At least for me lately. It seems like I've been doing nothing but apologizing for being wrong, for my behavior, or in some cases for my general overall existance lately. Okay, not the last one, but pretty close.
I blew off a student today because I was late for class and he had just gotten into trouble with me. He left and then came back while I was rushing to collect my things to go to my second classroom and I acted like a bitch. I then proceeded to act like a bitch to my next hour, because I couldn't shake it off.
And then I thought, no wonder kids hate school. Teachers aren't allowed to be crabby. We're not allowed to have a bad day. Because if we are or do, there's no way to hide it. We can't just hole ourselves away at our desks and pretend our bosses/coworkers don't exist. We're out there. Add that to the pressure that if I take out my frustration on a student (even unintentionally), there's the chance that student will remember only how mean I was that day, not anything else he learned, which means that I've damaged that student.
So I apologized to the student I blew off earlier. I said that I handled things wrong and that I was willing to listen to him if he wanted to discuss the situation and I said that I was sorry I hadn't been able to do so earlier. He went from not speaking to me at the onset of the conversation to saying "thank you" at the end of it.
But I wish I didn't have to save myself by apologizing. I wish I could just do it right the first time. I won't always get the chance to say sorry and I shouldn't go through my job acting like I will.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Under pressure
My last writing class was Thursday night and it also happened to be the night my story was reviewed. The review was the best I'd ever had. People were so complimentary and of those who have read my work several times said that it was my best work. My instructor Rob (whose opinion in regard to writing I hold somewhere close to oh...like...hmmm... God, maybe) said that it was the best work he's seen from me, and then he brought down the hammer. He said that I should show it to Charles D'Ambrosio because he would really like it.
Gulp.
So I email Michael Ray, the editor of Zoetrope: All Story, who I've been emailing with for a few weeks with various Belize things, and he says of course I can submit that story for review rather than the one I applied with. He needs it before Monday.
Gulp again.
Because while everyone in class loved it, Rob loved it, they all suggested some changes that will require some pretty significant restructuring/revision.
And now I'm wondering how much I want to rush through revisions, literally today (because yes, I wasted Friday and most of Saturday) to get this to him and I'm frankly afraid I'm going to ruin it. This has led to a mild form of writers block, which I really don't believe in anyway. There are about four things that I want to change, and I'm truly afraid to approach them because I can see it spirling into a crazy massive overhaul and then the story won't be fresh and new and creative and Charles D'Ambrosio will look at it and say, "Ew" as he holds it out with two fingers by one corner like it smells like cheese.
And this entry, folks, is just more procrastination. So I shall be off to try, TRY, to make sense of this beautiful thing I 've written, that i don't really nderstand, and try to create more beauty without taking out the old beauty when I don't know where the beauty is to begin with. Grrr.
Gulp.
So I email Michael Ray, the editor of Zoetrope: All Story, who I've been emailing with for a few weeks with various Belize things, and he says of course I can submit that story for review rather than the one I applied with. He needs it before Monday.
Gulp again.
Because while everyone in class loved it, Rob loved it, they all suggested some changes that will require some pretty significant restructuring/revision.
And now I'm wondering how much I want to rush through revisions, literally today (because yes, I wasted Friday and most of Saturday) to get this to him and I'm frankly afraid I'm going to ruin it. This has led to a mild form of writers block, which I really don't believe in anyway. There are about four things that I want to change, and I'm truly afraid to approach them because I can see it spirling into a crazy massive overhaul and then the story won't be fresh and new and creative and Charles D'Ambrosio will look at it and say, "Ew" as he holds it out with two fingers by one corner like it smells like cheese.
And this entry, folks, is just more procrastination. So I shall be off to try, TRY, to make sense of this beautiful thing I 've written, that i don't really nderstand, and try to create more beauty without taking out the old beauty when I don't know where the beauty is to begin with. Grrr.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
"she doesn't know what she's talking about" or the day the kids found me out
I'm terrible at grammar. Always have been. I remember sitting on the floor in the family room trying to learn about direct and indirect objects and sobbing because I didn't understand them. I was relieved after my 9 weeks of grammar at age 15 that the whole ordeal was finished. Never again would I have to know what an infinitive was, or a subordinate clause, or a demonstrative noun. I would go on speaking correctly because I have a good ear for the language and bask in my knowledge that I spoke well. Not good. Well.
Today in college prep grammar a kid called me out on my explanation of an adjective in one of their homework examples. He was right, of course, and as I grappled for the explanation of WHY he was right (I always make them justify their responses, so I felt that if I was wrong I should at least do the service to the class of explaining why he was right) and stood at the front of the room stammaring, I heard it.
One voice, toward the back right corner.
"She doesn't know what she's talking about."
You can't fool kids. You just can't. They know what you think, how you feel, what your experiences are, and how well you know what you're teaching. They know when you're being fake and hate you for it. They know when you're being real and respect you for it, no matter what your "real" is.
I went into this class trying to fool the kids, trying to make them believe I had taught the class before, that I know as much about grammar as I do about literature and writing, because people don't accept less than that. People expect English teachers to know everything about the written word. What I SHOULD have done was to go in on the first day and tell the kids I was just as scared as they were, that I was going to be learning right along with them. But, my ego got into the way and I thought I could fool the unfoolable.
Tomorrow will be damage control and perhaps a dose of honesty as well.
Today in college prep grammar a kid called me out on my explanation of an adjective in one of their homework examples. He was right, of course, and as I grappled for the explanation of WHY he was right (I always make them justify their responses, so I felt that if I was wrong I should at least do the service to the class of explaining why he was right) and stood at the front of the room stammaring, I heard it.
One voice, toward the back right corner.
"She doesn't know what she's talking about."
