Spring Comes Again

I haven't written in five months, almost to the day.  It feels in a very real way like I've been dead or sleeping since October.

Something huge happened with a member of my family's health, and without even meaning to, I somehow shut down all the non-essential functions.  I was like a tree when the winter came.  I dropped my leaves and pulled inside myself to ride out the season.

The last big part of what was going on ended this week, and even though there are still many things we know are coming and other things that may develop, it's as if I felt the world shift again, all those things that had gone out-of-balance slipping back into place.

This week, I cleaned my house.  I took care of online tasks I had let go for ages.  I replaced several items that had gotten so damaged that they no longer functioned.  In short, spring has come, and the world is full of green again.

Everything got put on hold except the absolutely necessary. Life had been a cycle of work-home-sleep-repeat.  I've neglected everybody terribly.  I have had one conversation I am more or less ashamed of and will have to set right.

Wilco said it best:

How can I warn you when my tongue turns to dust like we've discussed?
It doesn't mean that I don't care
It means I'm partially there
You're gonna need to be patient with me

How I hope people, especially those I love, will continue to be.

Orphaned Pencils

Like most people, I have a lot of little idiosyncrasies.  I look for four-leaf clovers every time I walk through a patch while I'm walking my dogs.  I collect bobbleheads when I travel.  My favorite clothing is a literary tshirt.  I always carry a fancy vintage handkerchief.  Added to all these other oddities, I am also a rescuer of orphaned pencils.  

There is something heartbreaking about an abandoned pencil.  I find them frequently on the floor of my classroom, sometimes almost used up, sometimes barely sharpened.  I always scoop them up and put them in a brown ceramic cylinder some student made in Ceramics and left in my room one year.  I call it the lost pencil cup.  Students know to look there for something to write with before they ask me about it.

I think the sadness for me comes from seeing a tool so closely related to all the things my heart holds most dear simply cast aside.  There's power in a pencil, power to change the world, power to change someone's mind, power to change oneself.

When a student comes to class and has no pencil every day, there is a kind of hopelessness to it.  It's like seeing someone who needs to put out a destructive blaze but who has no bucket or hose.  They simply lack the right equipment to save themselves.

A pencil lets a person draw a picture to clarify, solve a math problem, make a list.  It allows a poem to be created, things done or cast aside to be crossed off, dots to be connected.  There is a universe encased in a slim wooden or plastic sheath, infinitely malleable and portable.

There's a quote in You've Got Mail about bouquets of freshly-sharpened pencils.  I always smile when I see that part because I know that feeling.  There really *is* something about a brand new pencil.  They're among my favorite school supplies.

There's something to be said about the old ones, too, though.  When you see a pencil that is only as long as your little finger, that has its eraser gone, even one with the indentations made by teeth or the impact against the edge of a desk or table, you're looking at a battle-scarred veteran of the war against idiocy and ignorance.  It deserves the chance to continue its service.

Today after the last bell, I walked around my room and tidied everything up as I always do.  Under one of the desks in the back, I found one of these forlorn instruments.  Except for its eraser, it had almost no use.  I picked it up, carried it over to the turn-in table, placed it next to the others in the cup.  I gathered all my belongings and headed down the stairs to my car.  On the way, another pencil was sitting on the end of our wide wooden banisters, almost as though it was just waiting for me.  I smiled, tucked it in the back pocket of my school work bag.  Monday, it can join the assembly of orphaned pencils waiting a second chance at usefulness.

Previously Recorded

(written in Pisa 3/11/13)

I suppose everybody has a “bucket list,” although to be honest I hate that term. Mine includes visiting several places, mostly because I can’t believe they’re real until I see them for myself. Today, I was able to check another of those locations off my list, but as usual with such idealistic goals, it didn’t turn out exactly the way I’d imagined.

We got up early, loaded our faithful tour bus, and headed out for a short trip (read: two hours) to Pisa. The weather started out totally foul, rainy and cold complete with spectacular displays of lightning popping the mountain tops. The nearer we came to Pisa, however, the brighter the day became, and by the time we arrived at the bus parking lot, clear, brilliant sun had emerged to bathe the scene before us. We stepped out, stretched and sighed, and were immediately attacked by umbrella vendors.

I’ve never seen anything like it anywhere else I’ve been. There must have been fifteen guys with cheap umbrellas and knock-off RayBans just waiting for each bus of tourists to arrive. Then, like a flock of vultures with a fresh kill handy, they would converge. Even if you had an umbrella in hand, they tried to sell you an umbrella.

They were simply everywhere. It became a running joke. One of the guys said, “I’m kind of afraid to go into the bathroom. I’m scared some guy is going to pop out and ask me if I want to buy some toilet tissue.” And really, I’m not sure this was an absurd notion….

