A Deep Breath (#23)

Ugh. It is now nine-thirty at night, the Sunday before Memorial Day. I am tired and bloated. Thirty minutes ago, I began typing away at my one-hundred-ninety-sixth blog post. Eventually, two full, solid paragraphs about my opinions of television series appeared on the screen.  They were a good introduction to a worthwhile discussion on the topic. But soon I realized time was running out. By ten o'clock I would have to hit publish, and share a link on Facebook. 

So, I saved it as a "draft", and clicked on the "create new post" button. Now I am writing this post instead. And what are you ending up with, dear reader? Unfortunately, a short rant, about how corporations suck. Especially the giant ones worth billions of dollars. 

This time it is Disney+. Do not worry, this is not some absurd Fox News hit job about how the streaming service is too woke. Woke is not even a word, and, yes, I should do a post about that fact, too. However, not now.

Instead, this is a short diatribe about how corporate desires to cut expenses by refusing to compensate those who actually create the work ruined my weekend.

You see, on Thursday of last week, I discovered in my Google newsfeed a new show on Disney+ that some stranger highly recommended. They said it was a cross between Netflix's A Series of Unfortunate Events, and Wes Anderson's Fantastic Mr. Fox. I thoroughly enjoyed both, going so far as to rewatch them both. I was interested. But the article also warned the powers that be at the illustrious streaming service were going to remove the series. It never mentioned when it would happen. Nor that it would be permanent. 

Unfortunately, I would learn the answer to both by Saturday afternoon, when I tried to finish the last two episodes of the first season (there was as second season, but the third one was cancelled, which did not bother me). 

You see, I had binged the first six fifty-five minute long episodes the day before. First, the color. It was just like a Wes Anderson movie. Second, the characters. They were intriguing. Just enough absurdity to make it funny, but not so much that I did not believe them. And, more importantly, the child actors were not annoying. Then there was the plot. It sounded strangely apropos of current political events, but not in a preachy, in-your-face kind of way. Finally, there were only eight episodes in a season, and just two seasons to binge. Win-win in my opinion. 

So, I committed myself to a weekend of binging this series. By eleven-thirty on Friday night, I sat through six episodes. I was fully invested in the finale, but I needed to go to bed. The conclusion would have to wait until the next day.

I woke, and spent all of Saturday morning well into the afternoon doing laundry, taking care of the pool, and power washing the fence. Then I took a shower, and prepared dinner. With those chores completed, I sat down to finish up season one. Comfy in my couch recliner, a bottle of diet root beer on one side, and the pile of remotes on the other, I turned on the Roku, and my way to Disney+. Finally, I scrolled down to the "Recently Watched" list.

And the show was not there.

Although I went through the motions of doing a search, I knew the truth. Disney had pulled it from its streaming service. Soon after, I found an article stating that on May 26th the streaming service would be removing a bunch of shows. My newfound, but not fully watched, series was one of them.

The worse part? The article revealed that Disney has no intention of returning the show to the lineup. Ever. Or releasing it anywhere else. They will not even sell a copy via DVD. The reason? They do not want to continue to compensate the writers and actors of the series for their hard work. It is too much of an expense.

Anyway, I am out of a show. Well, two. They also removed Life Below Zero: Next Generation. I am done investing my time in these series. Instead, I am going to go back to reading books.

Except, a part of me fears with this AI stuff, the book market will be flooded with formulaic drivel. I mean, exponentially so. Far beyond what already exists. And I find that depressing.

I think it is time to wrap this up and head to bed. 

Sigh.   

On Dreaming (#19)

"Monk Praying in the Church" by Alfred Jacques Van Muyden. 
The answer to why I never became a priest is in this painting.
And it is not the priest's haircut or outfit.

I began drafting this while sitting in my bedroom recliner. After typing out the first paragraph, my wife arrived. She had decided to watch the Mets' game in the room. So, I grabbed the laptop and the charger,  and made my way downstairs to the family room. There I discovered my eldest daughter, in my spot on the couch, watching a movie. Anna Karena with Keira Knightly and Jude Law. Desperate for a space without distractions, I lugged my laptop and charger to the basement. Upon sitting down at plastic folding table on top of a cheap stool that once was a dance prop, I began typing. That is when my other daughter stormed down the stairs, tore open the freezer, and grabbed a frozen ice cream cone. She made some attempt at conversation, but I snapped my fingers several times. That sent her bounding up the stairs, slamming the door behind her.