You can't fool kids. You just can't. They know what you think, how you feel, what your experiences are, and how well you know what you're teaching. They know when you're being fake and hate you for it. They know when you're being real and respect you for it, no matter what your "real" is.
I went into this class trying to fool the kids, trying to make them believe I had taught the class before, that I know as much about grammar as I do about literature and writing, because people don't accept less than that. People expect English teachers to know everything about the written word. What I SHOULD have done was to go in on the first day and tell the kids I was just as scared as they were, that I was going to be learning right along with them. But, my ego got into the way and I thought I could fool the unfoolable.
Tomorrow will be damage control and perhaps a dose of honesty as well.
Monday, August 22, 2005
A diamond is forever
Anyone who knows my obsession with death and funerals and my penchant for reality television knows that Family Plots is pretty much my ideal show. I adore Shonna; I think she and I would get along famously.
LifeGem is something I had never heard of. Both of my parents want to be cremated. I've always wanted to be buried but after seeing my grandma and recognizing that the body is really just mass I'm not sure. I think that LifeGem is incredible, and I'm going to have a chat with the 'rents about it. Imagine wearing a diamond that was, literally, your loved one. It's such a beautiful thought.
LifeGem is something I had never heard of. Both of my parents want to be cremated. I've always wanted to be buried but after seeing my grandma and recognizing that the body is really just mass I'm not sure. I think that LifeGem is incredible, and I'm going to have a chat with the 'rents about it. Imagine wearing a diamond that was, literally, your loved one. It's such a beautiful thought.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
21 hours, 8 minutes, several seconds and some thoughts
...Until I have to be at school. Classes actually start in 21 hours 43 minute and several seconds.
I started working on Grammar stuff last night, a new course I'm teaching that has left me holding my head and wishing I'd taught Math instead. I know. And I'm only slightly exaggerating.
I'm struggling with trying to prepare myself in life for how I KNOW things are going to happen. There's always a small part of me that holds out hope that I'll be wrong, and that's the part I cling to. But then, even though the REAL RESULT is staring me in the face I'm still hoping someone will come along and make me wrong.
For example.
Situation: I found out at the beginning of August that I'd be teaching this new class. The other person who teaches the class has taught it for a long time and has a TON of stuff with it. Now I, who has no stuff, needs to teach the class.
What I knew was going to happen: That she'd send me a bunch of stuff, let me copy anything I needed, and generally give me any paper materials that I could ask for......but no explanation on how to teach the class. I imagined the words "the class will be easy, just use my stuff" coming out of her mouth. The problem is that trying to use someone elses materials for a class is like trying to build a rocket with all of the materials and no instructions or verbal help. Possible, technically, but a million times as hard.
What I wanted to happen: Her to say "hey, I know you're in a tough spot teaching this class and I appreciate you not complaining about it" (to her...I complained to Erica, my parents, and Jessie ad nauseum). Let's hook up for an hour or so this week and we can go through some stuff to make it as easy as possible.
See, I KNEW the first one was going to happen when I first found out I was teaching the class. But I still held out hope, all the way until, frankly, now, where the small part of me who was holding out hope has now moved to complete denial.
The second example is Belize. I knew in my head that the worst case senario (and the one that would probably happen) would be five of my personal days and three days without pay, but I still held out hope that my school would be slightly understanding. I was WAY OFF in anyone being happy for me. I thought my department would be excited, that other teachers would think it was cool and congratulate me. Some of my department members have been happy, but when I say some I mean two. Somewhere in the gossip mill this honor I've received at being accepted into a writing program has turned into a vacation to Belize, that the school is practically paying for, blah blah. People in my own department are making comments, "I can't believe they're letting you go" and "Oh yeah, gee struggling with sub plans, you poor thing."
Okay, that's too upsetting to talk about anymore.
I think the problem is that I'm smart enough to project forward and see how situations will end up, but not smart enough to listen to myself and protect myself. I KNOW how things will go but I think I expect people to do more to help me out than I should. I don't know why people should help me out; I'm really not all that helpful to others, I guess.
Oh well. Now it's 20 hours, 49 minutes and several seconds until I have to be there. You want to do something depressing, go here and watch the minutes of your life slowly tick away.
I started working on Grammar stuff last night, a new course I'm teaching that has left me holding my head and wishing I'd taught Math instead. I know. And I'm only slightly exaggerating.
I'm struggling with trying to prepare myself in life for how I KNOW things are going to happen. There's always a small part of me that holds out hope that I'll be wrong, and that's the part I cling to. But then, even though the REAL RESULT is staring me in the face I'm still hoping someone will come along and make me wrong.
For example.
Situation: I found out at the beginning of August that I'd be teaching this new class. The other person who teaches the class has taught it for a long time and has a TON of stuff with it. Now I, who has no stuff, needs to teach the class.
What I knew was going to happen: That she'd send me a bunch of stuff, let me copy anything I needed, and generally give me any paper materials that I could ask for......but no explanation on how to teach the class. I imagined the words "the class will be easy, just use my stuff" coming out of her mouth. The problem is that trying to use someone elses materials for a class is like trying to build a rocket with all of the materials and no instructions or verbal help. Possible, technically, but a million times as hard.
What I wanted to happen: Her to say "hey, I know you're in a tough spot teaching this class and I appreciate you not complaining about it" (to her...I complained to Erica, my parents, and Jessie ad nauseum). Let's hook up for an hour or so this week and we can go through some stuff to make it as easy as possible.
See, I KNEW the first one was going to happen when I first found out I was teaching the class. But I still held out hope, all the way until, frankly, now, where the small part of me who was holding out hope has now moved to complete denial.
