Tuesday, September 23, 2003

9/23/03 11:25 AM 

So I'm sitting in class today . . . not really listening. And I think to myself:

"Jesus, look at yourself. 26 years old, all dressed up, and in a class full of women, talking about a Jane Austen novel, having to pretend to agree with everybody. Look at you now."

My tuition used to go toward enhancement. Now it's just tender for a job.

Monday, September 22, 2003

___Scratch "Sorry" 

I'm one of those people you don't see, now, but you know about.

You know -- I painted our living room ceiling green. Not "off-green", not light green, not a spring green, not a shell green: a grass motherfuckin' green. Yep. I'm one of those people you think about as you walk through the house on Sunday afternoon, thinking, "What the hell were THEY thinking?" That's me.

That said, I really like it. It's different, doesn't exactly go with the rest of the house, and it's warm, intimate, and, uh . . . green.

So I'm running down S. Lake Dr. in St. Francis, thinking that there's too many periods in this sentence, and then I notice the company that's doing the construction on these big, monstrous "townhomes" is named "Uhen Construction". So maybe I run by the main site -- right off the lake, mind you, wind blowing, sea gulls floating, and the sun striking just across the bridge of my nose, slanting-like, you might say, knife-like. I see some workers, maybe, and they're working hard; they're pulling and pasting, doing work I could only look at from a distance and say "Hm" about, and I raise my fist in the air and say -- "Go Uhan!" And they all just whoop and laugh and cheer right away, and I'm zipping along the sidewalk with grasshoppers sticking to my knees, trying to rhyme "sockets" with "pockets", and we all have a good laugh, see, me just pretending all along that we agree on the same thing. But hey, it was all the same language anyway. Cheers, you old Uhan.

Sitting in class tonight I learned that all my friends were right -- education's a game. They make you play it, all the while telling you how serious it is. Haha. So I sit in class and beat it all back, a chessplayer in a classroom of five-card, testing my own patience, swatting at them in my mind, and, no, I'm not sorry at all.

Friday, September 05, 2003

Good to be Back 

So Hunter S. Thompson says the world's ending, Simon During proclaims literature is over, and Britali Gamorei is dead.

I remember: excitedly waiting for my sister's local supermarket television ad at 2:AM . . . . baseball fans dancing to get onscreen -- to watch themselves dance . . . . and two girls talking in class yesterday about how maybe it was a little bit of both and that it all just depends so we should get along . . . .

I think Hunter's less frightened of the end of the world than he is of the prospect that he may live in a time that has passed him. Don't all depressed people start with boredom?

slowing pulse 

two lines in the sand,
sticks lay beside,
sweat and low breath.
saliva and mucus and the warmth
of sun upon closed eyes.

knuckle to jaw,
he tongues the skin inside
his mouth, low, slung,
pulled and bruised,
peeling wallpaper.

then all of it
photographed and bronzed,
an ever-fading red,
angles that don't match,
a phone that won't stop

Wednesday, September 03, 2003


So I was running a couple weeks ago . . . ten miles. Not a workout, but a good, solid, little-faster-than-normal ten miles. Hot day, sun beating, park benches filling up all around me, and power in my legs. It's probably every few weeks or so I'll think to myself, "NOW I'm in shape." I know damn well I've been in shape for a while, but there are still those times when it feels like another door is opening in front of me. That run a few weeks ago -- that was one of those times . . . .
. . . . until, that is, I was passed. A high schooler zipped by me, shirt off, bandanna waving. I thought he was gunning for me, the way he moved, and the timing of his, "How's it goin?" Yes, folks, humility's still cheap.

And then there's this education class I'm in . . . one of these things that's been keeping me from here. And we talk for . . . well, it wasn't two hours as much as it was TWO HOURS . . . about plurality and values and diversity and equality and loving every child we ever come across in the classroom. OK that last bit was a bit of an exageration, but TWO HOURS! Then they spent all of 20 minutes telling us about our schools we'll soon be visiting, the teachers we should contact, how to contact them, when to contact them, what our responsibilities over the next two months are or else we're FUCKED. Nice, liberal education: Give me two hours of touchy-feely bullshit and then rush through the important information I might need to get my job done.

"Ohhhhhh, it's the first week of school, and he's juuuuust gettin' started."

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