Finally, with peace, quiet, and solitude, I focused on finishing this post. 

Last night I experienced two vivid dreams. As of now, most details of the first one elude my memory. I can only recall that it felt like a pleasant nostalgia rooted in road trips to sandy beaches. Glimpses of family, mostly siblings and cousins, interlaced with passing roadside landscapes. But the images were fleeting, and I now wonder if my current opaque memory has more to do with the nature of the dream than my poor recollection of it. Either way, the first one faded to black, as the second came into sharp focus.

Now I stood with my wife in either a Walmart or Target. Our shopping complete, we headed with our cart to the nearest cash register. It was located away from the main entrance, however, there were no lines. Yet, as we approached, the cashier appeared occupied, and motioned us to the next register, which was across an aisle. Turning towards it, we noticed a crowd of people, intent on checking out, begin to gather around us. So, we raced towards the new register, managing to arrive first. But, no one was there, just a frozen monitor. We looked about us, and flagged down an employee. They mentioned that the systems were down, and refused to say or do anything else.

I was growing impatient, but also anxious. We were done shopping, and ready to pay, but there appeared no way of finishing up. Then I decided to make a run to the registers at the front of the store. There are always a bunch of them located there. My wife and I, now on a mission, darted up the aisle and around a corner. In front of us stood several cash register lanes, each one manned by an employee, but void of customers. Proud of myself, I pushed the cart towards the nearest one, my wife close behind. Chaos ensued. People began appearing, pushing their way to the registers. We arrived first, but became dismayed when the cashier said she could not check us out. Something was wrong with her station. Refusing to wait in line, I immediately turned from her, and moved on to the next one. The crowd of people had grown, and I found myself weaving around other customers, blazing a path for my wife to follow.

In the dream, a part of me knew I was being aggressive, bordering on rude. I asked myself if I should just wait in a line. But I wanted out, so I continued onward. That is when I determined, in my mind, that the self-checkout lines were probably empty, or at least more accessible. It seemed like a brilliant idea. So much so, that I smirked in the dream. Arrogantly, and with cart in hand, I leapt towards the shopping oasis of empty self-checkout registers I knew awaited me beyond the crowds. Sure enough, there they were. With a big smile on my face, proud of my clever insight, I led my wife up to an empty register. We began scanning our items. 

The system froze. The lights flickered.

Like a fool, I twisted the item around twenty different ways, running across the scanner twenty different times. Nothing. At some point, an employee walked by and explained that the systems were down. And, again, said and did nothing else. Now I was frustrated and felt an urge to just leave the store without my items. No one was willing to explain anything. No manager approached the customers. No announcements informed us of the next step. They did not deserve my business. Finally, I had decided to go. But first, I had to check my pockets for my phone and wallet, a habit I had learned the hard way.

Nothing. I began to worry. Perhaps the pile of clothes on the conveyor belt? Nothing. In the cart? Nothing. The cart had disappeared. Worse, so had my wife. Then the lights dimmed. Low. Enough that I could barely make out the floor.

Panic. But also dejection. And exhaustion. For some reason, the whole experience had sapped the energy out of me. It was time to exit the building.

In a final attempt to look for my wife, I turned toward the aisle leading up to the self checkout lane. It was brightly lit, while I stood in nightly shadows. And there he walked by, stopped, and turned to look at me. In the real world, he had been dead at least a year, maybe more—how sad that I cannot remember—and in the dream, I knew, for that reason, he should not have been standing there. But alas, there was no mistaking his face, shining in such vivid detail, as if my dream did not want me to doubt it. Indeed, in my mind, within the dream, I had a clear thought, “What is Father O'Brien doing here, he should be dead?”