The second example is Belize. I knew in my head that the worst case senario (and the one that would probably happen) would be five of my personal days and three days without pay, but I still held out hope that my school would be slightly understanding. I was WAY OFF in anyone being happy for me. I thought my department would be excited, that other teachers would think it was cool and congratulate me. Some of my department members have been happy, but when I say some I mean two. Somewhere in the gossip mill this honor I've received at being accepted into a writing program has turned into a vacation to Belize, that the school is practically paying for, blah blah. People in my own department are making comments, "I can't believe they're letting you go" and "Oh yeah, gee struggling with sub plans, you poor thing."
Okay, that's too upsetting to talk about anymore.
I think the problem is that I'm smart enough to project forward and see how situations will end up, but not smart enough to listen to myself and protect myself. I KNOW how things will go but I think I expect people to do more to help me out than I should. I don't know why people should help me out; I'm really not all that helpful to others, I guess.
Oh well. Now it's 20 hours, 49 minutes and several seconds until I have to be there. You want to do something depressing, go here and watch the minutes of your life slowly tick away.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Day 3 of the "how much can this girl take" marathon
Today was our last day to prepare for classes on Monday. Word spread pretty quickly in the morning that the school wasn't going to be open over the weekend because (unconfirmed) the head custodian had to mow his lawn on Saturday and (confirmed) "the teachers have had all summer to get their stuff done." All summer. Indeed.
But, I did get a lot done today and brought home quite a bit to work on tonight. The principal didn't know that the school was going to be closed and as soon as he found out he made arrangements to have it open from 8am-4pm. If I haven't said so before, I adore my principal. He's a liberal sort who lets teachers have a large amount of freedom with how we run our classrooms and our curriculum. He believes in us and compliments us when he sees us doing the right thing. I think a lot of times he gets stressed out by the whole idea that lots of people who work with him either at the district or in the school believe that he should have a firmer hand on us, like a boss over its employees, but he believes that happy teachers make for happy students and he does as much as he can within his control to help us out.
He's also a Packer fan, so really we're practically family.
Classes begin in 62 hours.
I need a drink.
But, I did get a lot done today and brought home quite a bit to work on tonight. The principal didn't know that the school was going to be closed and as soon as he found out he made arrangements to have it open from 8am-4pm. If I haven't said so before, I adore my principal. He's a liberal sort who lets teachers have a large amount of freedom with how we run our classrooms and our curriculum. He believes in us and compliments us when he sees us doing the right thing. I think a lot of times he gets stressed out by the whole idea that lots of people who work with him either at the district or in the school believe that he should have a firmer hand on us, like a boss over its employees, but he believes that happy teachers make for happy students and he does as much as he can within his control to help us out.
He's also a Packer fan, so really we're practically family.
Classes begin in 62 hours.
I need a drink.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Can you see the bruises from where today kicked my ass?
Today was a L-O-N-G day. I didn't even give myself a fighting chance because I stayed up until 5:15am, allowing myself only 45 minutes of sleep before I had to wake up again, dress semi-nicely (read: not pajamas), get the biggest coffee Caribou had to offer and arrive at school by 7am.
We heard an amazing speaker, though, which was pretty much the highlight of my day. His name is Dr. William McBride and he spent a lot of the morning making me laugh and forget that I didn't want to come back to school, and then we took a break and when we gathered back together he spent more time explaining a lot of interesting things about vocabulary and literacy. Fascinating. Did you know that only one in three adults bought a book last year?? I can't cite his source, but I was appalled.
I love good speakers who make me excited to teach.
But after Dr. McBride spoke I went to lunch with a group of friends from work and it was exhausting to talk and be social. I wanted to crawl home and sleep forever. Instead I stayed at work until I couldn't bear it anymore--4:30--then I drove home and napped.
Then Erica called and took me shopping and I bought my first ever Coach purse and it is beautiful and expensive and completely pointless and unnecessary and I LOVE IT. (p.s. I bought it on sale, so don't get all appalled at the cost. And, it's regular leather, not suede)
We heard an amazing speaker, though, which was pretty much the highlight of my day. His name is Dr. William McBride and he spent a lot of the morning making me laugh and forget that I didn't want to come back to school, and then we took a break and when we gathered back together he spent more time explaining a lot of interesting things about vocabulary and literacy. Fascinating. Did you know that only one in three adults bought a book last year?? I can't cite his source, but I was appalled.
I love good speakers who make me excited to teach.
But after Dr. McBride spoke I went to lunch with a group of friends from work and it was exhausting to talk and be social. I wanted to crawl home and sleep forever. Instead I stayed at work until I couldn't bear it anymore--4:30--then I drove home and napped.
Then Erica called and took me shopping and I bought my first ever Coach purse and it is beautiful and expensive and completely pointless and unnecessary and I LOVE IT. (p.s. I bought it on sale, so don't get all appalled at the cost. And, it's regular leather, not suede)
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Forces are conspiring against me
Remember my extrapolation? Yeah, here you go.
First of all, reading this message: "The Virtual Studio is down for a hardware upgrade. It should be back up by Friday Morning.Sorry for the inconvenience!" doesn't help anything. Friday? It's TUESDAY. I'm sure some people were in the loop on this one but I wasn't one of them and I depend on the virtual studio for, well, okay mostly social stuff, but I was hoping to post a story tonight to get feedback so I can give something slightly presentable to my class on Thursday, but no. Not going to happen. Oh well, it's a free site so I suppose I can't bitch too much. A little, absolutely.
Second, school. School, school, school. I get very overwhelmed this time of the year, and I end up wasting a lot of time because I simply don't know what to do. I get all panicky and freaked out and then my breathing starts to get weird and I start to shut down. I have no idea why...this is my seventh year teaching. I should have a grip on how to start the year.
But, going back becomes an increasing struggle for me the more I get into writing. It's like being given free reign to do whatever you want for a long enough time that you get into habits, routines, and discover that you really love life, then having all of that taken away and replaced by a schedule that is, literally, to the minute. Class starts at 7:25. My lunch is from 11:38 until 12:27. Not 11:40-12:30.