We braved the gauntlet and got to the square of Pisa. It was lovely. I have seen pictures of the tower all my life, but for some reason, I never noticed how oddly delicate and lovely it really is. I took about a million photographs, including the ubiquitous holding-up-the-tower one, and sat for a while just looking up at it. Our guide told us a lot about the restoration efforts over the centuries, and I had even more respect for the structure that Pisa just refuses to let fall. There is something admirable about that kind of stubbornness to me.

Another part of our tour was inside the cathedral for which the Tower serves as a bell tower. It was simple, austere, and lovely. The Pisan Romanesque style is simpler, cleaner, and although the Florentine Gothic is beautiful, something about the Moorish arches inside this Pisa church pleased me. We walked through and saw wonder everywhere. One part of the church held a saint in his green-marble-and-glass coffin. Although I have taught Chaucer for years and explained people coming to Canterbury to worship the remains of St. Thomas a Beckett each time, I have never actually seen what I couldn’t help thinking of as a “saint in a box.” I took pictures of him to show next time I teach Chaucer.

As unexpected as all that was, the real shocker of the day came when we left the cathedral. One hundred days before the final exam for high school students, kids from all around Tuscany gather in Pisa to walk around the monuments for luck. Actually, what they do is mass up, fill the area, drink, fight, smoke, “get to know each other well,” grope perfect strangers, and play football. Enter American tour group us to this mix.

Yeah. It was like that.

In the time it took us to cross from the cathedral to its baptistery, we were separated numerous times, inspected physically by people we didn’t know, yelled at, invited to frolic, greeted in broken English, jostled, and generally roughed up. By the time we got from the baptistery to the exit, some fool had put his hands on me without written permission (a thing that will get you killed), and one of the college girls on our trip had been surrounded by a horde of five guys who proceeded to be altogether too free with their hands.

We made it out and got to the bus stop only to be assailed by that location’s team of intrepid umbrella sellers. They were the most persistent of any we were to encounter. At one point, all of us were chorusing “NO! NO!” every time they offered an umbrella. They remained undaunted, circling us until the blessed arrival of public transportation.

Even though elements I had not expected were introduced, nothing can take away the beauty of Pisa. Maybe the umbrella men and the idiot teenagers somehow make it even better. We all survived. We all got to see and enjoy the sights. We have a tale to take away. It truly was a “bucket list” moment, memorable in every way.

This Broadcast Was Taped Before a Live Audience

(written in Venice 3/8/13 but delayed due to lack of wi-fi)

For a very long time, I have wanted to visit Venice. It has always seemed totally unreal to me, like a set somebody in Hollywood conjured and other people took as reality. I’ve seen it in tons of movies, read about it in countless books, but I have never believed I would ever get to see the real place.

We came in last night after a day full of flight hell, and by the time we got to our hotel here in the mainland suburbs, rain was falling, everyone was too exhausted to care, and our only goal was to fall down as expeditiously as possible.

Today, I visited Venice.

Our journey toward the city of 118 islands started a little oddly. As we were loading our water taxi, a smaller boat nearby was loading a corpse in a body bag. We all sort of stared, looked away, and shuffled our feet, not quite sure what to do with that. Welcome to the place where every sort of activity is done on the water, ladies and gentlemen.

We started in a glass-blowing factory on a small island off the coast of Venice proper. We watched a man make an entire horse in under two minutes. It was considered to be “impure” and was recycled after we left. It was pretty awesome to us. The tour continued, as is the way of such things on these trips, with a journey through their showroom. I had wanted to buy a Murano glass ball to go with the one I was given in Brazil, but since I am not able to shell out a couple of hundred dollars for a paperweight, no matter how lovely, I bought a few other small things instead.

Then we came to the city itself. We started with a walking tour, and I was immediately struck by the previously-mentioned unreality of Venice. The tiny canals everywhere were filled with boats, the tourist gondolas, some guy moving from one place to another, water taxis, everything, everything slipping quietly by. I kept feeling as though I would look up at one of the palazzo windows and see an Animatronic figure singing “It’s a Small World” at any moment.

The colors and textures, the smells and the stones, the curiously lovely blue-green of the quiet water, all were lovely. The thing that takes the breath away, though, is the architecture. We came to Campo San Marco, and while the façade of the square is lovely, Basilica San Marco is one of the loveliest churches I have ever seen. Every inch of the ceiling and much of the external façade is covered in mosaics made of tiny colored glass pieces and gold. I think that one could easily sit and stare at the front of that building for weeks, maybe months, and still find new details to delight the eyes. Inside its dim hushed domes, mosaics made of marble from every corner of the world form geometric perfection.

Our trip to Venice had three true highpoints for me. The first was a gondola ride. Who doesn’t associate the gondola with Venice? It’s one of those stereotypical and iconic cultural icons that comes almost automatically. When I found out that I was coming here, one of my first thoughts was “gondola ride.” After a walking tour, we assembled at one of the canals, divided up into small groups, and clambered aboard the sleek black ships awaiting us.

