugh, and asks for another drink.
One week later, over tuna-melts at the Green Street Cafe with Edith, Anne replays this conversation again (for the millionth time really) in her head. While Edith goes on about this and that, Anne hears for the first time the question in Byron's statement. She looks up, over Edith's shoulder, and sees herself in a helmet, lipstick in place, the Thames, the Seine, the Rhone, one of those Rivers (she didn't pay that much attention in school) flowing along below--catching the dust that the motorbike kicks up in their wake.
Her mother and father come to the pier to see her off, to help her with her trunk. In her new handbag (a gift from Edith): a 4th class ticket, and phone number, lifted from one of the many forms in all those files that she will leave behind. Her mother doesn't say anything, only looks at her. Come on Mama. A girl's got to have an imagination or she'll end up with any old life.
(for A.H. and H.M.)
She likes his name--Byron. After the poet, of course; she had paid some attention at West Roxbury Latin and Grammar. His easy gracious manner set him apart from the young men who brought her their smudged forms to file, all of them so nervous, their hands so clammy. He held his hat in his hand in a way that suited her. Once he had even winked.
Thankfully, that morning she had pinched Edith's yellow silk blouse (even though Edith would pinch her when she saw) and was feeling presentable enough with her lipstick in place, her grown- up shoes, the spring light filtering in from the window behind her, warming the top of her head.
He walks in, hat in hand, and comes right up to her desk. Thank you Anne, for all your help these past weeks. I sure wouldn't have been able to keep all this paperwork straight without you.
All in a day's work, Byron. Congratulations on your fellowship. I bet your family is proud. Imagine! Byron Henry going all the way to Europe. Smile! she tells herself. Chin down, eyes up. Don't be such a perfect dope, she can almost hear Edith's coaching.
His grin is wry and warm in return as he pulls something out of his hat. Say Anne, I've got two tickets to the College Symphony tonight. It's my last night in town and I sure would like it if you came with me.
Later that night, well into the second movement he finally takes her hand. Afterwards, they walk across the Yard, through the Square and the students milling about, to his graduate club on Brattle Street. He orders gin for both of them. He laughs his easy laugh when she tells him stories about some of the professors and life with the girls in her boarding house. He tells her about architecture and the hold it has over him. Columns. Arches. Space. Numbers and angles, Anne! It's art and science intersecting with society! She forgets to remember to keep her chin down, eyes up. She can't stop smiling, dopey or not.
It's a shame I'm leaving tomorrow. We hit it off, I think. First thing, when I arrive in London, I'm looking for a motorbike. I could find one with a side-car he says slowly. She can't think of how to respond, so she laughs what she hopes is a tinkling, trilling laugh, and asks for another drink.
One week later, over tuna-melts at the Green Street Cafe with Edith, Anne replays this conversation again (for the millionth time really) in her head. While Edith goes on about this and that, Anne hears for the first time the question in Byron's statement. She looks up, over Edith's shoulder, and sees herself in a helmet, lipstick in place, the Thames, the Seine, the Rhone, one of those Rivers (she didn't pay that much attention in school) flowing along below--catching the dust that the motorbike kicks up in their wake.
Her mother and father come to the pier to see her off, to help her with her trunk. In her new handbag (a gift from Edith): a 4th class ticket, and phone number, lifted from one of the many forms in all those files that she will leave behind. Her mother doesn't say anything, only looks at her. Come on Mama. A girl's got to have an imagination or she'll end up with any old life.
(for A.H. and H.M.)
Little Rat
Last night Little Rat said How come you didn't name me Tyson?
Tyson? You've got to be kidding me. Don't you like your name?
It's okay, I guess.
It's a strong name, a Bible name.
Then you should've just named me Goliath instead.
He has gotten so tall, so composed and engaging. His skin still has the same dry brown scent, though, as when he first came to us. He used to play violent games with his fingers and draw so far into himself that I couldn't fathom how he'd find his way out.
Little Rat, there are so many mysteries in life. I don't know if we will get to take naps in Heaven, why the blonde girl in your computer class doesn't notice your funny sweetness ( I just can't take her out of my mind), why we didn't name you you Tyson. The biggest mystery, though, the one wakes me up in the middle of the night, that crowds my vacant moments is: how does your hair always stay dry, no matter how long you swim beneath the water's surface?
Tyson? You've got to be kidding me. Don't you like your name?
It's okay, I guess.
It's a strong name, a Bible name.