It's a rough period of adjustment that no one understands because everyone is all "bitch bitch bitch, you have summers off, quit complaining." Well, I don't ask for my summers off and anyone who tells me to quit complaining had the option to become a teacher him or herself and they decided against it for one of a variety of reasons, I would guess, that aren't limited to "I want more money" and "What, teach teenagers? Are you nuts?" So the people who tell me that I shouldn't complain can just shove off.
Of course that's not any of you fine folk, because you're my friends!!
First of all, reading this message: "The Virtual Studio is down for a hardware upgrade. It should be back up by Friday Morning.Sorry for the inconvenience!" doesn't help anything. Friday? It's TUESDAY. I'm sure some people were in the loop on this one but I wasn't one of them and I depend on the virtual studio for, well, okay mostly social stuff, but I was hoping to post a story tonight to get feedback so I can give something slightly presentable to my class on Thursday, but no. Not going to happen. Oh well, it's a free site so I suppose I can't bitch too much. A little, absolutely.
Second, school. School, school, school. I get very overwhelmed this time of the year, and I end up wasting a lot of time because I simply don't know what to do. I get all panicky and freaked out and then my breathing starts to get weird and I start to shut down. I have no idea why...this is my seventh year teaching. I should have a grip on how to start the year.
But, going back becomes an increasing struggle for me the more I get into writing. It's like being given free reign to do whatever you want for a long enough time that you get into habits, routines, and discover that you really love life, then having all of that taken away and replaced by a schedule that is, literally, to the minute. Class starts at 7:25. My lunch is from 11:38 until 12:27. Not 11:40-12:30.
It's a rough period of adjustment that no one understands because everyone is all "bitch bitch bitch, you have summers off, quit complaining." Well, I don't ask for my summers off and anyone who tells me to quit complaining had the option to become a teacher him or herself and they decided against it for one of a variety of reasons, I would guess, that aren't limited to "I want more money" and "What, teach teenagers? Are you nuts?" So the people who tell me that I shouldn't complain can just shove off.
Of course that's not any of you fine folk, because you're my friends!!
Monday, August 15, 2005
To dream the impossible dream
So I woke up this morning completely out of breath, like I'd been running, and coming out of the following dream. I wrote it, will maybe look at doing something with it even though I abhor dream writing. Posting it here because Somebody, who shall remain nameless, keeps wanting to read some of my writing but keeps forgetting to ask when I actually have access to my work.
Night Train
When the train goes through, it pulls out the people who aren’t matched up with each other. The red cars take the people wearing red. Etc. It’s the train’s last night, its final round, and we know it’s going to be a devastating trip. Everyone is gathered around and the main problem is the people wearing striped shirts. Stripes can’t pair up with other stripes unless they’re identical. None of them are, although some are close.
I see a woman wearing my color and I know I need to pair up with her, but she won’t go. She wants the train to take her and I know that if it does she’ll die and that it’ll be my fault, that I’ll know I should have tried harder. But the train is coming, I can hear it, and the sound of it is so beautiful, the wind crushing around us. Its path is a circle around us and when it finishes the damage will be assessed and the survivors will walk away.
I can’t find the woman wearing my color, I assume she’s been taken already so I’m standing alone but I’m not afraid. I’m sad and having a hard time breathing because I know it’s the last time the train will ever come through. My breath comes in gasps as I try to absorb everything, the glow of the train and the different colored cars, the sound vibration in my feet, the wind that sucks my insides out, and I begin to cry for the beauty of this train. I watch people being taken, pulled inside by unseen hands.
When the train is full circle on the track it is like being in another world. All of my senses are engaged and my brain is overloaded. I am trying like mad to mentally photograph the beauty and magnanimity of this moment and it is beyond my comprehension how I am the only one that sees the magic of this train and the tragedy that it will never run again.
Night Train
When the train goes through, it pulls out the people who aren’t matched up with each other. The red cars take the people wearing red. Etc. It’s the train’s last night, its final round, and we know it’s going to be a devastating trip. Everyone is gathered around and the main problem is the people wearing striped shirts. Stripes can’t pair up with other stripes unless they’re identical. None of them are, although some are close.
I see a woman wearing my color and I know I need to pair up with her, but she won’t go. She wants the train to take her and I know that if it does she’ll die and that it’ll be my fault, that I’ll know I should have tried harder. But the train is coming, I can hear it, and the sound of it is so beautiful, the wind crushing around us. Its path is a circle around us and when it finishes the damage will be assessed and the survivors will walk away.
I can’t find the woman wearing my color, I assume she’s been taken already so I’m standing alone but I’m not afraid. I’m sad and having a hard time breathing because I know it’s the last time the train will ever come through. My breath comes in gasps as I try to absorb everything, the glow of the train and the different colored cars, the sound vibration in my feet, the wind that sucks my insides out, and I begin to cry for the beauty of this train. I watch people being taken, pulled inside by unseen hands.
When the train is full circle on the track it is like being in another world. All of my senses are engaged and my brain is overloaded. I am trying like mad to mentally photograph the beauty and magnanimity of this moment and it is beyond my comprehension how I am the only one that sees the magic of this train and the tragedy that it will never run again.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Arrrrrrr!
My pirate name is:
Red Jenny Rackham
Passion is a big part of your life, which makes sense for a pirate. You have the good fortune of having a good name, since Rackham (pronounced RACKem, not rack-ham) is one of the coolest sounding surnames for a pirate. Arr!
Get your own pirate name from fidius.org. Johnny Depp times Two
I went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory tonight for the second time. This time we saw it at the Minnesota Zoo IMAX. Johnny Depp has large pores. You wouldn't know this unless you saw the movie in IMAX screen size. You might even think that Johnny Depp has the perfect face with perfect skin. You would be wrong. His skin is, in fact, quite flawed. But that's okay, because he's still brilliant and gorgeous and I would bear his children later this evening if I was allowed.
