"Good luck movin' up cause I'm moving out."
--Billy Joel, "Moving Out"
I will no longer be updating this blog. All my new updates can be found here:
http://johnmackfreeman.wordpress.com/
New updates and the reason for the switch. This site will remain active as an archive of past material.
Time Marches
Today, I discovered that Dolly Parton has a Twitter and Youtube account thanks to a retweet from Jason S. So, of course I had to check it out. I have a sometimes obsession with Dolly Parton. I like 9 to 5: The Musical and Steel Magnolias. I like the fact that she built Dollywood in her home area. Plus, anyone who made a career somewhat off of their breasts and is completely upfront about that is totally okay in my books.
I was looking at her Youtube page and she has a video blog. I watched the latest entry, and it was pretty standard fare. Her being Southern and wishing everyone a happy 4th of July and telling everyone that they can change the world and that 2010 is now officially halfway over. See, but what struck me about this article is that Dolly Parton looked old.
Not bad, mind you, but older. I always get struck by that when I see people that I don't get to see very often. I imagine that people, when I don't see them, pause. They're waiting for me to get back for their lives to continue. They don't age. Things don't break down. Everything is going to be okay and the same when I come back.
This is obviously not true. Things change. Entropy reigns. And as Tom Disch reminds us, "Things break down in different ways/We can't for that omit their praise."
I don't feel myself growing up or getting earlier. I think that I'm the same that I always have been, but I guess that I have grown up. Somehow, I became what I never thought I'd live long enough to be: an adult. And I'm having an adult life and adult problems. And things don't stop. The march of progress marches relentlessly forward.
And I like the hum of moving forward. But sometimes I want to grab at the images flashing by outside the window. And I can't. Because time marches on, and it truly is, as Tennessee Williams says, "the greatest distance between two points."
There's always tomorrow, but it never looked the same as the incomparable today or yesterday. It's a copy of a copy: similar but never the same.
I was looking at her Youtube page and she has a video blog. I watched the latest entry, and it was pretty standard fare. Her being Southern and wishing everyone a happy 4th of July and telling everyone that they can change the world and that 2010 is now officially halfway over. See, but what struck me about this article is that Dolly Parton looked old.
Not bad, mind you, but older. I always get struck by that when I see people that I don't get to see very often. I imagine that people, when I don't see them, pause. They're waiting for me to get back for their lives to continue. They don't age. Things don't break down. Everything is going to be okay and the same when I come back.
This is obviously not true. Things change. Entropy reigns. And as Tom Disch reminds us, "Things break down in different ways/We can't for that omit their praise."
I don't feel myself growing up or getting earlier. I think that I'm the same that I always have been, but I guess that I have grown up. Somehow, I became what I never thought I'd live long enough to be: an adult. And I'm having an adult life and adult problems. And things don't stop. The march of progress marches relentlessly forward.
And I like the hum of moving forward. But sometimes I want to grab at the images flashing by outside the window. And I can't. Because time marches on, and it truly is, as Tennessee Williams says, "the greatest distance between two points."
There's always tomorrow, but it never looked the same as the incomparable today or yesterday. It's a copy of a copy: similar but never the same.
Cleaning
Today is a holiday for the California State University system, so Rene has the day off. And since I'm treading the fine freelance line between self-employed and unemployed, I worked a little bit this morning and I'm going to spend the day with him. He's leaving for Hawai'i on Thursday, so I won't see him for almost two weeks. Anywho, after I got done writing one of the articles I did this morning, I looked around and had a little tiny freakout.
Enough is enough, I thought. It is time. Time to clean.
People who know me know that I'm not an extraordinarily clean person. I mean, I shower daily and wash my face and teeth, but that's about the extent of my grooming. And I take my philosophy on cleaning my apartment from Angels in America (badly paraphrased): This is messy, not dirty. Messy is papers and clothes strewn about. Messy is a pile of books about to topple over. Dirty is a plate with stuff growing on or food decomposing on the ground. Messy is fine. Dirty is not.
So, anywho, I was looking around Rene's room, and he is even messier than I am. So, I started cleaning. And, although I've never seen it, I'm told that it's a beautiful, somewhat scary sight to see me clean. I attack cleaning with the attitude of a bulimic with her eye on the prom: the more I purge, the closer I am to the prize. I just finished doing his desk and the corner it sits in and I have a trashbag full. And, to top it off, I dusted. Catie and Dot, please don't pass out.
My penchant for throwing things away comes from moving a lot as a child. If you don't want to haul it several hundred miles, throw it away. It's not worth keeping. But also (and this isn't true today), I love cleaning when I'm angry or stressed. It gives me an iota of control when I'm feeling helpless. Other times, though, a switch just gets hit in my head. And it's time.
Time to clean.
New Movies
For those of you who know me pretty well, you can probably count on one hand the number of times we've been to a movie theatre together. It's because I rarely go. In fact, the last movie I went and saw was Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief. I saw it with Catie in February. Not only is that the last movie I saw (nearly four months ago now), but it is the only movie that I have seen in a theatre in Los Angeles.
It's not that I don't like movies. I actually love movies. But, I grew up in Tifton. It has one movie theatre that has six screens. It showed movies that would appeal to children, Southerners, and mainstream America. Thus, Rachel Getting Married was never shown there. Nor was Rent. Or Brokeback Mountain. Or I would say the majority of the Academy Award winners of the last decade. Because it wouldn't have sold tickets. And since I'm not a teen comedy kinda guy, I just didn't go.
Plus, there was another reason I didn't go to the movies: in a one Starbucks town like Tifton, the place to go to be seen when I was in school was the movie theatre. It was always packed on Friday and Saturday nights with every preppy kid or scene kid or anyone who needed to be seen from middle school to the point in high school when those kids moved on to house parties and cheap beer. Anyway, even though I was school friends with a lot of these people, I never felt like I belonged there. I didn't understand the main principle of belonging to a group: acting like you belong is 80%. If you get that far, you're practically in. But I didn't know that then, so I stayed away. Hung by myself. It was safer that way.
Anywho, this means that I always see movies at home. Which is great, because I can pause them, make them as loud as I want them to be, and walk away if I don't want to see it anymore. It's a good deal cheaper, and I get to see exactly what I want to see. In pretty much every category for me, watching a movie at home beats watching a movie at a theatre (did I mention that there are strangers in movie theatres? Gross.). Except one big one:
It's hard to talk about movies.
Not cinema. Or film. Talking about the concept is kind of universal if you've seen enough of the right kind of movies. But, I can't talk about popular movies. Because I don't see them in theatres when everybody else does, I'm behind the curve on it. And when I finally do see it, the movie is old news and nobody wants to talk it. Like, I watched Zombieland earlier tonight. I remember when everybody saw it for the first time and was talking about it. They were totally right; it was fantastic. But, my viewpoint is neither timely nor relevant right now. So, I'm just going to keep it to myself.
I do that a lot with movies I see by myself. But it's okay. It's got to be better than sitting through a lot of crap waiting to see something mildly interesting. And I think that Netflix and I will continue to get along famously.
It's not that I don't like movies. I actually love movies. But, I grew up in Tifton. It has one movie theatre that has six screens. It showed movies that would appeal to children, Southerners, and mainstream America. Thus, Rachel Getting Married was never shown there. Nor was Rent. Or Brokeback Mountain. Or I would say the majority of the Academy Award winners of the last decade. Because it wouldn't have sold tickets. And since I'm not a teen comedy kinda guy, I just didn't go.