It was amazing. After I stopped being scared I’d flip the boat, I relaxed somewhat into the plush red upholstery and looked around. Every bridge we passed seemed to have something charming carved into it. I wondered if that was just to delight the eye of the water-bourne passenger. Everywhere, there were gondolas full of tourists. Nobody was loud or yelling even though many of the boats were filled with teenagers. A certain hush seemed to fall. Nobody wanted to break it, and even talking to groups in other boats was done quietly.

We slid past ancient water-doors, over submerged stone and marble steps, and the true face of the city emerged. Everywhere tiny piers jutted out into the canals. Here and there, an iron gate closed off access to what had been a main entrance to the commercial part of the old palazzos.

The journey was everything I had hoped it would be. I took a picture of myself in the gondola, and I’m smiling like crazy in it. I will use it for my new FB picture, and each time I see it, I will remember how good it felt.

The second highpoint of the day came while I was touring Saint Mark’s Basilica. Almost as soon as we walked in, the sound of the cathedral organ filled the air. I held my breath, fearing that I would hear only tuning or practice runs as I had the day we were in the Duomo in Florence two years ago, but instead, the mighty voice of the instrument soared, rebounded, and filled the golden-domed space with beauty. It actually brought tears to my eyes. I looked around the upper galleries, knowing one of them held the organist, and finally, I found a space in which I could see him. I watched him play, reveling in the tactile nature of the deep notes of a great organ. He played two or three songs before I could bring myself to wander on. Another great wish of mine, to hear a cathedral organ played, had been granted.

The final gift from Venice came in the form of a tiny china cup of espresso. When we arrived in Venice, our guide had told us about Café Florian, the first public coffee house in Europe. She told us that it was COSTLY, but the ambiance wasn’t to be missed. After we left San Marco, we decided to go try out the coffee in the place where revolutions, coups, and operas had been cobbled together. I had an espresso and a piece of ricotta cheesecake. It did turn out to be VERY expensive. However, sitting in the great square of Venice sipping one of the best cups of coffee I’ve ever had and watching the world stroll by was worth every single euro.

Tomorrow, we leave here headed for Florence. I know that returning to that beautiful city will bring another set of highpoints. I can only say that I look forward to meeting them as they come.

The Little Voice Inside

Yesterday morning, I was getting ready to go see my best friend in Jackson.  My birthday was last week, and while I wasn't able to get to my favorite restaurant, Kismet's, during the week for it, I was darned well going this weekend.

One of the front tires on my Cruiser has been giving me fits.  If you read here often, you will remember that it went totally flat on me one morning last week.  Since then, I've been doing a visual inspection of my tires every time I get in it to make sure it's not low/flat again.

I was running a bit late, and I simply forgot to check the tire.  I didn't remember until I was just about headed down the hill portion of my driveway.  I sighed, stopped, put it in park, and got out to do a quick run-around inspection.  It was low.

I'll admit to saying things that weren't polite at this point.

I grabbed my phone and called my parents, intending to go to their house and use Dad's big air compressor to fill it back up.  When I got there, Mom was already standing by her van pulling various things out of it.  She asked me to take her van instead.

I had already been uneasy about the car and a long trip because of its age as well as because of the tire issue.  However, I didn't want to drive another vehicle.  It's silly how attached we become to things and to routine.  I don't like driving other cars.  I wanted mine.  Silly, silly, silly.

That little voice inside my head stepped in at the point where I would have probably insisted on taking the Cruiser and said, "You should take the van today. Just to be on the safe side."  Dad was going to take the wheel off the Cruiser and check it again, and so I handed over my keys, took hers, moved my junk to the van, and left.

When I was close to home, I called to see what the vehicle status was.  Mom told me something that made my blood run absolutely cold.  The tire had been checked when it ran flat the other day, but no hole had been found.  As the guys at the tire shop my Dad took the wheel to inspected it, they also saw nothing wrong.  Dad decided that to be on the side of caution, he would go ahead and have the tire replaced.  That way, hopefully the issue would be over.  When they pulled it off the wheel, the steel belting inside had somehow become detached.  A bubble had formed on the inner surface.  It was waiting to blow out.

I drive like the proverbial bat out of hell.  I routinely thrash my little car in ways that I am fully aware are pushing its capabilities and safety.  I like to drive, and I enjoy speed.  (That is actually a very serious understatement.  This is why I want a muscle car.)  Something takes hold of me when I get out on the interstate.  The speed limit seems to be more of a speed suggestion to most of the people around me.  Everybody suddenly thinks they're NASCAR or Formula 1 drivers. People driving 45 mph lay claim to the passing lane like it's their homeland.  There's a major split where two interstates diverge, and the out-of-state traffic is always in the wrong lane and suddenly switching.  It's insane.  Add to that potent mixture the fact that I am usually leaving town at about five o'clock, the stupidest of all the stupid traffic hours, and you can probably imagine the type of driving I'm talking about.  You'll understand why I had a chill down my spine.

