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!

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.

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.

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.