For some reason, the revelation broke me. Perhaps the fear, anxiety, and desperation of leaving that store had overwhelmed my immunity to sudden shocks. Maybe it was the memory of this priest's role throughout my family's lives, especially my father's. Or, possibly it had something to do with Father Bill's presence during my own flirtation with the priesthood, nearly forty decades ago. 

All these things. None of them. I still do not know.

Truth be told, a part of me does not want to find out.

(Yet, a stronger part of me does, hence tonight's blog post.)

In the end, I fell to my knees and curled up into the fetal position beneath a nearby folding table. I closed my eyes. Darkness came.

Also the sensation that someone was gently holding me.

It was him. 

I did not have to see. I just knew.

Then I trembled and wept, until I awoke with eyes full of tears.

And a weight off my shoulders.

That was last night's dream. 

Revelations (Part 4)

British suffragette fighting for her rights.
Seriously, they were fearless.
Click on the image to find out.
 

I am not an historian. Not even an amateur one. Although I graduated with a BA in history (along with a minor in philosophy, and another in classical studies), I failed to pursue it at a graduate level. A masters and PhD in history demands an academic discipline and an intellectual will that I lack. In addition, post graduate work requires narrowing down one's area of interest. If you have been reading my blog, you know that I am incapable of focusing on a single subject matter for too long.

Unfortunately, I desire to know everything about anything, which means I end up learning far less than I want or need. It is frustrating and debilitating. And I still don't know what to do about it. 

I bring this up now, on Mother's Day, because the history of today is quite fascinating. It did not begin as a commercial endeavor, nor as a celebration of motherhood. It roots lie in pacifism and activism. I discovered this through an actual historian (be wary of those who speak about history, and never formally studied it, including me). Her name is Heather Cox Richardson and she wrote a piece about the founding of this holiday. Do not worry, it is short and non-academic; therefore, well worth the time and effort. 

For some time now, Ms. Richardson has been sharing this information every Mother's Day. But this year, she changed it up. Instead, she shared her memories of a motherly figure from her life. This part stood out to me (bold emphasis mine):

"When I once asked her what was the most important historical event in her lifetime, this woman who had lived through the Depression and both world wars answered without hesitation: 'the washing machine.' It had freed her and her mother from constant laundry. She could finally have some leisure time, which she spent listening to the radio and driving in cars with boys. Because her mother always needed her at home, it was not she, but all her younger siblings, who went to college. By the time Mrs. A. was an adult, she was certain she wanted no part of motherhood."

The bolded parts above struck me hard, because I have a pet peeve. Well, I have many, but when it comes to history, I have one in particular that really irks me. People, especially those peddling ideologies, want to reduce complex historical experiences into a handful of broad memes, or sell single simple big events, people, and ideas over the everyday lives of everyday people going navigating complexities of reality.

But here is evidence that ideas and laws and movements alone did not free this woman (and I would argue millions of others). It was the washing machine, among so many other inventions, that provided this woman, and many others, the opportunity to do more. In her case, she had time to have fun. Also notice how being the oldest daughter in such a large family prevented this woman from attending college. She was expected to care for her siblings. I doubt the eldest son would be forced to do the same. Finally, these events, among other things, led her down a path in which she decided not to have children.

And that is what I find so fascinating about history. Not the overblown generalizations and myths found in textbooks, or vomited from the mouths of politicians and pundits. Instead, the everyday thoughts and activities of ordinary people who end up being a part of extraordinary events, or whose memories shed light on the consequences of seemingly simple ideas and inventions. It is in the ugly and complex details that we discovery humanity. 

But, I can understand why people shun the messiness of history, besides the need to choose only those facts that reinforce their ideological assumptions. Getting in the weeds forces you to see otherwise sacred things as profane. Household chores did not always build character, especially for women. It prevented them from pursuing personal goals, or even contemplating the possibility. Inventions can make those chores easier, creating opportunities, but they can also reinforce stereotypes. For some reason, having washing machines did not inspire men in the household to start doing the laundry. Large traditional families are not always ideal, especially when burdens are placed on the older children. Finally, even the celebration of motherhood can have political roots. The early proponents became suffragists because they realized direct political power was necessary to affect change.