Just the previous evening, see, I'd been braking hard, dancing through 18-wheelers pulling the big hills between town and here, running all out.  It had been more than enough to blow that tire.  I have a front-wheel drive vehicle.  While I've had a blowout at 70 mph on the interstate before, it was a back tire that went, so I was able to maintain control. Anything I can imagine having happened if one of the front ones blew in that kind of traffic at that speed is not good.

I'm thankful for that tiny voice of reason and caution.  I'm thankful that I listened to it.  Otherwise, this could very well have been a posting from a hospital room or a message from beyond.

A Little Helpful Advice

(a read-between-the-lines-tongue-in-cheek-list-story)

• When trying to shoot an object, it's often good to take many shots of it from various angles.  Try close-up shots as well as framing more of the subject.  You can always crop down, but you can't add stuff around the edges.
• Late afternoon light is highly appealing for shooting.  It makes interesting shadows and has that dreamlike golden quality to it.
• Places of unexpected beauty are tucked away even in the most ruthlessly functional locations.  Always wear good shoes when shooting just in case you need to do a little walking on uneven ground to get in to where the shot is.
• It is not easy to walk fast on crossties.
• If and when that little instinctive voice whispers in your head that it's time to get off the train tracks and out of the woods, then it is indeed time to get off the train tracks and out of the woods.
• Kansas City Southern trains have rather intimidating black locomotives.  Sometimes four or five of them.

• Despite what you may believe to be true, by the time you can actually see a train coming around the bend and hear its whistle, your proverbial goose is cooked.  They move incredibly fast.
• The amount of wind created by a passing KCS train is enough to move an adult woman back a step or so.
• And finally.....
• Apparently, I need a FULL-TIME KEEPER whose only job is to keep me alive when I go out taking pictures.  Any takers? 

That Song...

(for F, should he ever read it)

So there's this Christmas song by Bob Dylan called "Must Be Santa."  I got a compilation album with a bunch of stuff on it, and I saw that one and thought, "Wow.  Bob Dylan does Christmas.  Okay."  

I did not at that time understand the profound turn for the holiday weird my life was going to take.

I think I'll let you listen to it for yourself.  You can click above and see the video and everything.  And really, without the video, you're just not getting the full effect.  It's like a cross between National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation and Animal House.  Just be warned.  IT WILL HAUNT YOU.  As in, you'll be humming in the shower as you are washing your hair or in the laundry room while you're folding clothes, and suddenly you will realize.....IT'S THAT SONG.  And so it will be every time your brain goes on idle even momentarily.  Apparently for the rest. of. your. life.

As if that weren't enough, I also have the image of Bob from this video cavorting in my head like an evil Tom Petty in his parade of hats.  And you KNOW it had to go somewhere scary for me to say "an evil Tom Petty."  I mean, consider what that entails for a moment.

So, at your own risk and in your own time, if you dare, test the waters and wade in.  Just be aware that you're going to be grading papers or chopping tomatoes and finding yourself chanting, "Dasher/Dancer/Prancer/Vixen/Eisenhower/Kennedy/Johnson/Nixon....Must be Santa, Must be Santa, Santa Claus...." like some devotee of a cult.

Maybe there's a 12-step to break the cycle.  

Elvis, Doves, and an Owl Cake

The other day I was using Poll Everywhere with one of my classes.  We were putting up answers to a question, and since a great number of students had been called from class for a quick meeting with the counselor, I wasn't in any great hurry to move through them quickly and leave the rest of the students behind.

We lingered, and the students put up good answers, thoughtful answers to the questions.  I am still trying to remember how we got on the subject, but suddenly we were talking about what it would take for me to get married.  I have tried, but I can't figure out how we made that leap.  I'm sure it was there in the literature we were studying.  The actual steps between points A and B are just fuzzy now.

Anyway.

I think the students were a little shocked when I told them I didn't exactly have a lot of faith that would be happening for me now.  I shouldn't say things like that to them, I guess.  They are young and precious, and most of them still believe in the idea of everybody pairing up like animals heading into the Ark.  The simple truth, though, is that some of us are unicorns, Chimeras, phoenixes, and dragons, and we really didn't get on the boat in time....

After seeing their faces, I hastened to assure them that it was really reaching a point where it didn't bother me as much, that I was okay with it.  I told them that I was free to travel, free to move, free to do or not do whatever I wanted.  I told them that I wasn't easy to live with.  They weighed all this, and then they more or less dismissed it out of hand and started planning...no, that's not really the right word...plotting... my wedding for me.  It got funny really fast after I told them I have always had a secret dream (okay, not so secret....everybody who knows me has heard this) to get married in Vegas by an Elvis.  They found this acceptable as long as there were doves.  Apparently, there have to be doves.  The doves are key.  And a cake shaped like an owl.  Or a cake from which someone dressed as an owl leaps.  And Shakespeare.

It was so funny.  I could see it all so clearly in my mind.  The birds, the inevitable white cape with red satin lining on the bejeweled Elvis, the owl-shaped wedding cake, some guy in a doublet and ruff.  The hilarity of it.  And you know what?  If that's the closest I ever get to having it, that was a pretty good deal, actually.