Then you should've just named me Goliath instead.
He has gotten so tall, so composed and engaging. His skin still has the same dry brown scent, though, as when he first came to us. He used to play violent games with his fingers and draw so far into himself that I couldn't fathom how he'd find his way out.
Little Rat, there are so many mysteries in life. I don't know if we will get to take naps in Heaven, why the blonde girl in your computer class doesn't notice your funny sweetness ( I just can't take her out of my mind), why we didn't name you you Tyson. The biggest mystery, though, the one wakes me up in the middle of the night, that crowds my vacant moments is: how does your hair always stay dry, no matter how long you swim beneath the water's surface?
23 March 2006
NEED
L. is cute as a button, truly. And unknowingly, uncommonly bright. I try to tease this out of her when we pass in the hall, in the lunchroom when I dash by on a mission for another diet coke. We trade compliments about each other's earrings. I loan her my favorite pink pen and she writes me notes on the margins of your paper: You know what Ms. S? You almost look like Marissa Cooper with your hair like that.
God bless that girl.
She talks non-stop, though, during my class. Sometimes whispering, sometimes outright shouts across the room, both apologetic and slightly flippant (95/5 to 75/25 depending on the day) when the inevitable reprimand of my gaze lands on her. I'm sorry Ms. S, but you know me.
Yes, L. I do.
Today I say Do not talk during the movie. Don't. Don't do it. You have been warned. If you talk I will send you to the office. Do you understand me? Raise your hand if you understand that you will be sent to the office if you talk during this movie. They were monsters yesterday. I had to stop the movie twice. No second chances today. I wait. Finally, all 32 hands up, all parties aware and agreeing to conditions and terms. In less than 3 minutes flat L. is turned around, talking. For a minute I just watch. Still whispering to S., who is cute but not worth a trip to the office. Other kids notice and look at me for my reaction. S. catches on and tries to kick her but misses and knocks a stack of books off his desk. Oh Ms. S. Sorry! she's caught on now. I won't talk anymore, I promise. Every last kid looks at her. Then at me.
When I was in 8th grade I listened to Weezer's Blue Album non-stop. The main weapon in my arsenal was a look that my dad called "the roving death eye." I would train it on my parents when I thought they were being particularly unreasonable. Which wasn't often. I was just prone to melodrama. My boyfriend (a highschooler) rode his bike through the narrow streets of downtown Higashi Kurume, and I stood on pegs on the back, hollering at our friends and strangers as we flew by. Reckless. Thrilling. Secretly, I thought I knew more than some of my teachers, and sometimes I did. Missing curfew, kissing boyfriend behind garbage dumpsters, under the bridge by the river, babysitting, grumbling over homework, crying over real and imagined slights by other girls -- everything, all of it, tempered by the adults in my life who could look at me, see what I had, what I lacked, and always managed to give me just what I needed (whether I realized, embraced, admitted it or not).
Need v. Want is an interesting question -- a question that troubles me especially when I pray and when I try to be a good friend/daughter/sister/teacher and don't always know how. I don't have a prescription pad and it's just as well because, hell, often as not, my diagnosis of the situation is wrong; my pronouncement too grim, to0 optimistic, too uninformed, too tangled up in my own black heart.
I sent L. to the office. I had to because, as best as I cound work out, she needed to know that I mean what I say as much as I actually need to remind myself daily to put my money where my mouth is. She was incredulous. She started crying. I felt awful. But when I went to get my messages from the office during lunch, she was still there. Ms. S. I'm really really sorry. I've never been to the office before and it's horrible and I don't want to ever be in trouble again. So please forgive me. I really want you to forgive me.
God bless that girl.
She talks non-stop, though, during my class. Sometimes whispering, sometimes outright shouts across the room, both apologetic and slightly flippant (95/5 to 75/25 depending on the day) when the inevitable reprimand of my gaze lands on her. I'm sorry Ms. S, but you know me.
Yes, L. I do.
Today I say Do not talk during the movie. Don't. Don't do it. You have been warned. If you talk I will send you to the office. Do you understand me? Raise your hand if you understand that you will be sent to the office if you talk during this movie. They were monsters yesterday. I had to stop the movie twice. No second chances today. I wait. Finally, all 32 hands up, all parties aware and agreeing to conditions and terms. In less than 3 minutes flat L. is turned around, talking. For a minute I just watch. Still whispering to S., who is cute but not worth a trip to the office. Other kids notice and look at me for my reaction. S. catches on and tries to kick her but misses and knocks a stack of books off his desk. Oh Ms. S. Sorry! she's caught on now. I won't talk anymore, I promise. Every last kid looks at her. Then at me.