Plus, there was another reason I didn't go to the movies: in a one Starbucks town like Tifton, the place to go to be seen when I was in school was the movie theatre. It was always packed on Friday and Saturday nights with every preppy kid or scene kid or anyone who needed to be seen from middle school to the point in high school when those kids moved on to house parties and cheap beer. Anyway, even though I was school friends with a lot of these people, I never felt like I belonged there. I didn't understand the main principle of belonging to a group: acting like you belong is 80%. If you get that far, you're practically in. But I didn't know that then, so I stayed away. Hung by myself. It was safer that way.
Anywho, this means that I always see movies at home. Which is great, because I can pause them, make them as loud as I want them to be, and walk away if I don't want to see it anymore. It's a good deal cheaper, and I get to see exactly what I want to see. In pretty much every category for me, watching a movie at home beats watching a movie at a theatre (did I mention that there are strangers in movie theatres? Gross.). Except one big one:
It's hard to talk about movies.
Not cinema. Or film. Talking about the concept is kind of universal if you've seen enough of the right kind of movies. But, I can't talk about popular movies. Because I don't see them in theatres when everybody else does, I'm behind the curve on it. And when I finally do see it, the movie is old news and nobody wants to talk it. Like, I watched Zombieland earlier tonight. I remember when everybody saw it for the first time and was talking about it. They were totally right; it was fantastic. But, my viewpoint is neither timely nor relevant right now. So, I'm just going to keep it to myself.
I do that a lot with movies I see by myself. But it's okay. It's got to be better than sitting through a lot of crap waiting to see something mildly interesting. And I think that Netflix and I will continue to get along famously.
Edit: I was so excited to go see The Last Airbender this weekend. Rene and I checked Rotten Tomatoes before going...it had an 8% positive rating. See, yet another reason not to go...I don't want to waste the time and money if the movie is just going to suck.
Tales of a Wayward Classicist: Latin Tattoos
Tales of a Wayward Classicist: Latin Tattoos
Sometimes when I'm writing, I run across stuff I obviously can't use, but that I love too much not to share. I'm writing a guide for Latin tattoos. Here are some Latin tattoo fails. Much thanks to J. Harker for compiling this.
Miss Loosha
So, this year, I had the pleasure of serving on a team with one Miss Lucia M. She was the model team leader this year in the way that she never let on to those of us she was leading what was going on in her personal life. She played her cards very close to her chest, and, even when we did catch wind of things, she still maintained her distance. As a leader should and must. So, I respect her for that.
But, now that the year is done, it's time to tell secrets. Well, not secrets, but it is certainly time to hang out.
Lucia (or as I affectionately call her, Loosha) went to LACMA today where we did the tour of the American and Latin American art wings. Now, those are not my typical areas, but I'm glad she made me go. In the Latin American wing, there's this huge mural based off of the 1965 Watts riots that is both amazing and full of this beautiful rage and violence. Gah, it was wonderful. I was so excited to be there. I felt inspired just walking through there...got me re-excited about life and starting new projects.
Then, we went to one of my new favorite places in Los Angeles: Psychobabble, this coffee shop in Los Feliz near Rene's favorite restaurant. So, reclining in our matching red wingback chair, I sipping a cafe cocoa while she nibbled a cookie, I was regaled with stories from the life of an aloof team leader. It was fascinating, but in the interest of privacy and not telling everything I know, you'll have to wait for the book version before this story gets told.
Suffice it to say, I had a good evening. I called Rene and woke him up, we chatted for a bit and he went to bed.
My style guide for one of my websites is against the Oxford comma. I am personally for it but now I fear that I'm going to start leaving it out because I'm used to ignoring it, much to the shame of Ms. Carter, my fifth grade English Language Arts teacher.
Sour Patch Kids are my crack.
Getting up and going to the gym is rocking my world this week. I should have done it all year. Granted, that would have required getting up at 4:30 AM. Maybe it wouldn't have been worth it after all.
Catie has called me three times in two days. It's like the old days in communication about everything, and I'm loving it. Communication with the outside LA world is an unexpected boon of the self-employed life.
But, now that the year is done, it's time to tell secrets. Well, not secrets, but it is certainly time to hang out.
Lucia (or as I affectionately call her, Loosha) went to LACMA today where we did the tour of the American and Latin American art wings. Now, those are not my typical areas, but I'm glad she made me go. In the Latin American wing, there's this huge mural based off of the 1965 Watts riots that is both amazing and full of this beautiful rage and violence. Gah, it was wonderful. I was so excited to be there. I felt inspired just walking through there...got me re-excited about life and starting new projects.
Then, we went to one of my new favorite places in Los Angeles: Psychobabble, this coffee shop in Los Feliz near Rene's favorite restaurant. So, reclining in our matching red wingback chair, I sipping a cafe cocoa while she nibbled a cookie, I was regaled with stories from the life of an aloof team leader. It was fascinating, but in the interest of privacy and not telling everything I know, you'll have to wait for the book version before this story gets told.
Suffice it to say, I had a good evening. I called Rene and woke him up, we chatted for a bit and he went to bed.
My style guide for one of my websites is against the Oxford comma. I am personally for it but now I fear that I'm going to start leaving it out because I'm used to ignoring it, much to the shame of Ms. Carter, my fifth grade English Language Arts teacher.
Sour Patch Kids are my crack.
Getting up and going to the gym is rocking my world this week. I should have done it all year. Granted, that would have required getting up at 4:30 AM. Maybe it wouldn't have been worth it after all.
Catie has called me three times in two days. It's like the old days in communication about everything, and I'm loving it. Communication with the outside LA world is an unexpected boon of the self-employed life.
Gems TV
Gems TV filed for bankruptcy in April and no one told me!
I will never play the game again. Today, is truly a day of sadness.
See previous postings for how much I loved Gems TV.
I will never play the game again. Today, is truly a day of sadness.
See previous postings for how much I loved Gems TV.
Happiness
I was talking to Catie on the phone today, and she said that she recently realized that we are never going to be happier at any time in our lives than when we are five years old. I thought about it for an instant, and she started providing me with a litany of reasons (which sadly, I cannot remember all of). I thought that today I would share a few reasons why everyone is happier at 5 than later on in life:
-A popsicle is the most epically awesome thing in your life.
-If someone isn't being nice to you, an adult will step in and mediate.
-Everyone has to be everyone's friend. If they're not, once again, an adult will step in and mediate.
-You can take a nap every afternoon.
-You still think that you can grow up to be a dinosaur and an astronaut. At the same time.
-You still think that you can grow up and someone will love you without you having to change anything about yourself.
-The only people's who love you need is your parents.
I mean, let's face it, there are probably a ton more reasons (and I support your contributions in the comment section of this post). However, I will add a Rene corollary: Just because five years old is the happiest time of your life doesn't mean that there isn't happiness at other times. It is just that happiness is highest and most concentrated over the longest period when you're small.
-A popsicle is the most epically awesome thing in your life.
-If someone isn't being nice to you, an adult will step in and mediate.
-Everyone has to be everyone's friend. If they're not, once again, an adult will step in and mediate.
-You can take a nap every afternoon.
-You still think that you can grow up to be a dinosaur and an astronaut. At the same time.
-You still think that you can grow up and someone will love you without you having to change anything about yourself.
-The only people's who love you need is your parents.