Well....That Was....Unexpected

I'm in the last phases of cleaning out all the things in my grading folder to close out grades tonight, and as I shifted the papers around, I found a typed essay with JUST READ IT!!! on the top mixed in with other assignments.

Puzzled, I glanced at the title, "The Hollow Woman."  Then my blood absolutely froze in my veins.  If you're paying attention to all the players and points around here, then you will know that was the title of a blog of mine early in September.

Once I started to breathe again, I started to read.  One of my students has taken the structure and even some of the words of that entry and sort of....written back to me.  I had to read it twice because my brain stopped working the first time through when I realized whole phrases had been lifted from my own writing.

It's not signed, or rather the typed signature reads only "Anonymous," so I have no idea where it came from.  It's a personal thing, the content of which I won't share here.  Someone perhaps connected to what I was saying in that blog and wanted me to know it.

I am torn between two emotions:  compassion and a wariness that I can't quite shake.  The last time current students of mine found my blog, a couple of really bad things happened.  This doesn't feel like that, though.  And those students weren't writing back, either.

I'm going to take it on faith, then, that this is just somebody who wanted me to hear their response, to know they were listening.  I am going to say, "Likewise."  I hear what you're saying.  I'm sorry it took me so long to find it.  And despite what you may believe, I am sure that nothing in your past would possibly keep you from whatever future you desire.

Mouse Shower

(which, by the way, I think would be a totally awesome band name)

This morning, I had more trouble than usual focusing and waking up.  I stumbled into the shower, and turned the water on.  As I was washing my hair, I glanced into the corner under the shower curtain, and I saw something odd, a grey spot that shouldn't be there.

I paused, blinked, looked again, and the spot moved.  This is not comforting when you are in as vulnerable a position as you are when you're in the shower.  Looking through the distortion of the clear liner, I figured out that what I was looking at was a small field mouse.

I decided at that point to get out of the shower.

I wasn't scared, but I kept having this image of the mouse running up my leg trying to get away from the soap and water.  I grabbed the big plastic cup I keep in the bathroom for rinsing the sides of the tub when I scrub it, and I looked around for something thin but strong and waterproof to slide under it to form a trap.  The only thing I could think of was my Cricut mat.  I took it, placed the cup gently over the unmoving mouse, slipped the mat under it, and I hustled him outside to a less-watery freedom.  Then I came back to the shower to enjoy rodent-free cleanness.

Any day that starts out with a mouse in your bath probably isn't going to be the best.  It really lived up to its start.  The polite, damp, little mouse was actually a high point.  That should tell you everything else about today that you need to know.

My White Whale

Every single printer I had ran out of toner and ink at the same time today.  Of course, that time was the moment when I needed to print tests, worksheets, and instruction sheets for all my classes.  Joy.

To prevent another day of intensive crappery, I knew I'd have to go to OfficeThing after school and pick up the necessary supplies.  I had a meeting, did some work, and then headed toward that part of town.  I had no idea I was about to have another encounter with my own personal white whale.

As I cruised by one of the car dealerships between me and my goal, I glanced at the lot.  I like to look at the pretty cars.  Sue me.  On the end of a row near the road sat a gleam of royal blue.  I did a double take.  Sure enough, it was the vintage Charger convertible.  It was back.

Being that it was five o'clock-ish traffic, I couldn't get over in time, and I kept on toward my office supply destination instead.  I toyed with the idea of going back when I was done, but it seemed silly.

I bought my toner and ink as fast as I could and before anything else could waylay me and steal massive amounts of my money.  (I have no control when I am near shiny office stuff.)  I came out and tucked the precious lifeblood of my classroom into the back, and paused.  Should I go back?  Shouldn't I just go home?  For the same reasons I went to look at the RoadRunner, I decided that I had to see it.

Back through the hellish traffic.  Back onto the lot.  And.  Of course it was gone.  I couldn't believe it.  I'd been less than thirty minutes.  Was it even real?  Is it just a cruel mirage?  I muttered to myself about using employee vehicles as bait and fought my way out into the traffic, hit the interstate, and headed west.

Someday, it will be mine.  Oh yes.  It will be mine.

This Will End BADLY

"People go to casinos for the same reason they go on blind dates - hoping to hit the jackpot. But mostly, you just wind up broke or alone in a bar."  ~ Carrie Bradshaw

So.  I'm sitting on the couch reading the other evening and my iPhone dings.  Text.  Okay.  I read it, and it's an invitation to a party Friday.  Again, okay.  It will be fun.  I haven't seen some of the people who are coming for a really long time.  I love them dearly, and we're all too busy or childrened or whathaveyou to hang out much now.  Any chance to get together is not to be missed.

Here's the thing, though.

There is also supposedly a guy for whom I am apparently "destined" whose birthday is the whole reason for the festivities.  Oh holy Cheezus.  It's a roommate and an awkwardness and an appraisal.  It's a set-up.

