happy blog

Visiting my bf was grand. He tells me, though, that I need to journal the happy times, and not just the angsty agonizing 2-in-the-mornings and tired afternoons. I tell him I feel more urge to write when I need to get the crap out-- kind of like verbal bulimia, I suppose. But now that I see that written out, yes, I can recognize that this may not be entirely healthy, so. . .

My 4-day (5 night) visit was grand. How grand? Well, for what I think might be the first time ever, on returning to the beautiful west coast (on a sunny day, I might add), my first thought was not "ahh, I love the air and flowers here in the spring!" but instead, "oh. I forgot. It's still kind of cold."

And I was not travelling to anywhere known as being particularly scenic.

I think I have found what artsmonkey wants. And for the first time, I think I am ready to take the chance of simply enjoying it.

office space

You know what a big, yet untalked about part of practicum stress comes from? I think it's the lack of any personal space at the school. If this were my job, and I had my own classroom, I wouldn't have to lug all my lesson plans, text books, and marking back and forth to school, for one thing. My shoulders are aching at the end of the week, not from stress, but from carrying around all my bags full of crap. . . and around and around the school, too.

longer weekends

I wish I had longer weekends. It takes me two full days to unwind, before I can even manage to sort out my laundry, let alone bill-paying and prepping for the rest of the week. I have no idea when I last paid a visa/phone bill. Tired, tired, tired.

humbling experience

we're doing poetry right now.

they say that your own experiences guide your construction of any learning. those experiences can be particularly relevant when it comes to interpreting literature, and especially poetry. they say that you see/write about what it is you know best.

if my students' poems/journals/analyses are anything to go by, then what they know is
Poverty.
and racism.
and violence.
and justice.
and Dignity.

spinning

. . . round and round like a dryer in a laundromat-- that's my brain these days. I dream about lesson planning, crazy teens, cleaning my room (which, incidentally, is beginning to look like the site of a smallish explosion. . . and i need to locate and purge the source of a somewhat odd smell). I wake up from dreams about being late for school, or not having tests ready, or kids asking me why I haven't done stuff I promised to do. The weekend is not long enough to recuperate (especially since my advisor likes to use the weekends to review next week's lessons over the phone. . . and then suggest a myriad of-- truly--helpful, but time-consuming changes to be implemented for the morning, usually an hour before I plan to go to bed. I have a sneaking suspicion that I also have a number of unpaid bills well overdue, and no time for a part-time job in sight. 8 more weeks. 8 more weeks. . .

(3 poetry units going on this term-- do you like my similes?)