Confronted with historical experiences outside the narratives we have been fed so far, we are forced to ask difficult questions. What does it mean to be a mother? And a good one at that? Who can be considered a mother? How do we support mothers? And not just once a year? Can celebrating motherhood in the current way be harmful to women? And do men suffer, too? What happens when women are no longer allowed the choice of motherhood? Or even to define its meaning?

I just wish I was an actual historian, so that I could attempt to provide you informed answers, or educated guesses. At the very least, I wish I had the focus and will to find answers from people more intelligent than I am, and share them with you. Alas, this is best I can do. 

  

A Deep Breath (#22)

I made these (with a little help from my daughter).
Now I need to fill them.

On the first anniversary of this blog, I reached one hundred posts. Two years and a month  since that milestone, and I  am still shy of two hundred. After tonight, it will be seven posts short. This recent stretch of blogging has been a struggle. Too many insightful topics passed over.  Too many Sundays skipped. 

It would be easy to blame it all on a busy schedule. However, I accomplished more creatively when I was teaching full time and driving my young children to and from daycare. Both jobs required constant problem solving and improvisation. And during the first year of the pandemic, when I began this blog, my days were filled volunteering at the studio. I was on call, answering to the whims of a struggling dance studio director. In fact my worst, most demanding Nutcracker experience occurred that year. Despite the stress, I still produced regular blog posts. The demands of my current life are nothing like those of my past.

During those years, I was creating, but not for myself, and never to completion. While teaching, projects would draw initial excitement, like lighting a match--a brilliant illuminating display. Then it would move along and eventually smolder, until it became a fleeting trail of smoke. There were only so many days to achieve anything. And distractions would arise. The demands of students, parents, and headmasters became obstacles to work around. Or just throw your hands up and surrender. My teaching career began with full box of matches, some times it would light a great fire. But the years turned over on themselves, and the supply of matches dwindled. Then it became like starting a fire in the rain. By the end of my career, it was pouring, and the wind was blowing. Each day became another challenge. And the next day a reminder that nothing was solved the day before.

Then the fire went out. 

The dance studio became a second chance. Between stage managing the Nutcracker performances and annual recitals, and building props, I had returned to a period of creativity and problem solving. But when you answer to a perfectionist who does not listen to criticisms and critiques, and you watch your work constantly questioned and redesigned, no matter how well you started that fire, the elements will smother it, and put it out. My last Nutcracker experience happened during the first year of this blog. And I said not to the recital that followed. I said no to all of it. Finally, last summer, I yelled "no", over and over, on the phone.

I needed to say it, and he needed to hear it. 

Yet, it would be wrong of me not to take a moment to recognize the good, the beautiful, and the extraordinary that occurred throughout those careers. With regards to teaching, I  miss my co-workers. Our conversations were full of comedy and wit, wisdom and intelligence. Whether sitting around the teacher's table at lunch, or standing about the picnic tables at recess, I never tired of talking with them. As for stage managing, between the dance teachers and the other parent volunteers, my days were filled with insights and jokes, inspirations and lively chitchat. Together, we cheered on the dancers, and complained about everything else. Then came in the next day to do it all over again. I had made friends, again. 

Finally, through both roles, the teacher and the stage manager, I met so many young people. Oh, how they loved to try my patience, test my will, and accelerate my hearing loss with their constant yammering all at once. But I would endure it all in a heartbeat--though I would not do it all the same way--just to see them stand before the class and deliver a poem they had written, or watch them take the stage in costume and dance before a full house. 

To this day, these people have remained deep in my thoughts.

So, where does this all leave me? What is the point of blogging for three years, or even the purpose of tonight's post? Is all this nostalgia good for me? It is a puzzle that I need to solve, but I have no light, so I need to start a fire. However, I cannot recall how to ignite the kindling in front of me. Or maybe I do not want to remember? Solving the puzzle would help me. Yet, I am unable to see the pieces, or the photo on the box. 

(Sorry for mixing up these two metaphors. This is what happens when you binge watch two seasons of Only Murders in the Building, finish Life Below Zero: Next Generation, and start a season of Alone. Yes, in my mind, all three are connected and inspired that last paragraph.)