I mean, let's face it, there are probably a ton more reasons (and I support your contributions in the comment section of this post). However, I will add a Rene corollary: Just because five years old is the happiest time of your life doesn't mean that there isn't happiness at other times. It is just that happiness is highest and most concentrated over the longest period when you're small.
After Father's Day
Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been over a month since my last blog entry. In that time, I have lived life. I have kissed a boy and fallen more in love. I have been to Disneyland, and I rode the Small World ride, much to my chagrin. I have finished a year of service. I have cried when I realized I would never see any of my children again, and I truly regret that I don't have more pictures.
Enough with that. So, I've started freelancing again now that I'm done working with City Year. It was a...run...but I'm glad to be done with it for now. I don't really have negative feelings about the year, but I do know that it is WAY too close right now for me to think anything honest and serious about it. So, instead of talking about that, I'm going to talk about something else.
(Insert obligatory promise that I will post a lot more often on here. I'm not going to make any promises. We'll just see how it goes.)
I just wanted to jot something really quick that I've been thinking for a while. This must have happened a month ago now, though it could have been just a few weeks ago. Anywho, I was talking to my dad, and he asked after my boyfriend, Rene, and I told him about some small thing that had happened, and he expressed his interest and we moved on to something else.
I know that this is such a small moment, but, really, it was hugely important to me. See, I realized in that moment that, for possibly years, I had been lying to people. People ask me how my parents deal with me being gay, I tell them that my mom is totally okay with it and that we're really close friends. And I tell them that my dad is totally in my corner and just wants me to be happy, but that he doesn't want to talk about it. I mean, he's a good-ol'-boy, and that's just not something that's a part of that world.
I haven't dated anyone that I've really cared for in a while. And I just never bring it up to my dad. I thought that he would be too uncomfortable to talk about it. But, I guess that it's really that I was too scared to bring it up. Not that he would say anything...he would never be negative, but maybe it would be cold or awkward or put distance between us. But that was stupidity on my part. He really, truly and honestly, just wants the best for me. And that's totally awesome. He likes me completely for who I am from his reclined perch in his recliner, absorbing vast quantities of the History Channel and ESPN.
You see, my dad's amazing. And it doesn't matter if my dad can beat up your dad. If you or your dad say anything about either of us, I'll poison your food. A vague disclaimer is no one's friend. So, until next time.
Enough with that. So, I've started freelancing again now that I'm done working with City Year. It was a...run...but I'm glad to be done with it for now. I don't really have negative feelings about the year, but I do know that it is WAY too close right now for me to think anything honest and serious about it. So, instead of talking about that, I'm going to talk about something else.
(Insert obligatory promise that I will post a lot more often on here. I'm not going to make any promises. We'll just see how it goes.)
I just wanted to jot something really quick that I've been thinking for a while. This must have happened a month ago now, though it could have been just a few weeks ago. Anywho, I was talking to my dad, and he asked after my boyfriend, Rene, and I told him about some small thing that had happened, and he expressed his interest and we moved on to something else.
I know that this is such a small moment, but, really, it was hugely important to me. See, I realized in that moment that, for possibly years, I had been lying to people. People ask me how my parents deal with me being gay, I tell them that my mom is totally okay with it and that we're really close friends. And I tell them that my dad is totally in my corner and just wants me to be happy, but that he doesn't want to talk about it. I mean, he's a good-ol'-boy, and that's just not something that's a part of that world.
I haven't dated anyone that I've really cared for in a while. And I just never bring it up to my dad. I thought that he would be too uncomfortable to talk about it. But, I guess that it's really that I was too scared to bring it up. Not that he would say anything...he would never be negative, but maybe it would be cold or awkward or put distance between us. But that was stupidity on my part. He really, truly and honestly, just wants the best for me. And that's totally awesome. He likes me completely for who I am from his reclined perch in his recliner, absorbing vast quantities of the History Channel and ESPN.
You see, my dad's amazing. And it doesn't matter if my dad can beat up your dad. If you or your dad say anything about either of us, I'll poison your food. A vague disclaimer is no one's friend. So, until next time.
I Haven't Died
I just got busy. So, I'm pulling out of my post Camps funk. Here's April in brief:
- Planted an awesome native garden (pictures later)
- Went to Museum of Contemporary Art
- Started dating an awesome guy, Rene (a lot more details on him coming shortly)
- Went to a Hold Steady concert this past Wednesday
- Decided to stay in LA for another year...this may or may not be directly related to bullet 3
- Started freelance writing again.
- Painted my second music-themed mural of the year
- Found out that City Year will not be at 112th Street Elementary where I serve next year. I don't know why this makes me so sad but it does.
Anywho, look for more details...probably tomorrow afternoon if I can convince Rene that we don't have to be out moving every moment of every day. Until then, all four of you loyal readers.
Work, Overheard Statement, Shoes
So, I go back to work tomorrow. I technically had today off even though i was in Watts for two hours this morning. However, now that I'm done with Camps, I have a much lighter work load that's going to let me get on with life and give me a lot more free time. I've never really talked about it, but I try to keep my work thoughts out of my online life...things are just a tad too permanent and public. Which is fine, but I'm trying to remain decorous. As Theresa Foster so elegantly put it, "I don't care who you are or what you do so long as you're not trashy."
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One of my Latina friends catered a Passover Seder recently. Every person at the event called her "Maria" the entire time.
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I need to say something real. Something mean. Attention all women going to the art museum: I'm not saying that you're sensible low chunky heels aren't cute, I am saying though that an art museum (especially a contemporary art museum) is little more than a reverberating chamber of walls and hardwood floors. Thus, the sound of viewing art is you're goose-stepping to the room with Mark Rothkos in it. In short, wear flats. There, I said it.
Reminder of the Themes
Back in the day, and by the day, I mean my sophomore year in college, spring 2007, I kept a different blog. This blog might just become my longest running one if I keep at it and keep telling stories. I kept a daily blog for my mother my freshman year in college over at Xanga. Then, for a tiz, I kept a LiveJournal under the name of young-america. Both of them are still up...I should probably just copy all of the information on them and take them down. I'll get around to that some day.
Today, I was watching movies, and my building wobbled a little bit from side to side. I thought that my neighbors were just being crazy and banging on stuff since I was leaning against the wall. But, no! It was my very first consciously lived through earthquake. I'm so psyched! I mean, I don't necessarily want to be around when the big one hits, but I'm glad I've been around during one, just so that I can say I was there.
Anyways, I was thinking about that because, in 2007, I made two resolutions for the year. Well, they weren't so much resolutions as they were themes of the year. A window through which I would place my outlook of the year. They were:
- Fuck the bitches. (Translation: Anyone who is a vampire on your life, a Debbie Downer getting in the way of your creativity, a Negative Nancy raining on your parade...anyone getting in the way of you being the best you can be by trying to bring you down, screw them. Remember that you're better than that, and move on.)
- You have some serious problems you need to work on. (Translation: You (read: everyone) has some serious stuff going down in your life. There is no time like the present to work on these glaring character flaws, gaps in willpower, and other smudges on the mirror of otherwise spotless reflections.)
The longer I live and the more things that I do, I realize that these things aren't the themes of 2007; they're the theme of a balanced life. At least a young balanced life. At least my young balanced life. So, as I endeavor to make it through, I just have to keep reminding myself of this. And one day, I'll be the bright shining center that the universe spins around. And so will you.