When I was in 8th grade I listened to Weezer's Blue Album non-stop. The main weapon in my arsenal was a look that my dad called "the roving death eye." I would train it on my parents when I thought they were being particularly unreasonable. Which wasn't often. I was just prone to melodrama. My boyfriend (a highschooler) rode his bike through the narrow streets of downtown Higashi Kurume, and I stood on pegs on the back, hollering at our friends and strangers as we flew by. Reckless. Thrilling. Secretly, I thought I knew more than some of my teachers, and sometimes I did. Missing curfew, kissing boyfriend behind garbage dumpsters, under the bridge by the river, babysitting, grumbling over homework, crying over real and imagined slights by other girls -- everything, all of it, tempered by the adults in my life who could look at me, see what I had, what I lacked, and always managed to give me just what I needed (whether I realized, embraced, admitted it or not).
Need v. Want is an interesting question -- a question that troubles me especially when I pray and when I try to be a good friend/daughter/sister/teacher and don't always know how. I don't have a prescription pad and it's just as well because, hell, often as not, my diagnosis of the situation is wrong; my pronouncement too grim, to0 optimistic, too uninformed, too tangled up in my own black heart.
I sent L. to the office. I had to because, as best as I cound work out, she needed to know that I mean what I say as much as I actually need to remind myself daily to put my money where my mouth is. She was incredulous. She started crying. I felt awful. But when I went to get my messages from the office during lunch, she was still there. Ms. S. I'm really really sorry. I've never been to the office before and it's horrible and I don't want to ever be in trouble again. So please forgive me. I really want you to forgive me.
cautionary tale
They rode the same bus occaisionally. Often enough so that when they met at a party they pointed and their words tumbled awkwardly over each other: You're the one from the bus. He told her he was pleased to know that those head phones weren't permanent appendages, that he had always imagined her listening to Rachmaninov...or maybe Joni Mitchell. He was never quite sure. Can you ever really be sure of anything? She felt slightly glib, striking this coy little pose of a cool philosopher, even as the words left her mouth. But the windows of the room were steaming over and she felt lucid and clever with her glass of white wine. She didn't tell him that she was teaching herself Italian in Ten Minutes a Day.
22 March 2006
Poem I Wish I'd Written No. 1
Travel Advisory
by Rod Jellema
Remind yourself, when you wake to a strangeness
of foreign lights through blowing trees
out the window of yet another hotel, that home
is only where you pretend you're from.
What's familiar sends you packing,
watching for "some lost place called home."
You're from wherever you go.
Don't admit what you're looking for.
If you say to a baker in Bremen, to a barmaid in Provence,
"Back home we think of you here as having deeper lives,"
they'll shrug you wrong and won't repond.
And then you'll know: they're strangers too.
Broken and wrinkled stones and skin,
brush strokes and chords, old streets and saints you've read about,
flute-notes in laughter of foreign children,
the nip of a local market cheese --there's a life we almost knew once.
Watch. Just let it in.
The return ticket will take you only to town
where you packed to get on a the plane. It never missed you.
You'll notice alien goods in your kitchen,
wind in a wall, losses in the middle drawer of your desk.
Even there, the strange is the cup of communion you drink;
that dim outlandish civitas dei you're a citizen of never was a place.
Remember not to feel too much at home.
by Rod Jellema
Remind yourself, when you wake to a strangeness
of foreign lights through blowing trees
out the window of yet another hotel, that home
is only where you pretend you're from.
What's familiar sends you packing,
watching for "some lost place called home."
You're from wherever you go.
Don't admit what you're looking for.
If you say to a baker in Bremen, to a barmaid in Provence,
"Back home we think of you here as having deeper lives,"
they'll shrug you wrong and won't repond.
And then you'll know: they're strangers too.
Broken and wrinkled stones and skin,
brush strokes and chords, old streets and saints you've read about,
flute-notes in laughter of foreign children,
the nip of a local market cheese --there's a life we almost knew once.
Watch. Just let it in.
The return ticket will take you only to town
where you packed to get on a the plane. It never missed you.
You'll notice alien goods in your kitchen,
wind in a wall, losses in the middle drawer of your desk.
Even there, the strange is the cup of communion you drink;
that dim outlandish civitas dei you're a citizen of never was a place.