I'm going.  I want to see my friends.  I want to eat the absolutely divine food that will be there since one of my friends is a caterer/chef who makes things that will, quite literally, make that old cliche about slapping yo' mama come true.  I do, however, have extreme doubts about whether my "destiny" is waiting to begin on Friday night.

I am just going to go and be me (whoever that is), and everybody there can take me or leave me.  It's all I know how to be.  Let's just say I am sure the evening will be pleasant, but I'm not exactly optimistic about more than that. Unless he's smart as hell and at least as tall as I am, it's sort of doomed.  I can also deeply and profoundly wish that nobody has pitched this idea of destiny about to this guy.  Quite frankly, after a long week in the classroom, I don't think I'll be able to live up to that..... Another friend, I can always use.  Somebody who is avoiding me in horror and dismay all night, not so much.

Disquieting Muse

I am dreaming of you again.  You show up…everywhere.  Inevitably the nightmares come, but just when things are at their most bizarre, I look up and you have stepped in.  Sometimes you even stop the strangeness, lay your hands on my shoulders and turn me in another direction, wave your hands in a dismissal and I wake up.  Sometimes it's just a flash of perception as I flee or fight whatever demon is on the nightly marquee, and the world of my unconscious spins on.

There are the dreams where you talk and the dreams where you are a silent part of the background.  There are the dreams in which I have no idea why you would be there at all, nothing in them relating to you in any way.  You are the perpetual dress extra, the Hitchcockian cameo that defines the genre.   It’s enough to make me wonder half-seriously if you are something from a sci-fi novel, someone who can walk in the sleeping mind of another.

It’s not uncomfortable, but it is strange.  Why would I dream you sitting in a blue and buff melamine desk, pen twiddling in your hand, occupied with whatever is in front of you but still bored?  You do not fit there.  Why would I dream of a house I’ve never seen in which you show up in the hallways and corridors just to say hello and disappear like mist in the sun?  Sometimes we actually talk; sometimes you greet me and we are swept away into other things.  When I wake up, though, I always remember that you were there, playing "Where's Waldo" with the fragments and detritus of the day.

Please understand.  It’s not that I’m not glad to see you.  It’s just that you’re becoming more and more like de Chirico’s Disquieting Muses, something that gets more and more unnerving every time it is contemplated.  You are the shadow that no angle of light should be able to cast, the thing standing just out of frame that can be sensed but not quite caught. If there is to be any face on the subconscious that drags me through the world of dreams every night, I think we would both prefer it not to be yours.

When Literature and Rock Collide

On my way home today, "She's So Cold" from the Rolling Stones was blasting and I was singing along when it hit me.  The lyrics of that song are just a reworking of Spenser's sonnet "My Love Is Like to Ice." I teach it every year to two different courses, so it is kicking around in the back of my mind fairly handy.  Here's the Spenserian sonnet:


My Love Is Like To Ice

My love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,
And ice, which is congeal's with senseless cold,
Should kindle fire by wonderful device?
Such is the power of love in gentle mind,
That it can alter all the course of kind.

Here's the Rolling Stones:

You judge for yourself.  Maybe it's just a case of that old adage that there's just nothing new under the sun, but this juxtaposition of things made me really, really happy as I sailed down the highway.  Think I'll use this next year when it comes time to teach this again.

NightSong

Weird dreams are again plaguing me, no doubt the product of the end of school.  As if that weren't enough, I was awakened out of whatever sleep I was managing to get last night by the canine chorus around 1:30.  Chewie was going nuts, those deep throat barks that always make me think somebody is standing in the middle of the kitchen with a knife ready to do me harm.  It's more likely an armadillo is standing petrified just outside the window praying the giant noisy thing cannot get to it, but when I'm jarred out of sound sleep, what logical thinking manages to engage doesn't jump to the harmless little shelled mammal quivering in the yard.  It always jumps to the potential serial killer plotting maniacally near the fridge.

Once they woke me up, Chewie and Roux continued to rage for a good twenty minutes.  Maybe there was an armadillo hoedown going on outside.  I don't know.  I didn't go outside to see.  There are far more dangerous things than armadillos around here.  This is about the time of the year that the mysterious howling cat likes to show up, and I don't mean the type that one leaves out a saucer of milk for.  My neighbors say it's a bobcat.  We have larger things in the woods, too, panthers.  That might have been what the dogs heard, their sensitive ears catching the noise mine could not.  It might also have been deer or coyote which range through here on a regular basis.  I wouldn't necessarily have heard either of those things, but the dogs might have.

Or it could have been a stick dropping on the roof.

In any case, there's nothing like lying in the dark with dogs going berserk waiting to see if there is going to be another sound to go with it, one you're going to have to do something radical about.  Not fun.  Also not conducive to rest.  It's one of the downsides of living alone.  At least if there were somebody else in the house, I could sort of have that "Scooby-Doo" moment where we go see what's wrong together.  One has to make do with what one has, though.  At present that's just me, assorted cats who look indignant at being disturbed by my daring to move them in the middle of the night (something my sleep-addled brain should have taken as a sign of no-real-danger), and loud, protective doggage.