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I'm coming back to life, slowly but surely. Today was a day that I just stayed in my room and watched movies pretty much the whole day. I haven't had the time to watch a movie from start to finish in ages, so it was great to catch up on some stuff. Everything I watched today was solid 3.5 stars stuff (I need Netflix to let me rate things on the half star like woah). The docket included Julie & Julia, Paper Heart, and Yossi and Jagger, my first Israeli Hebrew-language film ever. Now, I'm loading the LA Theatre Works production of Our Lady of 121st Street onto my iPod and going to the gym for the first time in forever.
I'm coming back to life, slowly but surely. Today was a day that I just stayed in my room and watched movies pretty much the whole day. I haven't had the time to watch a movie from start to finish in ages, so it was great to catch up on some stuff. Everything I watched today was solid 3.5 stars stuff (I need Netflix to let me rate things on the half star like woah). The docket included Julie & Julia, Paper Heart, and Yossi and Jagger, my first Israeli Hebrew-language film ever. Now, I'm loading the LA Theatre Works production of Our Lady of 121st Street onto my iPod and going to the gym for the first time in forever.
Oh! I almost forgot! So, the only thing that I've wanted to experience (okay, not the only thing, but one of them) since I moved to LA was an earthquake. There was one a few weeks ago, but I was so exhausted from Camps that I didn't even notice. I didn't even wake up.
Today, I was watching movies, and my building wobbled a little bit from side to side. I thought that my neighbors were just being crazy and banging on stuff since I was leaning against the wall. But, no! It was my very first consciously lived through earthquake. I'm so psyched! I mean, I don't necessarily want to be around when the big one hits, but I'm glad I've been around during one, just so that I can say I was there.
Until later, everyone. (And if you're looking for something to do, might I suggest watching/rewatching:
Back To Life (Shitty Poem)
The Hold Steady got me real interested
in how a resurrection would really feel,
so I decided that to be reborn, first
I was gonna have to die
so I did. I volunteered for the funeral
pyre, besting the other virgins,
getting marked to lead the way through
this endless days finally ending in a blaze.
For four long months, I stayed
dead. There's really no point to a
resurrection if you can't stay
dead long enough. So, I stayed
dead just long enough, but today,
I decided it was time for resurrection.
The people's faces have
changed. Their words have different
meanings. Their smiles have different
warmth. Their lives have different
paths. Everything so different.
See, how a resurrection really feels is like
loneliness. You limp hard on worn-out heels,
but you make it through, and that's its own reward.
Making it through is the reward for the pain of resurrection.
in how a resurrection would really feel,
so I decided that to be reborn, first
I was gonna have to die
so I did. I volunteered for the funeral
pyre, besting the other virgins,
getting marked to lead the way through
this endless days finally ending in a blaze.
For four long months, I stayed
dead. There's really no point to a
resurrection if you can't stay
dead long enough. So, I stayed
dead just long enough, but today,
I decided it was time for resurrection.
The people's faces have
changed. Their words have different
meanings. Their smiles have different
warmth. Their lives have different
paths. Everything so different.
See, how a resurrection really feels is like
loneliness. You limp hard on worn-out heels,
but you make it through, and that's its own reward.
Making it through is the reward for the pain of resurrection.
Such Strange Ways
"We save our lives in such strange ways." -Neil Gaiman
So, one of my newfound literary follows in LA is Neil Gaiman. I just got done with Fragile Things tonight. As I was riding home on the train today, though, I read a poem that was in this collection that told the story of Scherezade (sp?), the main character of the Arabian Nights, who had to tell a new story every night so that her husband wouldn't kill her.
As she walked through her days, according to this poem, she saw things that would later be regurgitated in different versions as the stories she created each night.
I feel like that's how I work. A million projects, and each one of them saving a tiny part of my life and sanity. Sitting down to write...to consolidate the world in words so that I can take the size of it and use it...I want to do this everyday.
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By the way, the Camp that I'm running in Watts is going amazingly. Over 100 campers everyday, the staff and students loving every minute of it, and the whole thing running smooth as hell. You really can't ask for much more than that.
So, one of my newfound literary follows in LA is Neil Gaiman. I just got done with Fragile Things tonight. As I was riding home on the train today, though, I read a poem that was in this collection that told the story of Scherezade (sp?), the main character of the Arabian Nights, who had to tell a new story every night so that her husband wouldn't kill her.
As she walked through her days, according to this poem, she saw things that would later be regurgitated in different versions as the stories she created each night.
I feel like that's how I work. A million projects, and each one of them saving a tiny part of my life and sanity. Sitting down to write...to consolidate the world in words so that I can take the size of it and use it...I want to do this everyday.
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By the way, the Camp that I'm running in Watts is going amazingly. Over 100 campers everyday, the staff and students loving every minute of it, and the whole thing running smooth as hell. You really can't ask for much more than that.
Stories from the Past: Riding Home
Music has always been a huge part of transportation for me, and I'm not strictly speaking emotional distances. I have always been a huge believer that what you are listening to while driving is the single most important part of driving. If you're tired, then the choice of The Decemberists is probably ill-advised, because that will cause you to veer into oncoming traffic on your way home from a funeral (or maybe that's just me). If you're driving 300 miles home starting at midnight because you had a full day of class, rehearsal, and an improv show, then might I suggest cranking classic Brittney Spears and Eminem. There's nothing in there that is going to let you nod off.
But, as I was waking up this morning, getting ready for today, letting iTunes play whatever it wanted to in the background, Train's "Drops of Jupiter" came on. For about two weeks in high school, I was really into this song. And I still like this song, but mostly because it reminds me of one specific memory.
I was getting out of a long rehearsal. This must have been tenth grade, because I was carrying a backpack that weighed about 85 pounds, threatening to tip me backward with every step. At one point, it almost realigned my spine into skuliosis, but that's another story for another day. Anyway, I got into my father's truck, and this song was playing. My dad, who had been waiting on me, was singing along to it. For some reason, I just found this absolutely bizarre.
My father is someone who loves classic rock. And some classic pop. But he's the quintessential my-taste-in-music-froze-in-my-twenties person. I imagine that that happens a lot. However, there's not really a huge selection of stations in south GA that aren't Christian, country, or rap, so the one 80's through present day station was his general fixture. And he ended up liking it.
I told this story to K'Fain a few years ago and she said, "Of course your dad liked "Drops of Jupiter." Everybody's dad likes Train. Nobody you know actually likes Train except for your dad." I laughed, and we probably kept watching Law and Order: SVU.
---
Posts may be sporadic for the next two weeks because Camp City Year is ramping into its home stretch. Keep safe 'til then, and look for posts from the dark side.
But, as I was waking up this morning, getting ready for today, letting iTunes play whatever it wanted to in the background, Train's "Drops of Jupiter" came on. For about two weeks in high school, I was really into this song. And I still like this song, but mostly because it reminds me of one specific memory.
I was getting out of a long rehearsal. This must have been tenth grade, because I was carrying a backpack that weighed about 85 pounds, threatening to tip me backward with every step. At one point, it almost realigned my spine into skuliosis, but that's another story for another day. Anyway, I got into my father's truck, and this song was playing. My dad, who had been waiting on me, was singing along to it. For some reason, I just found this absolutely bizarre.
My father is someone who loves classic rock. And some classic pop. But he's the quintessential my-taste-in-music-froze-in-my-twenties person. I imagine that that happens a lot. However, there's not really a huge selection of stations in south GA that aren't Christian, country, or rap, so the one 80's through present day station was his general fixture. And he ended up liking it.