I've had an interesting week, sort of like I've been living in some sort of parallel universe where I do and say things that I wouldn't normally say. It's exhausting, and the worst part about it is that I can't seem to write. I have a story due in a week (less than, actually), and I can't seem to get it to come together.
I start school next week. I can't believe summer is over and I have to go back to work. I haven't figured out my impression of school for this upcoming year. I'm hoping it'll be good, but there are some things that will need to get worked out in the next few weeks in order to make that happen. In the meantime, I need to make the most of the next few days because they are, in fact, my last days of freedom.
I've had an interesting week, sort of like I've been living in some sort of parallel universe where I do and say things that I wouldn't normally say. It's exhausting, and the worst part about it is that I can't seem to write. I have a story due in a week (less than, actually), and I can't seem to get it to come together.
I start school next week. I can't believe summer is over and I have to go back to work. I haven't figured out my impression of school for this upcoming year. I'm hoping it'll be good, but there are some things that will need to get worked out in the next few weeks in order to make that happen. In the meantime, I need to make the most of the next few days because they are, in fact, my last days of freedom.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Extrapolation to the Extreme
I do this. I extrapolate. To the extreme.
Let me give you not one, but two examples of this.
Example the First.
I'm at my grandma's grave a few weeks ago, watering flowers, generally cleaning up the joint. Since I'm obsessed with graves and graveyards, I walk around the entire cemetary. It's outside the town proper of Clearwater, MN, which doesn't have much of a proper anyway. So, the cemetary is rugged to say the least. I'm walking around in my sandals and the weeds are all around, bugs are bad.
But, I'm a Minnesota girl and this is something I'm used to and aware of. Bugs are a part of my life, as are wooded areas. The normalcy ends here.
Instead of being an average girl and getting back into my car and driving home after paying my respects to my grandma, I start thinking of deer ticks and lyme disease. I imagine that if a tick got on me and bit me that I wouldn't see it. Then I'd get lyme disease and die. So I'm thinking, all the way home, that I need to get into a shower immediately so that I don't die.
Two problems with this.
1. If I was bitten I was bitten, and no amount of showering an hour after the fact would change that.
2. Lyme disease, while it's unpleasant as hell, doesn't kill people. It's incurable, but not fatal.
My dad says this is extrapolation to the extreme.
Example the Second.
When I crawled into bed last night after the Chuck Klosterman reading I started thinking about the weird girl named Jen that I ran into that I apparently know and made a great impact on, such that she was legitimately offended that I didn't remember her. Then I thought about all of the components that had to fall into place so that she and I would meet in that exact place at the exact time that Klosterman was signing my book. It's mindboggling, if you think about it.
Again, normal thoughts. Most people would say "Dude, far out" and move on.
Not this girl.
I extrapolate it out to say, "what if I had been meant to die at that precise moment? Or any moment?" Fate will direct circumstances exactly as it did to put Jen and I together in line when it designs my death, and I'll be none the wiser for it until it happens. So, basically, my death will be orchestrated around me, and I'll be a significant participant in having all of the elements work together to lead to my demise.
To the extreme.
Let me give you not one, but two examples of this.
Example the First.
I'm at my grandma's grave a few weeks ago, watering flowers, generally cleaning up the joint. Since I'm obsessed with graves and graveyards, I walk around the entire cemetary. It's outside the town proper of Clearwater, MN, which doesn't have much of a proper anyway. So, the cemetary is rugged to say the least. I'm walking around in my sandals and the weeds are all around, bugs are bad.
But, I'm a Minnesota girl and this is something I'm used to and aware of. Bugs are a part of my life, as are wooded areas. The normalcy ends here.
Instead of being an average girl and getting back into my car and driving home after paying my respects to my grandma, I start thinking of deer ticks and lyme disease. I imagine that if a tick got on me and bit me that I wouldn't see it. Then I'd get lyme disease and die. So I'm thinking, all the way home, that I need to get into a shower immediately so that I don't die.
Two problems with this.
1. If I was bitten I was bitten, and no amount of showering an hour after the fact would change that.
2. Lyme disease, while it's unpleasant as hell, doesn't kill people. It's incurable, but not fatal.
My dad says this is extrapolation to the extreme.
Example the Second.
When I crawled into bed last night after the Chuck Klosterman reading I started thinking about the weird girl named Jen that I ran into that I apparently know and made a great impact on, such that she was legitimately offended that I didn't remember her. Then I thought about all of the components that had to fall into place so that she and I would meet in that exact place at the exact time that Klosterman was signing my book. It's mindboggling, if you think about it.
Again, normal thoughts. Most people would say "Dude, far out" and move on.
Not this girl.
I extrapolate it out to say, "what if I had been meant to die at that precise moment? Or any moment?" Fate will direct circumstances exactly as it did to put Jen and I together in line when it designs my death, and I'll be none the wiser for it until it happens. So, basically, my death will be orchestrated around me, and I'll be a significant participant in having all of the elements work together to lead to my demise.
To the extreme.
Chuckus Kostermanus Interruptus
Tonight I went to hear Chuck Klosterman read and answer inane questions from young twenty-something groupies. He was hilarious, I nearly peed my pants about ten times. He was really polite about answering questions, some of which were good, most of which were so dumb I twitched.
After about a dozen questions the Barnes and Noble lady steps in and says "One more question." In front of me sitting on the floor (I was leaned up against a shelf) is this young girl, probably 20 (shit, when did I start referring to a twenty year old as a "young girl"??) and her hand shoots up in the air. He calls on her and she says, "Can I have your address?" There's a twitter throughout the audience, and Klosterman is clearly caught off guard.