There was the one time, of course, when the thing that woke me was a stealthy knock on my door (not that I went to it that late/early) and the sound of someone trying to open the locked screen door very gently.  I suppose that time is the time that keeps me waking up startled in the darkness.  It was a very long time ago, and before I had any dogs at all.  All in all, I'd have to say that it's much better to wake up to Chewie, Roux, and the sound of potential canine violence than that eerie click of a door handle that isn't yielding.

Holy Freaking Crap

It has been the sort of day that began with a dead hair dryer and ended with watching a guy getting stalked in the Wal-Mart parking lot by a county sheriff in a Dodge Charger and subsequently arrested. You ever have that kind of day?

I broke up fights between people I never would have expected to quarrel mildly over issues that I never would have expected even to exist in this universe (or six parallel ones).  I got told I couldn't be "shawty-bread" because I was too big.  (Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I have a hand-gesture for you...)  I tried to restore peace and harmony to the universe.  I taught Sylvia Plath.  I tried to respect all persons and viewpoints, treat all as I would want to be treated, jump to no conclusions.  I had no Diet Mountain Dew or caffeine of any kind to do it.  That we all survived is a frakkin' miracle.  I kept waiting for some TV fool to jump out of a turning of the hallways and tell me I was being "punked."

After it was all over, I went to Wal-Mart, replaced the hair dryer, bought a LOT of Diet Mountain Dew, got something fantastic for dinner (eggplant parm I didn't have to slave over a stove to eat), and shamelessly threw an entire package of red velvet mini-cupcakes into the cart as well.  Tomorrow had damn well better be completely, totally, and utterly drama-free.  Just in case it isn't, though, at least I will be going in armed.

When Everybody Else Notices, Too....

Last night, I was at Mom and Dad's after a long day having dinner with them, and they asked me how I was doing.  I stopped and thought about it.  Usually after a day as long as I'd had, I'd be exhausted.  I'd be barely awake, dragging myself along trying to make it home so I could collapse.  

I wasn't, though.  I felt good.  I had energy.  I was (for me) chatty.  That is more or less what I relayed to them.    Their response was that they had noticed.  They seemed....relieved.  Apparently the changes in me lately are significant enough to be marked by others, and that made me pause.

I knew the 200 mg dosage of the Topamax had profoundly affected me internally.  I was constantly tired, always fighting to get through what I call the "glass wall" between me and the universe.  I had no energy and my couch was my friend.  What  I didn't realize was that I was doing so bad a job of winning.  I haven't been myself, not for awhile.  I only feel like I'm starting to come back to myself now.  I just thought more of it was internal than it was.

This also makes me wonder again what it will be like to be totally free of this stuff.  I long for the day when it's not in my life at all.  How deep are its roots into me?  What other changes has it made?  I have been on it so long now that I (quite literally with its help) no longer remember what I was like before.  That's more than a little scary, but sort of exciting, too.  I mean, I wasn't exactly an axe murderer before, right?  I hope the changes that continue to be revealed as I step down the dosage keep being good ones.

Paranoia

Third period was on it with the stripper thing again yesterday.  It started with talking about missed birthdays and presents.  They realized that they had missed mine, and they said they'd have brought me a present if they'd have known.  I told them they could have brought me copy paper (a running not-so-funny joke in my life).  One of them said they'd get me a new outfit for my "routine."   And off we went....

I just laugh at that most of the time because if you know me, I think you know that there is no person on earth less likely to be thought of in that capacity than I.  Guys don't notice me.  I have girl friends who are stunning, for whom guys will quite literally fling themselves over and through things.  I'm sort of the tag-along shadow who keeps my friends company until something male comes along, the "bodyguard," I guess.  Every group has that smart-girl-who-isn't-lovely. That's me. Oh, guys talk to me.  I make an awesome friend.  That's about it.  I mean, I don't scare babies or curdle milk, but men do not find me physically attractive.  I have known this since I was a teenager.   I made my peace with this ages ago.

That's why the whole stripper thing is so silly to me.  Yeah.  Right.  Me.  Uh-huh.  I'm more likely to be swinging a sword than off a pole, honey.

But it persists.  And so I started to worry in that ridiculous paranoid way that you do about things...  How did that idea get stuck in their head to start with?  Did I do something in any way inappropriate at any point to put that in their minds?  As a teacher, I have to watch everything I do so carefully.  It would kill me if I were accidentally doing something stupid and not knowing it.

One person I told this story to said, "It's because you are a woman, and you're totally fearless.  That's all."  I never would have put "fearless" and "stripper" together, but okay.  I sort of figure they're doing it just because they're a fun and funny class, and they've found the absurdity of it makes me laugh and roll my eyes.  I would take either of those answers.  I just couldn't live with the idea of impropriety.