I told this story to K'Fain a few years ago and she said, "Of course your dad liked "Drops of Jupiter." Everybody's dad likes Train. Nobody you know actually likes Train except for your dad." I laughed, and we probably kept watching Law and Order: SVU.
---
Posts may be sporadic for the next two weeks because Camp City Year is ramping into its home stretch. Keep safe 'til then, and look for posts from the dark side.
Quick Note(s)
People who have nothing to show for their lives ragging on people who are working their way up the ladder might be my new biggest pet peeve.
I'm not sleeping enough or well these days.
Listening to people talk about shoes makes me want to put my eyeball beneath an icicle that's about to fall.
I'm not sleeping enough or well these days.
Listening to people talk about shoes makes me want to put my eyeball beneath an icicle that's about to fall.
The Safety of Devotion
I almost punched a dude in the face today. So, I'm walking home from work at 10:30 PM. I live in Koreatown, which isn't an awful part of Los Angeles, but it gets sketchy after about 9:00 if you're by yourself. So, I turn onto my street, and I see this girl running down the sidewalk straight towards me. About three steps behind her is an African-American dude about 5'11" chasing her.
She runs up to me, grabs me, and the dude is standing in front of me, looking at me through eyes that are clearly crossed. I pull back to punch him. Then, the girl lets go of me and I realize that it's my coworker BG who lives in my building. She says not to worry, that it was one of her friends and she was just fooling around. She asked me about what was going on in life, and then she left on her merry way. I walked home, my heart frozen in my chest.
Last week, a crazy Asian woman followed me four blocks home. She was screaming at me while I was on the phone with my mother.
Here's the deal: I always walk with some sort of weapon in my hand. My mom bought me a taser for Christmas. I haven't carried it because I thought it was excessive. And it is, if I'm coming home at 6 or 7 and staying in my part of K-Town. But, if I'm going to be getting home after the trains turn into hobo jungles, then I'm going to start carrying it because I don't feel comfortable otherwise. I always make sure that if a female coworker is going home by herself late at night that I go with her as far as I can because, really, LA does a shit job of keeping its public transit system safe and there's almost no police presence downtown after sundown.
Regardless, I always walk with my keys wrapped in my fingers so that if I have to punch somebody, I can hopefully puncture their skin and make them bleed.
It's not about being paranoid; it's about being safe. And because someone acted like an idiot tonight, a completely innocent person almost got their face slashed. I'm working 13-15 hour days and being harassed does not fit into my daily schedule.
But besides that, my day was amazing.
She runs up to me, grabs me, and the dude is standing in front of me, looking at me through eyes that are clearly crossed. I pull back to punch him. Then, the girl lets go of me and I realize that it's my coworker BG who lives in my building. She says not to worry, that it was one of her friends and she was just fooling around. She asked me about what was going on in life, and then she left on her merry way. I walked home, my heart frozen in my chest.
Last week, a crazy Asian woman followed me four blocks home. She was screaming at me while I was on the phone with my mother.
Here's the deal: I always walk with some sort of weapon in my hand. My mom bought me a taser for Christmas. I haven't carried it because I thought it was excessive. And it is, if I'm coming home at 6 or 7 and staying in my part of K-Town. But, if I'm going to be getting home after the trains turn into hobo jungles, then I'm going to start carrying it because I don't feel comfortable otherwise. I always make sure that if a female coworker is going home by herself late at night that I go with her as far as I can because, really, LA does a shit job of keeping its public transit system safe and there's almost no police presence downtown after sundown.
Regardless, I always walk with my keys wrapped in my fingers so that if I have to punch somebody, I can hopefully puncture their skin and make them bleed.
It's not about being paranoid; it's about being safe. And because someone acted like an idiot tonight, a completely innocent person almost got their face slashed. I'm working 13-15 hour days and being harassed does not fit into my daily schedule.
But besides that, my day was amazing.
Some Random Thoughts About Today
Today, I left my apartment before my roommate woke up and arrived home after she had already fallen asleep. I plan on working on the new play, and I'm sitting here writing a blog post. I didn't have time to check my work e-mail today, so I'm going to do that too. Also, because I didn't get the job in Boston, I'm going to stay up and apply for jobs.
---
Okay, slight break in the writing time. I just updated my essays for the job I applied for last year, and I'm going to resubmit them as soon as there online server stops screwing up. Basically, I know that I'm going to be done with this job and this organization come June, so I need to have a plan about what I'm doing after that is finally done.
By the way, for anyone who was just wondering, working 14 hours a day sucks. Working 14 hours a day for $3.57/hour really sucks.
I wish I had something more clever to say than just a life update, but there you go. Look for pictures about the service project garden that I'm doing in the near future.
---
Okay, slight break in the writing time. I just updated my essays for the job I applied for last year, and I'm going to resubmit them as soon as there online server stops screwing up. Basically, I know that I'm going to be done with this job and this organization come June, so I need to have a plan about what I'm doing after that is finally done.
By the way, for anyone who was just wondering, working 14 hours a day sucks. Working 14 hours a day for $3.57/hour really sucks.
I wish I had something more clever to say than just a life update, but there you go. Look for pictures about the service project garden that I'm doing in the near future.
Change of Plans
I didn't get the job I applied for in Boston. So, now I have to figure out where I'm going to be working next year on top of everything else that I'm trying to shove into days that literally don't have enough hours in them.
Thank you for your well wishes. No, I don't want to talk about it. No, I have no idea where I'll be come July. Yes, I am listening to "Illumination" by Gogol Bordello on repeat.
Okay, then.
Thank you for your well wishes. No, I don't want to talk about it. No, I have no idea where I'll be come July. Yes, I am listening to "Illumination" by Gogol Bordello on repeat.
Okay, then.
New Job Prospects
K'Fain, Catie, and I always said it would never happen to us. Every single time the question was asked, we would cringe in disgust and immediately refute it.
"Oh, you're getting an English degree. What are you going to do with that? Teach?"
First off, this is offensive. As if the only thing that an English degree gives you the ability to do is teach other people English. I guess that they think that us guarders of the moth-eaten texts must have a single track mind and want to inflict learning on the world at large. Never mind the huge number of publications that need writers and editors. Forget the fact that reading comprehension, higher level thinking skills, creativity, imagination, and an exposure to a wide variety of issues comes from an English degree. And never mind the fact that many English degree holders have gotten very distinguished M.R.S. degrees in life that have made teaching unnecessary. Regardless of these things, no, we shouted, we didn't want to be teachers.
Then Catie got a job as a Parapro and she's getting her Master's in Education.
And I work for a nonprofit out in Los Angeles that tutors in some of the lowest-performing schools in the region.
Tomorrow, I find out if I've got a job with City Year Care Force. I really want it. I know that I do. I think that it's an amazing experience that could very well change the course of my life.
But...
I bought the Kindle edition of Teach Like a Champion because it's not going to be available for another month in book form and I wanted to implement the tips in there into my teaching as soon as possible. I read education-oriented articles. I'm constantly checking out books on contemporary education. I find myself making flash cards, crunching student data, fretting about the achievement gap, and praying not to get the elementary school crud again. But, I love my kids. My third graders are fantastic. My first graders are so full of life. I know that I can make a difference there. I know I can. But, I'm just getting good at this and this job is almost over. I've only got three months left in this job. That's nothing.