Hey, at least my raised beds are built, and the laundry is all done.

Oh, and I finished my one-hundred-and-ninety-third blog post before dinner.   

     

The End of Act 1

A drawing of my hand from high school.
I included it in my first blog post.

On April 5, 2020, I started this project. That was 3 years and 191 blog posts ago.

Actually, 3 years and 18 days--somehow I forgot my anniversary.

For me, it is no small feat, lasting this long. True, I committed myself to just one post a week. Though, I was astonished to find out that shortly after beginning this blog, I had already added my first Weekly Checkup (I would end up doing 33 of them, the vast majority in my first year). Within a month, I began my Vegetable Gardening and Me post. While both series tapered off, I stuck with the Sunday deadlines.

Most of the time.

However, with each fall, more often then not I picked myself right up, and published the next week. 

  

But, that I forgot my anniversary (indeed, I skipped the two Sundays leading up to it), troubles me. After all, April is my birthday month, and, in 2020, the beginning of the Lockdown. Both played some part inspiring this blog. So, it should have been on my mind.

Three weeks ago, it would have given me something to write about.

Instead, my life as a human distracted me. Children have places to go; laundry and dishes need cleaning; gardens require attention if you want them to grow vegetables. Also, we humans crave crises when they take place outside our neighborhoods (but avoid them when they occur in our backyards). And so, I drowned myself in articles chronicling the tsunami of ignorance that surrounds me, while struggling to free myself from my own. Finally, it does not help that some of my bad habits keep pushing me under. Between procrastination and daydreaming, I find my head under water more often than not.

It is a nice metaphor. But metaphors are not real. They are approximations human have created to make sense of reality. And some times these metaphors are a poor reflection of the real thing. Other times, they become an excuse to avoid action.

In my case, I am not currently drowning. None of this can compare to my last two years of teaching. Nowadays, I have routines for the daily grind of caring for this household. While I feel for those suffering from the fear and resentment of the willfully ignorant, the latter have not harmed me directly. Not yet. And I do a lot to keep myself knowledgeable and educated. Finally, my habits are within my power to change. I have no one else to blame, but myself.

It is my thoughts that keep me from riding the incoming waves. In particular, the negative ones. The ones that tell me pretending is better than trying. Why look dumb talking about something, when you can daydream that you did all the work to become an expert? Why start a project in which problems will inevitably arise, when you can just sit there and imagine it completed? Why bother writing down your plans creating accountability, when you can pretend to do it, and then forget about it? And why share something you know will upset people even though you know it needs to said, when you can fantasize that you are able to change people's minds?

What does any of this have to do with blogging? Well, as I have argued so many times before, getting certain of my thoughts out into the world would prevent me from losing my sanity. But I am afraid to put them out there. Blogging for three years should have helped me. However, I have yet to redirect my efforts. I still lack the courage to speak up.  

And so, on this belated third anniversary of my blog, with all these thoughts running through my mind, I have decided to call this post "The End of Act 1".

Maybe this will motivate me to change.

(To be continued...)         

Confessions (#23)

I discovered this artist, Eugen von Blaas, two weeks ago,
while working on a project. I find so many of his paintings amusing.
Perhaps, because I have spent so much time surrounded by and listening to women...

This is how I envision people talking about my blog posts,
and text messages, which have been described as novels. 

At the end of last week's post, I mentioned how producing it might inspire me to wake up bright and early the next morning, and write some more. And how it all depended on me. Well, I did not follow through. The next day, I woke up and journaled, but nothing more. The following morning, I added another journal entry. Then went on about my day, never bothering to write another word. And God knows that day I was drowning in a pool of cascading thoughts. Finally, Wednesday ended up being my last journal entry for the week.

Now it is Sunday, which means hunkering down in my bedroom recliner, and spitting something out onto a computer screen. Usually I would have a pile of unfolded laundry requiring my attention. However, because my wife is leaving for a business trip tomorrow, I had to finish that chore yesterday. It actually feels good to have that completed. I go back and forth about switching laundry days. Instead, I spent the last few hours watching, for the first time, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.  Funny show, though I found it difficult sitting through the first episode. I constantly suffer from second-hand embarrassment, and these characters insist on being awkward in front of others. But I pushed through, and left the room just a handful of times. 