Bluestocking

I have the oddest sense of having gotten a lot done today for no good reason.  It's deceptive, this.  I suppose the reality will come crashing down on me tomorrow....

I did get some things done, true enough.  I found a silly little freeware program that allows me to put electronic post-it notes on my computer screen, and my GOD, what a brilliant thing that is.  (Yeah.  I know.  It's been around forever, but I just thought to install it now.)  I have a post-it fetish anyway (it's a teacher thing.  you wouldn't understand.), and now I can make these little reminders that are right there in the way of every electronic thing I try to do.  It's a good thing.  It's a very good thing.  Thanks to them, I have gotten three or four nagging little tasks taken care of and others will get done either tonight before bed or first thing in the morning when I arrive at school.  My goal will be to clear away all the post-its each day.

I find my fingers itching to get more done, though, things I can't even start yet.  I want to start working on the collaboration between my classes and an international teacher's class, but that's not something I can control from my end.  I've sent the email to IREX, and I'm waiting to hear back from them.  I hope that will actually happen.  It's exciting to think I might be able to present my students with that opportunity, and I want to start getting the logistics out of my head and into reality.

And then, of course, there's the Fulbright.  I keep thinking about it, about the countries they listed.  My three haven't changed.  I keep thinking about what it might be like to spend three to six months in any of those places, actually to be able to wake up and know I was there in the morning, and I swear I absolutely am ready to pack my bags and get on the plane tomorrow.  Every conversation I have where members of my own family look at me with that sort of blank, uncomprehending stare when I try to talk makes me want to go faster.

I don't understand why that's happening, or why every time I try to express how happy or excited I am about something related to Brazil or even to the trip to Washington I just went on, I have to be told that "You have to remember it's not like that for everybody," or "Not everybody would enjoy something like that," as if somehow it's wrong for me to like traveling, going, seeing, like I'm doing something shameful.  There's no point in even trying to share what I see or what happens on my trips anymore.  I get a dim smile, a disinterested "that's nice," and then the conversation is deliberately turned away to something that happened at church last week.

Why is it so wrong for me to want this?  There are always a million question trying to pick holes in everything.... This could go wrong, or this, or this, or are you sure they're really going to take you?  Are you really sure the program is reliable?  Isn't three months a long time?  It's never, "Wow!  You got picked for a program that's nationally competitive?  Great!"  or "You're living out a dream to see the world?  Go for it!"  It makes me feel small and bad, like they think I'm stupid or gullible, worse not to have anyone to share it with when I come home.

I guess I am officially that embarrassing bluestocking "spinster" daughter who doesn't have enough sense to be ashamed that she didn't manage to catch some man, ANY man, and have children.  Everything about me seems to be humiliating, my friends, my hobbies, my clothing, my need for travel, my love of tech, my penchant for grabbing my camera and disappearing on my own schedule, since all of it causes a change of topic if I start talking about it, or a not-so-subtle comment that I'm getting "too into" whatever it is.  But, really, haven't I been this way all my life?  What's changed now?  Why is it just now that everything about me is wrong?

What is they want me to do with my life?  It didn't work out to be "happy families" for me.  That doesn't mean I can't be happy.  That doesn't mean I have to sit my entire life on the sidelines waiting for an escort or a savior, does it?  I by God won't.  Nobody should have to wait for someone else to help them live.  We're complete in and of ourselves, aren't we?  If we're lucky enough to find somebody who will come along for the ride, then we're blessed.  It's not that I don't want that, but until I find that, if I ever do, am I expected to sit twiddling my thumbs or building clumsy mantraps with my inadequate skills at coquetry?  There are so many other things out there so much more worthy of my time.

Truth be told, even though it hurts me, I am tired of trying to figure it out.  I don't think I can.  This is who and what I am, at least in this present iteration.  I'm sorry that it doesn't apparently measure up to what they wanted.  I guess every family has to have one oddity, right?  Look at me as fulfilling that roll, sit me in a corner at the next family gathering with my iPhone so I can check in on the digital world where there are at least a couple of people who can be said to "get me," and I guess we'll all just keep rolling along.....

Quietly

I just haven't had a lot to say in these past few days.  It's not that there isn't anything going on.  Quite the contrary, actually.  I'm really busy.  It's that time of the year, and I have a million things I am trying to get nailed down with this or that project, trip, or plan.  And I've come here several times, but I've gone away again without being willing or able to find anything clever or worthy to fill up this little white box.  What shall I tell you?  What is it you want to know, anyway?

I suppose this is just one of those phases where I'm not creating a lot of output.  It is extending into all my electronic worlds; I'm not tumbling, tweeting, or posting to FB (anything except pictures, which I don't seem to be able to help, really).  Of course, that might end this afternoon.  One can never tell.  A certain slant of light, something that happens, who knows what might change it.  It's happened before.  For now though, I'm just going through life with little cat feet.  Quietly.  Quietly.