I said that I'd never come back for another year in Los Angeles. I can't take it. This isn't my city. But suddenly...I find myself thinking how much better I could be next year. I'm thinking about what I would have to do become a teacher once they stop firing all the teachers out here.
Never say never, I suppose. I just may find myself spouting rhetoric at kids for another year. But I want it to be the same kids. I came here to do a job...and it most certainly isn't done yet.
"Oh, you're getting an English degree. What are you going to do with that? Teach?"
First off, this is offensive. As if the only thing that an English degree gives you the ability to do is teach other people English. I guess that they think that us guarders of the moth-eaten texts must have a single track mind and want to inflict learning on the world at large. Never mind the huge number of publications that need writers and editors. Forget the fact that reading comprehension, higher level thinking skills, creativity, imagination, and an exposure to a wide variety of issues comes from an English degree. And never mind the fact that many English degree holders have gotten very distinguished M.R.S. degrees in life that have made teaching unnecessary. Regardless of these things, no, we shouted, we didn't want to be teachers.
Then Catie got a job as a Parapro and she's getting her Master's in Education.
And I work for a nonprofit out in Los Angeles that tutors in some of the lowest-performing schools in the region.
Tomorrow, I find out if I've got a job with City Year Care Force. I really want it. I know that I do. I think that it's an amazing experience that could very well change the course of my life.
But...
I bought the Kindle edition of Teach Like a Champion because it's not going to be available for another month in book form and I wanted to implement the tips in there into my teaching as soon as possible. I read education-oriented articles. I'm constantly checking out books on contemporary education. I find myself making flash cards, crunching student data, fretting about the achievement gap, and praying not to get the elementary school crud again. But, I love my kids. My third graders are fantastic. My first graders are so full of life. I know that I can make a difference there. I know I can. But, I'm just getting good at this and this job is almost over. I've only got three months left in this job. That's nothing.
I said that I'd never come back for another year in Los Angeles. I can't take it. This isn't my city. But suddenly...I find myself thinking how much better I could be next year. I'm thinking about what I would have to do become a teacher once they stop firing all the teachers out here.
Never say never, I suppose. I just may find myself spouting rhetoric at kids for another year. But I want it to be the same kids. I came here to do a job...and it most certainly isn't done yet.
Brainstorm: "Nothing Much" new project
Working title: Nothing Much
Inspiration:
New York Times article stating that Projection Design is now a major at the Yale School of Drama because of the prevalence of projection use in contemporary theatre.
Skype call on March 12, 2010 with Jennifer H. where we caught up with life while being eight time zones away from each other.
Teisch's (sp?) play Speed of Darkness about a modern family having their skeletons dragged out of the closet.
Plot:
Andrew and Roxanne were best friends in college. It is now eight years later. Andrew has settled down with a wife and kids, house, the American Dream-esque existence. Roxanne is in Africa (right now, S. Africa...might change with research process) with Doctors Without Borders. They Skype each other and catch up. Play opens with seemingly banal conversation.
Roxanne gets leave to go back to the states. Having no family, she decides to go visit Andrew. This throws things apart for Andrew because the life of his perfect wife and two children doesn't exist anymore--wife died in a car crash with one (maybe both) of the children. Andrew maintains facade with Roxanne because its the only place in his life where he can pretend the happiness exists that he thinks he would've had with his family.
Roxanne imparts on a task to save him while at the same time struggling between the two calls of duty: does she save her longtime friend who has no one else or does she go back to her calling as a doctor in the part of the world that truly needs her?
Motif throughout the show will be video calls between characters in different areas projected on screen (like they appear on a computer). This will provide the contrast between what people say when they communicate between computers and the reality of life that doesn't fit on a webcam. Are we who we really are when other people are watching, or do we all become the film editors of our own lives.
Inspiration:
New York Times article stating that Projection Design is now a major at the Yale School of Drama because of the prevalence of projection use in contemporary theatre.
Skype call on March 12, 2010 with Jennifer H. where we caught up with life while being eight time zones away from each other.
Teisch's (sp?) play Speed of Darkness about a modern family having their skeletons dragged out of the closet.
Plot:
Andrew and Roxanne were best friends in college. It is now eight years later. Andrew has settled down with a wife and kids, house, the American Dream-esque existence. Roxanne is in Africa (right now, S. Africa...might change with research process) with Doctors Without Borders. They Skype each other and catch up. Play opens with seemingly banal conversation.
Roxanne gets leave to go back to the states. Having no family, she decides to go visit Andrew. This throws things apart for Andrew because the life of his perfect wife and two children doesn't exist anymore--wife died in a car crash with one (maybe both) of the children. Andrew maintains facade with Roxanne because its the only place in his life where he can pretend the happiness exists that he thinks he would've had with his family.
Roxanne imparts on a task to save him while at the same time struggling between the two calls of duty: does she save her longtime friend who has no one else or does she go back to her calling as a doctor in the part of the world that truly needs her?
Motif throughout the show will be video calls between characters in different areas projected on screen (like they appear on a computer). This will provide the contrast between what people say when they communicate between computers and the reality of life that doesn't fit on a webcam. Are we who we really are when other people are watching, or do we all become the film editors of our own lives.
Note Cards
I compulsively reread Ann Lamott's Bird by Bird. Mel Sumner, my college creative writing teacher, suggested it and I consumed it in like three days the first time I read it. The advice seemed poignant and funny, and really, what is one without the other. I remembered a lot of what the book had to offer and it made me feel a lot saner about writing and life in general.
I traded for the book on Paperback Swap a while ago. Since then, I've probably read it over a dozen times, reading the chapters out of order, blazing through territory that is comfortable and familiar. I bring it up because one of the chapters brings up the subject of index cards. She says that she never travels without an index card on her at all times so that she has something small that she can instantly write on if something notable comes up in her mind or in the world.
I've tried to start doing this since carrying a journal at school is nearly impossible. So, I'm taking notes about the crackheads I see before 8 AM and all the little things my kids say to me. One of my third-graders told me that I would make a great dad this week. I liked that. Anyways, I might start posting them up here just to keep a stream of content going on days when I really can't bear to sit down and bang anything out.
Our after school program numbers have been really low lately, but at the same time, the kids that are showing up all want to be there and are actively engaged and there are no behavior issues. So, I'm okay with it. It makes my life a whole lot saner.
I traded for the book on Paperback Swap a while ago. Since then, I've probably read it over a dozen times, reading the chapters out of order, blazing through territory that is comfortable and familiar. I bring it up because one of the chapters brings up the subject of index cards. She says that she never travels without an index card on her at all times so that she has something small that she can instantly write on if something notable comes up in her mind or in the world.
I've tried to start doing this since carrying a journal at school is nearly impossible. So, I'm taking notes about the crackheads I see before 8 AM and all the little things my kids say to me. One of my third-graders told me that I would make a great dad this week. I liked that. Anyways, I might start posting them up here just to keep a stream of content going on days when I really can't bear to sit down and bang anything out.
Our after school program numbers have been really low lately, but at the same time, the kids that are showing up all want to be there and are actively engaged and there are no behavior issues. So, I'm okay with it. It makes my life a whole lot saner.
It's been a week since my last post. In that time, I have spearheaded a talent show, held some hardcore Spring Break Camps meetings, volunteered at a mentoring day in Boyle Heights, and had the single best day of work since I got back from Christmas.