I would have watched more, but the Mets game began, and my wife is a huge fan. Since I had about an hour-and-a-half before starting dinner, I decided to sit down and blog. The decision had little to do with using my time wisely. Instead, a fear gripped me. A little voice in my mind suggested skipping this week's post. After all, my birthday is coming up this week. And, yes, as a Lord of the Rings fan, this conversation in my head was sprinkled with words like "precious" and "present" and lots of hissing. Also, the ton of sugar cookies dipped in lemon pudding (do not ask--I never got around to adding the fresh fruit to the concoction), frozen shumai from Trader Joe's, a random hot dog, three bottles of diet root beer, and a bunch of other things that I cannot recall right now, has left me bloated. 

So, between not writing anything significant for a week, giving myself only ninety minutes to write this post, and feeling like a beached whale, that I got this far is miraculous. I just wish I had something more meaningful this time around.

Well, the laundry is done, the sugar cookies are almost gone along with the lemon pudding (some day I will explain it), the root beer supply is definitely depleted, tomorrow is a new day, and this blog post is completed.     

Now on to making dinner.  

 

Confessions (#22)

A scene from the film, The Matrix. Neo is waiting for a ride that will change his life,
but he is not sure that he is ready for it. At one point, he will want to escape
back down familiar roads, and avoid the truth.
Here the clip from the movie.

It is 8 pm on an Easter Sunday, and I am sitting at my laptop, figuring out what to write. Actually, it is eight minutes after eight. I spent those minutes running through various topics: book bans, anti-trans legislation, hyperbole, freedom, what I think of Jesus, how I wish I had done this days ago. I even began daydreaming about people commenting on my make-believe blog post. That's just a sample. At some point, not blogging tonight crossed mind. Hell, not blogging ever again reared its ugly head, too.   

When procrastination becomes overwhelming, running away looks like a great option.

However, like Trinity says to Neo in the first Matrix film, a voice inside my head reminded me, "Because you have been down there ... you know that road, you know exactly where it ends. And I know that's not where you want to be." Half-ass written creative writing assignments, incoherent analytic papers on history topics, unfinished art projects left on the trash bin of my mind, and now empty posts littering this blog. Yea, those are familiar roads.

And I don't want to be there.

Instead, I want to take the red pill, and jump down the rabbit hole of connecting my brain to paper and seeing what bursts forth (now I'm paraphrasing a verse from Hamilton the musical, and butchering it). I want to "write like I am running out of time; write day and night like I am running out of time." I mean, I am running out of time.

But, there is no red pill showing me a world beyond my procrastination. Trinity is not going to show up and inspire me to reject those bad habits. And the life of a short-lived Founding Father who wrote the other fifty-one Federalist Papers is not the best solution for my middle-aged problems.

After skipping two weeks of blogging, I produced tonight's post. It is not much. But, just maybe, it is enough to inspire me. 

Perhaps, I will wake up early tomorrow and actually write my thoughts down.

In the end, it's up to me. 

On Dreaming (#18)

https://www.theartstory.org/artist/hammershoi-vilhelm/
I shouldn't be afraid to open up doors. Read on to find out more.

If you have been reading my blog since the beginning, you know that my dreams are frequently lucid and vivid. Some are dark and disturbing, while others are funny and absurd. All of them I find fascinating, and that is why I keep a dream journal.

Unfortunately, not all the dreams make it in there. Between the dreaming and my journaling, I have forgotten as many as I have remembered. On occasion, upon waking from a particularly powerful dream, I will take notes using my phone. However, most of the time I avoid that task, because falling back to sleep becomes a struggle.

Sometimes, when I have lucid, vivid dreams, I can recollect having them, but it is the details I cannot recall. And, yes, I mention that in my journal: "Last night I had a vivid dream, unfortunately, I cannot remember any details" or "I had dream, but all that I remember was that I was naked".  