He says "What, like my email address or like, my mailing address."
"Your mailing address."
"Why?"
"So I can send you letters."
The audience is mystified by this. He says, "Well, uh, you can have my work address, yeah," and he looks out at the crowd and back at her, "yeah, I don't want to be a jerk or anything. Buy a book and bring it to me and when I sign it I'll put my address in there."
What I love about this man is that he's all "Sure, but you'll be buying my book. Nothing's for free, honey." Good lesson for her to learn.
So THEN, of course I'm in line to get my copy of Killing Yourself to Live signed. I'm innocently standing there and then all of a sudden my life blurs into a wild druggie adhd manic freakout. Someone says my name (it may have been Chuck or my friend Erica) at the moment that I hand my books to the Barnes and Noble chick. The girl who has been standing behind Erica and I says "Kelly Flanigan???" And I said, "Uh, yeah." And I turn and look at her and I recognize her but I have NO IDEA where from. Like zero. I don't know if I went to high school with her or college with her or competed against her in speech or had her as a student or ran into her at some other time. What I remember is her hair, and I remember her crying. She had this bushy bushy hair and she cut it short and it was so much cuter short, and I have no idea what the crying was about. She says, "Do you remember me?" And I'm not in the mood to lie. I said "I remember you, but I have no idea what your name is." So she decides to make a huge production about the fact that I don't remember her. She refuses to tell me how we know eachother. She said something about "like the most important person to her in high school" but it might not have been that. As I said, a blur.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Chuck has my books and is signing away probably wondering who the hell I am that I can't take five seconds out of my conversation to say hello and thank him for signing my book. I'm all "Hold up, I'm missing my moment here!!" and then things blur out a little more except I remember thanking Chuck for his reading and for the signings and telling him I'm a big fan and he was just laughing at me and then I walked away.
Strange girl that I know finally tells me her name, after completely screwing up my moment with Chuck Klosterman, and I still don't have the first damn clue about who she is.
After about a dozen questions the Barnes and Noble lady steps in and says "One more question." In front of me sitting on the floor (I was leaned up against a shelf) is this young girl, probably 20 (shit, when did I start referring to a twenty year old as a "young girl"??) and her hand shoots up in the air. He calls on her and she says, "Can I have your address?" There's a twitter throughout the audience, and Klosterman is clearly caught off guard.
He says "What, like my email address or like, my mailing address."
"Your mailing address."
"Why?"
"So I can send you letters."
The audience is mystified by this. He says, "Well, uh, you can have my work address, yeah," and he looks out at the crowd and back at her, "yeah, I don't want to be a jerk or anything. Buy a book and bring it to me and when I sign it I'll put my address in there."
What I love about this man is that he's all "Sure, but you'll be buying my book. Nothing's for free, honey." Good lesson for her to learn.
So THEN, of course I'm in line to get my copy of Killing Yourself to Live signed. I'm innocently standing there and then all of a sudden my life blurs into a wild druggie adhd manic freakout. Someone says my name (it may have been Chuck or my friend Erica) at the moment that I hand my books to the Barnes and Noble chick. The girl who has been standing behind Erica and I says "Kelly Flanigan???" And I said, "Uh, yeah." And I turn and look at her and I recognize her but I have NO IDEA where from. Like zero. I don't know if I went to high school with her or college with her or competed against her in speech or had her as a student or ran into her at some other time. What I remember is her hair, and I remember her crying. She had this bushy bushy hair and she cut it short and it was so much cuter short, and I have no idea what the crying was about. She says, "Do you remember me?" And I'm not in the mood to lie. I said "I remember you, but I have no idea what your name is." So she decides to make a huge production about the fact that I don't remember her. She refuses to tell me how we know eachother. She said something about "like the most important person to her in high school" but it might not have been that. As I said, a blur.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Chuck has my books and is signing away probably wondering who the hell I am that I can't take five seconds out of my conversation to say hello and thank him for signing my book. I'm all "Hold up, I'm missing my moment here!!" and then things blur out a little more except I remember thanking Chuck for his reading and for the signings and telling him I'm a big fan and he was just laughing at me and then I walked away.
Strange girl that I know finally tells me her name, after completely screwing up my moment with Chuck Klosterman, and I still don't have the first damn clue about who she is.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
A beautiful night
I'm sitting on my patio enjoying a corona and typing by the light of my citronella candle. There's a magnificant breeze and, in spite of thunderstorm warnings in my area until 11pm, not a cloud in the sky.
I've been working on a story about a boy who I think is about 11 years old. It's difficult getting into his head but I know there's a lot going on in there. I'm trying to remember what it's like to be 11. Ain't pretty, that much I know!
I've been reading George Saunders as well. Pastoralia. It's bizarre. I'm getting really excited to work with him, though, in Belize. He's got this way of making serious things humorous but keeping them serious at the same time, so at first you're not sure you should be laughing, but then he makes it so obvious that you know it's okay, then he brings it back around and basically says "hey, what are you laughing at, this is serious."
A small note....in spite of my not wanting to hear anything to do with the mentor series until the winners are posted on Aug. 15th, I've found out that phone calls have been made to winners. I, naturally, have not gotten a call. I'm still holding to my early philosophy, that if I didn't get it there's a reason for it and it's okay, but it's going to be hard to explain to everyone. Unlike a lot of other writers, I have an incredible support system of family and friends. They expect me to get in, and will be genuinely concerned that I didn't. I don't want to talk about it, and I don't want to keep explaining over and over again because then I will start to feel bad about it and that's just no good. Oh well. It's the price you pay for being cared about, I guess.
I've been working on a story about a boy who I think is about 11 years old. It's difficult getting into his head but I know there's a lot going on in there. I'm trying to remember what it's like to be 11. Ain't pretty, that much I know!