Remember not to feel too much at home.
3rd Period
Vocab Quiz
S. grins when he hands in his paper.
I think I've figured out that poetic license thing you were talking about, he says.
Smile, puzzled nod, forget, until later when the red pen comes out.
7. When you dance with a value, you are trying to get close to the actual number.
Answer key says 'approximate' but S. gets full credit.
Science Teacher
He stands with his back to the class
scrawling equations on the blackboard
facing his students and the world
the only way he knows how.
Dijon
He is named after a variety of my least favorite condiment, which is a strike against him right there.
I try to be patient, kind, firm, consistent -- a model of teacherly goodness, a positive force in his chaotic universe.
Even so. If he stands up one more time and walks across the room while I am talking I will flip my lid.
S. grins when he hands in his paper.
I think I've figured out that poetic license thing you were talking about, he says.
Smile, puzzled nod, forget, until later when the red pen comes out.
7. When you dance with a value, you are trying to get close to the actual number.
Answer key says 'approximate' but S. gets full credit.
Science Teacher
He stands with his back to the class
scrawling equations on the blackboard
facing his students and the world
the only way he knows how.
Dijon
He is named after a variety of my least favorite condiment, which is a strike against him right there.
I try to be patient, kind, firm, consistent -- a model of teacherly goodness, a positive force in his chaotic universe.
Even so. If he stands up one more time and walks across the room while I am talking I will flip my lid.
routine
There is such a pattern to my hours:
Find sleep too late and wake too early, turn on radio, make tea, dress for success, drive to work, apply lipstick in rearview mirror, slink into staff room hoping no one talks to me while I jam copy machine, refill orange mug, lock myself in washroom and pray to make it through the day.
And then I make it through the day.
Through all the impertinent angry boys and all the doughy white girls with squinty eyes and bad skin, who wear the hickies on their neck as a badge of achievement...proof positive in their eyes that they are desirable and succesful in some way.
School ends, drag A. on long run along river (you can run from problems or make problems run with you), feed cow, make dinner, clean kitchen, do homework with P & A and try to keep the peace. And then off to bed. Repeat. Again.
And somehow all this routine has loosened something in me when I was expecting it to wind me up tighter. I move/think/speak with a purpose hitherto buried beneath so much sand and secondguessing that I was sinking and taking you down with me.
Find sleep too late and wake too early, turn on radio, make tea, dress for success, drive to work, apply lipstick in rearview mirror, slink into staff room hoping no one talks to me while I jam copy machine, refill orange mug, lock myself in washroom and pray to make it through the day.
And then I make it through the day.
Through all the impertinent angry boys and all the doughy white girls with squinty eyes and bad skin, who wear the hickies on their neck as a badge of achievement...proof positive in their eyes that they are desirable and succesful in some way.
School ends, drag A. on long run along river (you can run from problems or make problems run with you), feed cow, make dinner, clean kitchen, do homework with P & A and try to keep the peace. And then off to bed. Repeat. Again.
And somehow all this routine has loosened something in me when I was expecting it to wind me up tighter. I move/think/speak with a purpose hitherto buried beneath so much sand and secondguessing that I was sinking and taking you down with me.
21 March 2006
R.I.P.
Tonight, as I was washing dinner dishes, Little Rat said
When you die I am going to tell them to write on your grave
even though he asked her like everyday
He gets me every time.
When you die I am going to tell them to write on your grave
KATE
the sister who never took her brother to the libraryeven though he asked her like everyday
He gets me every time.
Cut & Paste
There's an inch of snow on the ground here, suddenly.
If I read it in a book, I would probably be moved by parts of it, but I'm automatically suspicious of anyone who is willing to just slap so much of themselves onto a paper plate and paste it on the wall for the world to see. Plus: sometimes she comes across as though she sees herself as the main character in a chick-lit, romance novel (dime a dozen...or three for the price of two, at any rate), or worse yet, Sex in the City. We can't all be fabulous, some of us just have to be real.
But maybe I need to figure out how to do that--somehow extricate myself from my writing so it isn't so personal.
Get ready-- this is the true confessions part that always seems to make him squirm a bit: Writing is the thing that I know (or think that I know) that I can do well. And if I did it and it turns out that I can't do it, I don't know what I would do.
The day that our friend -- so self-assured, so assuring-- didn't get accepted to his program is a day that I won't let myself forget.
It could be sort of like that, but much bigger, much deeper.
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