Yet, there are times when I fail to dream at all. When these moments cluster together, I call them droughts. For me, lucid, vivid dreaming is another tool for analyzing my emotions concerning people, events, and ideas in my life. Even the bad, disturbing ones. So, when I am deprived of the experience for a long period of time, or I forget too many details, I feel an emptiness. The past few months, I have suffered quite a few dry spells and memory gaps.

Then, like a monsoon, the dreams flood back into my mind. Despite the overwhelming emotional force that washes over me, I am grateful for their return. Prior to last week, I was suffering one such drought. And then, beginning last Monday, the first of a four dreams arrived, the last two occurring these past two nights.

For brevity, I am only going to share the last one. Also, last night's dream contrasts well with the last dream I shared on this blog. That one was long, complicated, and disturbing. It involved one of my two daughters. This one was short, direct, and intense. My other daughter was in it.

One last thought before I describe it. I should have just opened the door.

It was at night. My daughter and I were standing in a room with a door that led outside. The walls seemed fake, like we were standing on a set of a television show. It even felt like a wall was missing. Except for the two of us and the door, the space was empty, and the walls were painted a maroon color, but otherwise bare. My memory of the dream begins with me already against the door, and the sense that something, or someone, was trying to enter. My daughter was at arms length, and right behind me. I do not know if I was keeping her back, or if she was hesitant to move closer. However, I do recall struggling to keep the door closed, and unable to lock it shut. At least twice, the door opened enough for me to see a dark mass on the other side. Each time, I fumbled for the door handle, and pushed my weight against the door. Then, just before waking up, I clearly remember standing there at the door, taking a step back, and thinking, "Maybe I should just let it in."            

Confessions (#21)

I believe I have referenced this work by Norman Rockwell before. I love it.
There is something about the look on her face. It is real, not perfect. Tired, but grateful.
Like good teaching. And, it is funny that tonight, for the first time, I noticed
the broken chalk, chalk dust, and eraser collected at her feet; the eraser on the head
of one student; and how one of the children wrote "Happy Birthday Jonesy" on the board.
Between the sincere kindness of  her students, the mess on the floor, the silliness of a rogue eraser,
and someone daring to call the teacher by their first name, this could have been any one of my classes.  

For good or ill, I allowed my high school students to challenge me. Daily they would question my curriculum and pedagogical choices. And each day, I would indulge their attempts to avoid what I thought best for them. Perhaps it was naivety. Maybe it was the culture of the that school. And while blaming an entire generation, or just the ignorance of youth, would soothe my guilt, deep down I know a part of me just gave up. There is way to give students the freedom and structure they require to learn effectively. But I never discovered it during those thirteen years of teaching.

In addition, during my career at that "little school in the woods", I wore many hats. There was the hat for teaching. Another for administrative work, like accounting, record keeping, communications. Then there was one for marketing, both digital and print. In addition, on Fridays, I would mop the gym and classroom floors. Every day, whether sending out an email on behalf of the headmaster to some irate parent, paying bills and printing invoices, redesigning the website, or just taking the garbage bags to the dumpster, I was doing more than just teaching.

One day during class, while my students hounded me with a request (I believe it was about a field trip), frustrated, I blurted out that I "had a million things to do". And true to form, without skipping a beat, one of my students, an annoyingly lovable one, quipped, "Alright, list them for us, these one million tasks."

Sigh. And true to myself, I surrendered, and began rattling off things I had to do. 

"First, there is the email I need to send out to your parents about next week's event. Second, I have to order the chairs for the event. Third, I have to sit down with the headmaster, and create an ad for the local newspaper. Fourth, the garbage cans in the gym need to be replaced. Fifth..."

I believe I made it to about twenty. What happened next is beyond my memory. Or I buried it deeply with a lot of regrettable or humiliating experiences from my days of teaching.

So, why am I thinking of this particular recollection? Well, I was going to begin tonight's post differently: "There are a million things swirling in mind tonight that I feel like I am drowning in them." And that is when the memory snapped into focus. Then I searched through the titles of my previous posts, hoping to find something better than "A Brief Interlude" or "A Deep Breath". That is when I spied "Confessions". 

And here we are.