Today, all of the bad kids were gone from our after school program. The girl with the attitude and an excuse for everything. The boy with anger issues and the permanently sour expression. The people they egg on. The boy that has some learning disabilities that makes it hard to get him to focus. All of our kids who aren't fully invested in Starfish Corps and what it is and what it does...they all didn't show up. They had choir or drill team or cheerleading or class prep for a performance. Regardless, today was beautiful. And, after seeing how beautiful it can be, I am not going to put up with the bullshit anymore.
---
In other news, I'm cooking ribs tomorrow and watching a movie with Val. This movie promises to be fantastic for rewatching movies. On the docket are Pink Flamingos, Wild Tigers I Have Known, and Mean Girls. This should be epic in its camp fantasticness.
---
Currently Pondering: When it comes to education reform, it seems like a huge number of external organizations (Teach for America, City Year, 826, etc.) enter schools as unique external organizations to provide services. However, because schools don't provide their own services, they are at the mercy of external groups to meet all the needs of their students. Thus, do external organizations engender a system of codependency that doesn't actually remedy the education system?
---
I wish that I could go to the New York Film Festival in LA (a nomenclature clusterfuck if ever there was one), a debate at the Hammer Museum, and Patton Oswalt's concert in the next week. However, I don't think I'm going to be able to do any of it. Gah.
Today, all of the bad kids were gone from our after school program. The girl with the attitude and an excuse for everything. The boy with anger issues and the permanently sour expression. The people they egg on. The boy that has some learning disabilities that makes it hard to get him to focus. All of our kids who aren't fully invested in Starfish Corps and what it is and what it does...they all didn't show up. They had choir or drill team or cheerleading or class prep for a performance. Regardless, today was beautiful. And, after seeing how beautiful it can be, I am not going to put up with the bullshit anymore.
---
In other news, I'm cooking ribs tomorrow and watching a movie with Val. This movie promises to be fantastic for rewatching movies. On the docket are Pink Flamingos, Wild Tigers I Have Known, and Mean Girls. This should be epic in its camp fantasticness.
---
Currently Pondering: When it comes to education reform, it seems like a huge number of external organizations (Teach for America, City Year, 826, etc.) enter schools as unique external organizations to provide services. However, because schools don't provide their own services, they are at the mercy of external groups to meet all the needs of their students. Thus, do external organizations engender a system of codependency that doesn't actually remedy the education system?
---
I wish that I could go to the New York Film Festival in LA (a nomenclature clusterfuck if ever there was one), a debate at the Hammer Museum, and Patton Oswalt's concert in the next week. However, I don't think I'm going to be able to do any of it. Gah.
Slavery-Lite
So, I was sitting in the office tonight, quickly catching up on e-mail, trying desperately to get out before my 12 hour day somehow turned into a 13 hour monstrosity. Behind me, I heard my friends Jake and Celina talking about get together for next Saturday night. Something about selling people. Something about what people should wear. I turned to Jake and he handed me the invite that had apparently just been made.
Two things about this invite:
1. It is a remake of the famous Grant Wood painting "American Gothic." I fucking love making homages to "American Gothic."
2. It is this Saturday night at a familiar locale in Koreatown.
When I asked what was going on, Celina said that there was going to be a date auction, but that I already knew that. Which was news to me. Because I hadn't heard anything. But she continued, "Yeah, it's going to be Joe, Amanda, Will, and you, so far. Richard said he talked to you." We both turned to look at Richard, who was sitting across the room, staring at a computer. He didn't say anything, and Celina just looked away and rolled her eyes.
"This is the first you're hearing about it."
"Yeah. That's about the size of it."
"We're having a date auction to support the arts. Don't you like the arts?"
What sort of question is that? Loaded, for sure. "So, will you do it?" Only in my time in LA have I been asked to be an item at an auction after it was already announced on Facebook that I'd be there. I have such a weird life and such crazy inventive friends.
"Sure, why not?"
The thing is, date auctions always make me a little sad when they're taken too seriously, so I hope this one is light-hearted (I plan to show up dressed like my thug life roommate, so there you go). Plus, I've done date auctions before Improv, and even though I hated them (and always could find a reason to push it further back in the calendar), it isn't the end of the world. It just all boils down to my very human fear that no one will pick me or that I will be picked last. Which is dumb and probably won't happen and even if it does, who gives a fuck? It's for charity, and it didn't cost me a damn thing. And I'm doing a friend of favor.
God, there better be free booze there.
Two things about this invite:
1. It is a remake of the famous Grant Wood painting "American Gothic." I fucking love making homages to "American Gothic."
2. It is this Saturday night at a familiar locale in Koreatown.
When I asked what was going on, Celina said that there was going to be a date auction, but that I already knew that. Which was news to me. Because I hadn't heard anything. But she continued, "Yeah, it's going to be Joe, Amanda, Will, and you, so far. Richard said he talked to you." We both turned to look at Richard, who was sitting across the room, staring at a computer. He didn't say anything, and Celina just looked away and rolled her eyes.
"This is the first you're hearing about it."
"Yeah. That's about the size of it."
"We're having a date auction to support the arts. Don't you like the arts?"
What sort of question is that? Loaded, for sure. "So, will you do it?" Only in my time in LA have I been asked to be an item at an auction after it was already announced on Facebook that I'd be there. I have such a weird life and such crazy inventive friends.
"Sure, why not?"
The thing is, date auctions always make me a little sad when they're taken too seriously, so I hope this one is light-hearted (I plan to show up dressed like my thug life roommate, so there you go). Plus, I've done date auctions before Improv, and even though I hated them (and always could find a reason to push it further back in the calendar), it isn't the end of the world. It just all boils down to my very human fear that no one will pick me or that I will be picked last. Which is dumb and probably won't happen and even if it does, who gives a fuck? It's for charity, and it didn't cost me a damn thing. And I'm doing a friend of favor.
God, there better be free booze there.
Week in Review
Things that happened this week:
-Spelling Bee was done to great success.
-I got an intervention group in my third grade class that means I'm going to rock literacy for the coming months.
-Participated in an IJ group for the first time ever.
-Almost fell asleep at work on Friday because the crafts I was researching were dumb. What do you do with kids from these neighborhoods who aren't easily impressed or impressible?
-Made an ass of myself Saturday night.
-Started writing again tonight.
-Spelling Bee was done to great success.
-I got an intervention group in my third grade class that means I'm going to rock literacy for the coming months.
-Participated in an IJ group for the first time ever.
-Almost fell asleep at work on Friday because the crafts I was researching were dumb. What do you do with kids from these neighborhoods who aren't easily impressed or impressible?
-Made an ass of myself Saturday night.
-Started writing again tonight.
I Thought I Didn't Care
There are days when I have to tell myself that teaching elementary school does not and will not fulfill me as a person and, as such, I should not think about where to go to school to get a master's in it.
It all started with this kid, right. It always does. He's in the third grade class I tutor in. He's behind the rest of the class, functioning a few grade levels behind (by my supposition). He's a behavior issue, but I've started to develop a rapport with him and we get work done almost every single day. Today, I found out that they might be testing him for special ed.
And it pissed me off. And it hurt me.
And I know why: I've invested a lot of time into this student already. To have him get away from me now would be awful. But, at the same time, if he needs the help he should get it. But then again, I'm not sure that he is special ed. But I also know that the people making these decisions know a lot more about it than I do. Then again, I'm really exhausted and it was raining when I was thinking about this, so maybe that's what was making me sad.
