Can't Sleep

Can't sleep. 

This happens from time to time mostly as a result of my mind going absolutely berserk with ideas and checklists of things. 

This morning I took some DayQuil to alleviate this cough so I could teach, but it fogged my brain and made me want to eat cupcakes. Not a pretty sight. Plus there were, like, twenty Greek god and mortal names I had to pronounce while we read Antigone and that wasn't so great. 

I'm much better in writing. 

Also, Tera and I stick to this theory that kids go crazy on the full moon. 

Mine weren't crazy but if they were I wouldn't have known. I think DayQuil flips my system upside down. Never again. I'm just going to bear the cough. 

Dah. Adulthood!

Notes on Winter

My grandpa used to take notes on birds and other nature patterns in Yellowstone through the heavy winters. Though less nature is involved here in my apartment, I decided to take some notes whilst living alone in a fourplex all winter. What follows was not engraved upon my bed post, chiseled in the wall, or even scribed on paper. It was, however, just thought up right now and typed on my iPad. 

Notes on Winter

April 2014

You know how balloons are really dark - almost black - before you blow them up, and then once you do they become the color you ordered? That's what happened to my body. Semi-tanned in summer, a certain size, too. And then I got blown up and my skin grew pale.

Netflix was a good companion. Except for when the screen went blank while loading. That mirror is unforgiving.

At least once a day I considered buying a dog. (If I add "for company" to the end of that sentence, would you judge it?)

February used to be my least favorite month. Now it is tied with March. We covered the lion end of the month. Where's the lamb, March? Where's the lamb?

It's a good thing boots are in style. Cold calves are unbearable. (Not really. But with socks, jeans, and boots, one would think we can't stand a cold calf).

I pretended it wasn't cold one day, and that was gratifying because it was a snow day and I could stay inside. I wore shorts and read a magazine while my toe-nail paint dried.

Because I own as many underwear and pairs of socks, I can wait three weeks to bring items to the laundromat. Not a bad deal, though. Free TV. Deal breaker, though. Staring children.

Luckily I didn't have to find and kill my own meat. I did, however, have to defrost it (a long and tedious wait), which is a difficult thing for a last-minute meal planner, which makes me a wolf, not a beaver.

If without a car scraper, a library card works very well. I broke down and bought a scraper in February, the day before I found my old one of course. 

Candy cane hot chocolate is only festive for so long. I'm a candy freak, so this has never happened, but I threw away half a bag of peppermints in March. 

Both indoor plants are still living so [dusts off shoulder].

It's been a long and cold one, but that's okay. Or at least that's what we have to say when we have a long, cold winter to make ourselves appear content and well-adjusted. What we really mean is "...but I'm done with it now because it should be spring and I'm sick of too-warm calves."

I crocheted a number of items. My favorite are the mittens and cabbage patch wig.

And this is dedicated to Grandpa, the best winter keeper.

A Dreamer

A dreamer.

She desires magically parallel worlds

That keep her asking, "What if?"

What if this dirty old town

Had a better story 

of a great underground?

What if his hand weren't there -

Would a hook define his identity

And he become a villain?

What if puddles, whenever someone wished, 

were as deep as the ocean

And all there was to do was to jump?

What if you could change uninspiring company

By blinking three times, twirling, and singing

While some other took a liking to you?

What if old photo albums

Were living faces of people past

Looking into their future at you?

What if this dreamer imagined dreams into facts 

And lived there, only

Wishing that she could come back?

Sunday Mornings

I love this little space of time after I wake up and before church starts. It's usually two hours of getting breakfast, getting ready, reading, and listening to Fernando Ortega. Sometimes I write. This time is uninhibited by the matters of my upcoming week. As a teacher, not planning/grading on Sundays is very tough, but I save that stress for later in the day. Right now I just want to smile, drink tea, reflect on the Lord's goodness and be content. 

Teacher Gushing 2

Dear student, 

Who told you to become a reader last summer? When did you finally obliterate the barricade between you and literature? How did you figure out that reading excerpts from a standardized computer test wasn't real reading? Didn't involve self-discovery, didn't have an authentic purpose, was supposedly the "best" of what's out there spanning a century but didn't speak to you? How did you come upon the first lines of a novel and let it entangle your mind into its world? 

In any case, I stand at the floodgates of this world to welcome you, as I was once welcomed, too, by Ramona Quimby, Amber Brown, Kit Kitredge, Hemingway, Stephen King, Elna Baker, Barrie's Peter Pan, Twain, Austen and so, so many more. 

I am proud of you.

Teacher Gushing

Here's something. I often have these really great moments teaching, but the day moves too quickly to relate them to another staff member or even my friends or family, and in turn I just forget about them. I've thought about doing this before, writing about them, but I have reservations. I intend for no student to be singled out or embarrassed by what I write. And I know...not all my thoughts need to be handed out to the public, but some moments can't go unnoticed. So against my better judgment, I'm going to write about them because what is life if you can't gush about what you love?

 1) I'm teaching a poetry unit, which I've loved teaching every year. I write with them, and they get excited about it, though they mostly won't confess it. One assignment is to take a well known poem and read it with dramatic pauses, voice, and emphasis. She read "Daddy" by Sylvia Plath. It was read so well, Plath herself may as well have been standing behind my podium bleeding her heart out to us. Her tone was somber, bitter, angered, and spent. Bravo, student. Just outstanding. 

2) Also to do with poetry. Two guys teamed up. One wrote the optimist's perspective, and one wrote the pessimist's perspective. The latter took all the gravest thoughts of depression and condensed them into this poem. Though it was intentionally written to depress the crowds, it was still heartfelt. I don't have it in print, but he wrote something about engraving a painting of scars on a body canvass, though he put it much, much better. I love that he wrote to a self-imposed standard.

3) During a study hall I discovered a student and I have many similar tastes. A connoisseur on all items YouTube, fanfiction, 80s and 90s alternative music, he aptly fits my weird standards for conversation and helped add to a list of best worst songs of all time, which I'd already begun with a couple other students two years ago. 

          A. "Take Me on"

          B. "He Needs Me"

          C. "Pop Goes My Heart"

          D. "Tablecloth"

          E. "Burning Down the House"

          F. Uncle Jesse's "Forever"

          G. Kip's Marriage Song "Technology"

          H. "I am a Vampire"

Etc. 

Butter

Certainly, I could be entertained for the rest of my life with all this access to technology. Even if I eradicated technology, the novels on my bookshelf could amuse me for years. And then, of course, there's writing. That would occupy me for a long while. If I didn't know how to write, even, then crocheting could entertain me for some time as I have many skenes of yarn still left. And if I had none of that, I could rub sticks together or churn butter and always have something to do. 

But if no one would be there to say, "What delicious butter this is," then I suppose it would all be for nothing.

L.L.B