I've been reading George Saunders as well. Pastoralia. It's bizarre. I'm getting really excited to work with him, though, in Belize. He's got this way of making serious things humorous but keeping them serious at the same time, so at first you're not sure you should be laughing, but then he makes it so obvious that you know it's okay, then he brings it back around and basically says "hey, what are you laughing at, this is serious."
A small note....in spite of my not wanting to hear anything to do with the mentor series until the winners are posted on Aug. 15th, I've found out that phone calls have been made to winners. I, naturally, have not gotten a call. I'm still holding to my early philosophy, that if I didn't get it there's a reason for it and it's okay, but it's going to be hard to explain to everyone. Unlike a lot of other writers, I have an incredible support system of family and friends. They expect me to get in, and will be genuinely concerned that I didn't. I don't want to talk about it, and I don't want to keep explaining over and over again because then I will start to feel bad about it and that's just no good. Oh well. It's the price you pay for being cared about, I guess.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Promises made, broken, made again
In January of 1997 a little girl named Madalyn June was born. I was friends with her mom because she cut my hair and during the summer of 1997 I got to know Madalyn as well. I babysat Madalyn for five years, both during the summers and during school. Her family became my second family and we spent holidays together. I loved buying presents for Madalyn and her brother Michael and, since I didn’t have any nieces or nephews or any siblings or my own kids, I spoiled them. Madalyn loved to snuggle, and if we weren’t outside walking around or playing, we were inside coloring or reading a book together. I treated her like she was my own.
Then I moved about 45 minutes away. I promised Madalyn that I would come back to see her often, that she wouldn’t even know I was gone. I broke that promise; I didn’t see her for two nearly two years. My friend would tell me about Madalyn, how she was liking kindergarten and first grade, how smart and beautiful she was becoming, and how she talked about me. She remembered things that she and I did when she was three years old. She asked her mom “what ever happened to Kelly?”
Last Thursday I was getting my hair cut by my friend at her shop and the town was hosting its Crazy Days festivities. Madalyn came running in talking about candy that she wanted to buy. She didn’t look at me. I was struck by how tall she was and how beautiful and fresh and simple she looked. Her mom said, “Madalyn, look who’s here.” I said, “Hi Madalyn.” She looked at me and I could see she didn’t recognize me but that she felt like she should. Her mom said, “Do you know who that is?” She said, “I recognize the voice.” Her mom said, “It’s Kelly.” Her eyes widened and she ran over to me and hugged me, saying “KELLY!!” She kissed me and then stepped away. We looked at each other eye to eye and I saw her taking me in, the logical side of her brain trying to explain to the emotional side that I was real, I was there. She said, “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.” We talked for a few minutes, her snuggled into my arm in a relaxed embrace, and then her friends came in and wanted to go back out shopping. She reluctantly pulled away from me. She said “I don’t want to go. I’m afraid you won’t come back.” I said “I’ll see you more, I promise.” She looked at me and I read her look as if she was whispering in my ear. “Now you’ve promised. You have to follow through.”
That look made me realize how much of an impact I had had on Madalyn and how important I was to her. How important people are to each other, and how you can really never know how much you mean to some people. Imagine if she had negative associations with me, how powerful those would be. Also, the importance of promises, not only to children, but to anyone. The word promise is thrown around almost as much as the word love, with about as much meaning behind it. Madalyn’s look was like a weight, indescribable, and I know that to not keep my word to her this time would mean that all of the positive memories she has of me would be shadowed by the overwhelming fact that I can’t be trusted. Worse, that I don’t like her as much as she likes me.
As usual, a good life lesson from someone with 25% the life experience I have.
Then I moved about 45 minutes away. I promised Madalyn that I would come back to see her often, that she wouldn’t even know I was gone. I broke that promise; I didn’t see her for two nearly two years. My friend would tell me about Madalyn, how she was liking kindergarten and first grade, how smart and beautiful she was becoming, and how she talked about me. She remembered things that she and I did when she was three years old. She asked her mom “what ever happened to Kelly?”
Last Thursday I was getting my hair cut by my friend at her shop and the town was hosting its Crazy Days festivities. Madalyn came running in talking about candy that she wanted to buy. She didn’t look at me. I was struck by how tall she was and how beautiful and fresh and simple she looked. Her mom said, “Madalyn, look who’s here.” I said, “Hi Madalyn.” She looked at me and I could see she didn’t recognize me but that she felt like she should. Her mom said, “Do you know who that is?” She said, “I recognize the voice.” Her mom said, “It’s Kelly.” Her eyes widened and she ran over to me and hugged me, saying “KELLY!!” She kissed me and then stepped away. We looked at each other eye to eye and I saw her taking me in, the logical side of her brain trying to explain to the emotional side that I was real, I was there. She said, “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.” We talked for a few minutes, her snuggled into my arm in a relaxed embrace, and then her friends came in and wanted to go back out shopping. She reluctantly pulled away from me. She said “I don’t want to go. I’m afraid you won’t come back.” I said “I’ll see you more, I promise.” She looked at me and I read her look as if she was whispering in my ear. “Now you’ve promised. You have to follow through.”
That look made me realize how much of an impact I had had on Madalyn and how important I was to her. How important people are to each other, and how you can really never know how much you mean to some people. Imagine if she had negative associations with me, how powerful those would be. Also, the importance of promises, not only to children, but to anyone. The word promise is thrown around almost as much as the word love, with about as much meaning behind it. Madalyn’s look was like a weight, indescribable, and I know that to not keep my word to her this time would mean that all of the positive memories she has of me would be shadowed by the overwhelming fact that I can’t be trusted. Worse, that I don’t like her as much as she likes me.
As usual, a good life lesson from someone with 25% the life experience I have.