So, I actually toyed with the notion of becoming a special ed teacher. Not for long...maybe half an hour or so. And then I was done. Now, I'm going to go to bed since I feel like a truck hit me today even though it wasn't that bad.
I staffed all of the Watts Camp...hooray for that!
It all started with this kid, right. It always does. He's in the third grade class I tutor in. He's behind the rest of the class, functioning a few grade levels behind (by my supposition). He's a behavior issue, but I've started to develop a rapport with him and we get work done almost every single day. Today, I found out that they might be testing him for special ed.
And it pissed me off. And it hurt me.
And I know why: I've invested a lot of time into this student already. To have him get away from me now would be awful. But, at the same time, if he needs the help he should get it. But then again, I'm not sure that he is special ed. But I also know that the people making these decisions know a lot more about it than I do. Then again, I'm really exhausted and it was raining when I was thinking about this, so maybe that's what was making me sad.
So, I actually toyed with the notion of becoming a special ed teacher. Not for long...maybe half an hour or so. And then I was done. Now, I'm going to go to bed since I feel like a truck hit me today even though it wasn't that bad.
I staffed all of the Watts Camp...hooray for that!
4,000 Word Update (or, I uploaded some pictures)
This is what last week looked like:
This is what LA looks like in a storm...like you're approaching the final boss in a bad rip-off of Final Fantasy.
My mural washed off the wall. Sad day.
The new 112th recruit: Sara with no H. I am either going to start calling her Noh after the Japanese theatre or No-H. Haven't decided yet.
My mural washed off the wall. Sad day.The new 112th recruit: Sara with no H. I am either going to start calling her Noh after the Japanese theatre or No-H. Haven't decided yet.
Beat-Up Words
So, I realize that over time, I am changing. The pictures that once embodied my soul no longer describe me the best. Instead, new shots off a more serious young man ring truer, except in my moments of unbridled joy. But, that's not really what I want to talk about.
Instead, I want to talk Jack Kerouac. Well, not really Kerouac per say (sp?), but the whole idea of the Beat Generation. For anyone who knows my literary tastes, it comes as little surprise that I love the Beat poets. I love the idea that you can say whatever the hell comes into your head, put it on paper, and it doesn't matter if it makes sense or if it brings insight or if its vulgar, it's just part of you. You need to say what you need to say and screw all the rest of it. I love these ideas, and I tend to live my mental life by these rules.
However, I realized today...realized, perhaps not being the best word...I admitted to myself today that I don't really like to read most of the Beat writers. I mean, Kerouac is okay in On the Road and Dharma Bums; I love Ginsberg as a poet, though sometimes it gets a little dull, but Burroughs is just bizarre. And I enjoy their works on an entirely cerebral level, but my soul doesn't really get into it. I feel the idea, but the story doesn't connect to me. And who knows, I'm not a Beat expert, maybe that's the point.
But trying to get through Visions of Cody made my brain hurt, and I can't really be in any state but complete focus when I try to get through this kind of literature. And, since that is so rarely the state that I'm allowed to be in when I'm reading, it doesn't really work for me.
I read someone who wrote about the stupidity behind the idea of a "guilty pleasure." I think it was John Waters in one of his essay collections. Regardless, it said that the idea of feeling bad that something perfectly legal and acceptable felt good was ridiculous.
I think that a lot of times, we don't choose what brings us pleasure. It's something that is a culmination of the things in your past, your education, and what you've been trained to like. Then, some things are just simply good to all people. But, there's no accounting for taste, there is no perfect piece of entertainment, so we all have to find our own way.
Thus, even though I want to be a literature snob, I really enjoy reading Stephen King novels (especially Lisey's Story, Duma Key, The Dark Tower series, and Under the Dome - A supernatural take on real life phenomena). Augusten Burroughs, a self-described "trashy memoirist" speaks to me in a way that few others do.
Ideas don't make a good read, but a good read can give you all kinds of new ideas.
Instead, I want to talk Jack Kerouac. Well, not really Kerouac per say (sp?), but the whole idea of the Beat Generation. For anyone who knows my literary tastes, it comes as little surprise that I love the Beat poets. I love the idea that you can say whatever the hell comes into your head, put it on paper, and it doesn't matter if it makes sense or if it brings insight or if its vulgar, it's just part of you. You need to say what you need to say and screw all the rest of it. I love these ideas, and I tend to live my mental life by these rules.
However, I realized today...realized, perhaps not being the best word...I admitted to myself today that I don't really like to read most of the Beat writers. I mean, Kerouac is okay in On the Road and Dharma Bums; I love Ginsberg as a poet, though sometimes it gets a little dull, but Burroughs is just bizarre. And I enjoy their works on an entirely cerebral level, but my soul doesn't really get into it. I feel the idea, but the story doesn't connect to me. And who knows, I'm not a Beat expert, maybe that's the point.
But trying to get through Visions of Cody made my brain hurt, and I can't really be in any state but complete focus when I try to get through this kind of literature. And, since that is so rarely the state that I'm allowed to be in when I'm reading, it doesn't really work for me.
I read someone who wrote about the stupidity behind the idea of a "guilty pleasure." I think it was John Waters in one of his essay collections. Regardless, it said that the idea of feeling bad that something perfectly legal and acceptable felt good was ridiculous.
I think that a lot of times, we don't choose what brings us pleasure. It's something that is a culmination of the things in your past, your education, and what you've been trained to like. Then, some things are just simply good to all people. But, there's no accounting for taste, there is no perfect piece of entertainment, so we all have to find our own way.
Thus, even though I want to be a literature snob, I really enjoy reading Stephen King novels (especially Lisey's Story, Duma Key, The Dark Tower series, and Under the Dome - A supernatural take on real life phenomena). Augusten Burroughs, a self-described "trashy memoirist" speaks to me in a way that few others do.
Ideas don't make a good read, but a good read can give you all kinds of new ideas.
Picture Perfect
We change over time. Yes we do, oh yes we do. We change over time.
There are pictures that we see of ourselves, and we say
"that shit's iconic.
That's me
on that page, and
everyone
will recognize that that is me."
We keep it for a while,
in truth,
we keep it far too long.
And, then, we look at it anew.
And something about it has changed.
Not the lighting. The smile, the sarcastic expression.
Not the location or the clothes. Not the
million details that made us who we thought we are.
Instead, those background people all have gone away (for to stay a little while)
and you don't wear that coat anymore.
You've gotten a haircut
and an earring
and flipping off the camera seems less counter-culture than
completely futile.
And today's iconic picture looks so much the same but
so much older.
Invisible lines play across your face,
and he joy of trash talk isn't as sweet and
all time in the past is stolen stolen stolen.
The perfect picture changes, and we click update without thinking
what is it we're covering up.
There are pictures that we see of ourselves, and we say
"that shit's iconic.
That's me
on that page, and
everyone
will recognize that that is me."
We keep it for a while,
in truth,
we keep it far too long.
And, then, we look at it anew.
And something about it has changed.
Not the lighting. The smile, the sarcastic expression.
Not the location or the clothes. Not the
million details that made us who we thought we are.
Instead, those background people all have gone away (for to stay a little while)
and you don't wear that coat anymore.
You've gotten a haircut
and an earring
and flipping off the camera seems less counter-culture than
completely futile.
And today's iconic picture looks so much the same but
so much older.
Invisible lines play across your face,
and he joy of trash talk isn't as sweet and
all time in the past is stolen stolen stolen.
The perfect picture changes, and we click update without thinking
what is it we're covering up.
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