I could indulge you, dear reader, like I did my students, and start cataloging all the thoughts bombarding my mind right now. It would not be a million, but it would easily exceed twenty. If I had to guess, a hundred sounds about right. But fortunately, for the both of us, none of you have ever asked me to list them. In addition, many of my thoughts would be too embarrassing to share. Indeed, I would end up humiliating myself and others. Some are typical, while others, trivial. Then there are the repeats, for those who have been regularly reading my blog, or listening to me when I whine. Finally, and simply, I do not have the time, the energy, or the will to present them in some interesting and witty manner.

So, no list for you.

Well, maybe one:

1) Fold the laundry;

2) Wash the dishes;

3) Write a blog post;

4) Daydream about how people will react to it when they read it.        

A (Sort of) Book Review (#1)

I am reusing this one, because I think I am heading
into a migraine; therefore, I am skipping out on a
search for a new image. 

At some point in my blogging, I wrote a post that I intended to be an introduction to a series on my reading habit, and all my struggles maintaining it. That series petered out: the mediocre sequel turned into a crappy epilogue. Then I tried to combine my reading and writing goals by attempting to write book reviews. Like most of my projects, nothing came of it.

Maybe, until now?

This past week, over the course of three days, I consumed two works of fiction. Well, one novel, and an autobiographical graphic book. However, I believe the author of the latter would agree that her account contains fictional elements, placing it outside the realm of something like someone's published memoirs. And since I am trying to expand beyond my reading comfort zone (i.e., non-fiction), I will include it as fiction.

Both titles arose from those ever growing banned book lists sweeping the nation. The first is The Push by Ashley Audrain; the second, Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic by Alison Bechdel. Having read them both, I see no reason to prevent teenagers from reading either work. Sure, I would be reluctant to use them as required reading in a high school setting. Neither reflect exceptional use of the English language. So there literary value would not trump their uncomfortable content. But I would not deny my daughters the opportunity to pick them off a school library shelf and surrender themselves to what lies within those pages.

While the content in both books contain controversial topics that would make even adults uneasy, their unflinching approach to child abuse, motherhood, repressed sexuality, trauma, and death, is delivered intelligently and creatively. None of it is pornographic. Even the sex scenes.

[Sorry, narrating that two people fucked and enjoyed it is not explicit; including illustrations of one woman's head between that of another, or a naked cadaver with its penis displayed, is not porn. Some people may not like to read such passages, or look at such images. Yet, neither come close to the experience of pornographic images and explicit texts. Trust me, teenagers are seeing much worse on their phones.]

For me, I am glad I read both books. While I figured out the ending to The Push within the first few chapters, Ashley Audrain's writing style, a combination of first and second person, and the characters themselves, kept me going. It did no read like trauma porn. Instead, I experienced the unfortunate lives of regular people struggling with their problems. And I witnessed three different types of motherhoods, none of them perfect. A few times, I even teared up a bit. It would be a book I could recommend to the people that I know. If they want a quick, depressing story. 

As for Fun Home (a play on "Funeral Home"), it is a book I cannot recommend as easily. Indeed, I can think of maybe two of my readers who would appreciate it. The content is depressing, and the discussion centers on the author's struggles with sexual repressions, not just in herself, but in another person. I learned a lot about how oppressive and destructive social norms can be on a person. But that is not why I would hesitate to promote this book within my social circle. While I consider myself an intelligent person, I am aware that many more people are smarter and better educated than I am. And this author is one of them. She uses a lot of literary and mythical references. There are plenty of quotes from Proust and Joyce, two authors who are way beyond my understanding. And the entire book draws on Icarus and his father in a way that I find confusing. Finally, it is all delivered in a structure that weighs down on you intellectually and emotional. It left me exhausted.

Perhaps that was the author's intention?  Drag me down just as her childhood has been a burden for her? Confuse me with the esoteric words and themes of literary giants as she was confused by her emotions and family dynamics? Leave me weary and drained, as her childhood left her?

In the end, I am grateful for experiencing both books, but I doubt I will ever return to them.

Take that observation however you see fit.         

As for me, I have two non-fiction books to read before Wednesday. One is about the joys of Algebra; the other about better ways of thinking.

Hey, that is how I roll.