Missing Madalyn
I don't know if you all managed to see the entry I wrote earlier today, like about 10 hours ago, about my darling Madalyn but the entry is gone now and I have no idea where it disappeared to. That irritates me. Madalyn is a darling, seven years old, and I made her a promise last Thursday that I made to her two years ago and didn't keep. I'm trying to keep it now and it would help if my blog would cooperate and help me record my progress.
Alas, it seems to be gone. Perhaps it will resurface as mysteriously as it disappeared, but in case it doesn't I'll consider rewriting a similar entry tomorrow, although it won't be as good as the original, sorry. They never are.
Alas, it seems to be gone. Perhaps it will resurface as mysteriously as it disappeared, but in case it doesn't I'll consider rewriting a similar entry tomorrow, although it won't be as good as the original, sorry. They never are.
The drought is coming to an end
I haven't written a word since July 17th, which may seem like a short amount of time but given the fact that I'm not working or doing anything that even remotely contributes to the overall wellbeing of humanity (except being my sunshiny, charming self, that is) it's forever.
So tonight I wrote. Finally. When I got to writing group I was crabby because I felt the lack of inspiration sitting in my head laughing and yelling "you're not going to write anything! Haha!" And then we started writing and this image came into my head and I started writing. And, I don't want to jinx it (which is why you're not getting the gory details) but I think it might take off. I need a story for class in about two weeks maybe three anyway, so if I can get it done in time to do some revisions that would kick ass.
I think the pressure of Belize and the Mentor Series is getting to me. When I go to Belize I'm going to have to be strong enough to face, literally, two incredibly talented writers, one of whom I admire deeply (and happens to be the mentor of another person I admire deeply, double whammy), and hear what they have to say about my writing. I think I'm scared. Which is weird, because I don't know the last time I thought that. Anxious, yeah, nervous, sure, but scared is a whole different category and I think I'm there.
Mentor Series will be announced on August 15th here. Belize is certainly enough, but if I should be lucky enough to land in the Mentor Series too, well, that would be just nuts. There are so many different factors that weigh into the Mentor, though, so it's really impossible to tell. I could have written the best story in the world and if the judge reads it on an off day or something... it's all in the timing and the mood and the whatever and whether or not the judge had his/her coffee that morning.
Oh well. At least I'm writing again. Happy, happy day!!
So tonight I wrote. Finally. When I got to writing group I was crabby because I felt the lack of inspiration sitting in my head laughing and yelling "you're not going to write anything! Haha!" And then we started writing and this image came into my head and I started writing. And, I don't want to jinx it (which is why you're not getting the gory details) but I think it might take off. I need a story for class in about two weeks maybe three anyway, so if I can get it done in time to do some revisions that would kick ass.
I think the pressure of Belize and the Mentor Series is getting to me. When I go to Belize I'm going to have to be strong enough to face, literally, two incredibly talented writers, one of whom I admire deeply (and happens to be the mentor of another person I admire deeply, double whammy), and hear what they have to say about my writing. I think I'm scared. Which is weird, because I don't know the last time I thought that. Anxious, yeah, nervous, sure, but scared is a whole different category and I think I'm there.
Mentor Series will be announced on August 15th here. Belize is certainly enough, but if I should be lucky enough to land in the Mentor Series too, well, that would be just nuts. There are so many different factors that weigh into the Mentor, though, so it's really impossible to tell. I could have written the best story in the world and if the judge reads it on an off day or something... it's all in the timing and the mood and the whatever and whether or not the judge had his/her coffee that morning.
Oh well. At least I'm writing again. Happy, happy day!!
Monday, August 01, 2005
A man with a plan
Girl, actually. Chick even.
Now that it is August 1st, officially, I need to establish a plan for utalizing my last few weeks of vacation to the fullest extent.
I need to do the following:
1. Read 12th Night
2. Finish my summer cleaning list
3. Organize and plan fall curriculum
4. Read everything I can get my hands on by Charles D'Ambrosio and George Saunders
5. Read everything I can get my hands on period
6. Write a story to bring to class on the 18th.
I know there are other things I need to do.
I always wonder about lists to do, how effective they are, how much time I waste making them, etc. But I'm really not very good at managing my time, it all seems to slip away when I'm not looking. So, the lists will stay and it'll be all good.
Now that it is August 1st, officially, I need to establish a plan for utalizing my last few weeks of vacation to the fullest extent.
I need to do the following:
1. Read 12th Night
2. Finish my summer cleaning list
3. Organize and plan fall curriculum
4. Read everything I can get my hands on by Charles D'Ambrosio and George Saunders
5. Read everything I can get my hands on period
6. Write a story to bring to class on the 18th.
I know there are other things I need to do.
I always wonder about lists to do, how effective they are, how much time I waste making them, etc. But I'm really not very good at managing my time, it all seems to slip away when I'm not looking. So, the lists will stay and it'll be all good.
Fuggedaboutit
I spent the day with Erica watching The Sopranos. All day. Seven hours. We hit the MOA because she had to buy some lipstick for her aunt from Victoria's Secret (backordered on the internet and costs $20, must be some good shit). Then we stopped at Chipotle and got some tacoey goodness and chips galore, then went back and settled in on our respective couches and didn't move until it was dark out. What a great sunday. And yeah, it was nice out, and yeah sun shining, beautiful weather, blah blah. It was a fabulous day. Too few of them left, if you ask me, since a month from now I'll have been in school for over a week.
But let us not speak of bad things. Only good. Only Tony Soprano and the fact that Robert Patrick showed up during Season Two in the middle of the afternoon. And I'm listening to Scott Bravo right now.
But let us not speak of bad things. Only good. Only Tony Soprano and the fact that Robert Patrick showed up during Season Two in the middle of the afternoon. And I'm listening to Scott Bravo right now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)