teeth.

I just got back from my hygienist-student appointment. she was lovely. her name was Jessica and that is embroidered in cursive sewing in white thread on her bluebird-blue scrubs. She has short blonde hair that is only just long enough for a tiny pony tail. she wears diamond stud earrings, and has a silver diamond engagement ring and a small silver wedding ring. (I don't know how she fits the blue latex gloves over that diamond all the time without getting it caught. I never understand how women put on winter gloves or shampoo their hair with those rings. Maybe once you get engaged, you know how to do stuff like that.)

She is exactly how a hygienist should be. She has white perfect teeth and wears mascara so when I get tired of looking at the plasterboard ceiling and all its little dots and fault lines, i look at her eyes and the mascara. but it looks natural, like she has practiced at hygienist school to put on mascara, because she knows her patients are going to look at it.

she has to do a full set of x-rays. she makes it sound like it's for me, but really, i know it is for her to practice. she tapes little blue foamy things around the hard plastic film so when she puts them in my mouth the hard film won't cut my mouth, but she still says "sorry" almost every time she hurries back to take the film from my mouth. i have been clenching on it in hopes to get a good x-ray so she will feel good about herself. I always say, "it's okay." I eventually tell her I think she is quite gentle and she thanks me for this, she breathes out and relaxes and thanks me again.

I read "The Bell Jar" in the light blue recliner chair while my x-rays develop. I am now at the part where Sylvia Plath gets electro-shock therapy and it is getting sad. She is not in New York City anymore. She is at home, and can't sleep, or eat, or even read. I can't believe people ever gave people electro-shock therapy. I really can't. And please don't tell me if it is still happening, because I don't want to know. I want to think that it is some archaic and barbaric practice that we used to do but have grown out of, because technology has made things better.

Anyway, I get to see Jessica next week. Then she will start my cleaning and she said, "the appointment will run much smoother." "okay," I said. Maybe then Sylvia Plath will be at least in a better place, maybe with her friends drinking vodka cocktails or maybe at least, i hope, she can read by then. Maybe Jessica will ask about Sylvia next week if I am still reading it in the light blue recliner. (They didn't have magazines or music there, so I am glad I brought a book. I am finding it is an excellent habit to get into, Ms. Derrera was right, as usual.)

momentum

day two! I got up and my first instinct was to read. I am reading Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar" and I am quite fond of it currently, so that's what I wanted to do the minute I rolled out of bed.

[Also, I found the book my mom recommended to me "Gift from the Sea" which is excellent too -
a woman's musing on philosophy based on the shape of different shells.
I started this before bed last night, so I kinda' wanted to read that too...]

but then I heard my disciplined monk Emily voice (yes, she's there, somewhere) say, "HEY! you're just trying to procrastinate! make tea and bring your laptop to the front room and START!" and so I listened to monk Emily and I wrote for an hour and watched people walk by on Rodney Avenue.

Incredible, really, what an hour of writing produces. Not much, really. This morning I wrote a small section about the Finkl and Sons steel factory I used to ride by after I finished the night shift in Chicago. The internet is great for simultaneously writing and researching to make sure facts and street names are intact. So the narrative didn't really progress much today, but it became more detailed, which is excellent.

THEN. One hour of job application-ing, which ALSO doesn't amount to very much. (It all adds up, I can hear my mother say.) One application I am working on has these small text boxes for gigantic questions like, "What are your professional goals." eek. So I filled in three of those text boxes efficiently, and hopefully, eloquently, in an hour's span.

Now I am rewarding myself with some reading time. HA! What a nerd :) Later a bike ride to the co-op to check out some killer bulk sections and to prepare for the 24 mile hike this weekend. Powdered eggs? maybe. Grand Marnier Cinnamon French Toast at the base of Mount Hood, yes please!

Story Cycle! + the July List

Today I started writing a story cycle. I have had the idea ever since I worked at Trader Joe's - to write six short stories, each depicting the destiny of a bottle of wine. I was always astounded to open fresh cases of wine and daydream where each bottle would end up. On a date, at a wedding, alone for dinner, alone while writing, at a graduation party, on a hike, in a suitcase? So I chose six scenarios, actually, the outline ended up to be an autobiographical account of my wildly interesting and decadent life when I lived in Chicago. :)

But I was scared to death to start. In traditional fashion, after I spent an hour outlining, I ate leftover french toast in the front room and frantically recorded word counts in "The Best American Short Stories" Anthology, to find out it doesn't matter, and then I became overwhelmed by reading the list of addresses of the journals in the back, and I was about to research those, but I realized I don't have anything written yet, and I started to think too much - I become inundated with the bios in the back of the anthology, with all the books i want to read, with everything i want to know, and how i want to practice. So, of course, in normal fashion, I took a 20 minute nap to gear up for the actual writing. While staring at the ceiling I came up with the first line. And then I set my cell phone alarm for an hour - I refuse to look at the clock while I write, I would rather have a little buzzer go off like a meditation bell to inform me I can stop if I want.

The hour flew by. Seriously. This isn't so bad! Why is writing so scary????

I have a page and a half written. I am going to try to simply write and then edit later. I've never edited in my entire life, but I think I will enjoy the process. I look at it as being sloppy the first go around, just to get the paint on the floor, and then go around with turpentine and clean up the mess afterwards. So, if I think about it like that - I love to be sloppy! No problem! I don't really care if it is good or not. At least I started.

My goal is to write for an hour in the morning, with tea and nibbling something small, and then make breakfast and write for another hour. Then apply for jobs. Then, after writing and jobs are taken care of - tackle The July List. What a luxury time is - what a simple decadence to arise with only oneself to keep occupied.

The July List:

CAREER:
- AK teaching license
- OR teaching license
- Apply to all nearby districts
- e-mail Josh and Janice re: references
- read "When Kids Can't Read"
- volunteer: bilingual ed.
- e-mail figure drawing professors

CATCH UP:
- e-mail manual to camera lady
- sew patches on backpack
- make jean bag
- scrapbook old vacation stuff
- put Europe photos on hard drive
- call O'Hare TSA
- zip tie milk crate
- look up tote bags and matches
- make Laura version video
- upload photos to facebook
- facebook CHI peeps + D
- vacuum bathroom floor
- oil change for Angela

PERSONAL:
- go swimming
- Sarah's birthday present
- write Renee + Kipp's wedding card
- re-do garden and window box
- cook WW recipies
- outline story cycle and write first draft
- write 2 year goals and frame
- apartment search
- finish "Drop City" and "The Bell Jar" and "Winesburg, OH" and update goodreads
- work on the vineyard
- Zoo Bomb!
- hang with Megan, Erin, and Bobby
- go to Washington Park
- Mary + Steve (18th and 19th)
- contact Matt + Jordo
- look at finances and see what income I need
- dig out JMS project and correct spelling and grammar
- organize the pantry
- hang Mike's painting
- explore Reed
- concert in the park
- move furniture
- research Chevak photo show
- guerilla gardening
- Thao tickets (find a friend to go)
- order ____ for B
- Lily $5
- Central Library: CDs!
- investing class
- get everything off Taskstream
- send "The Bell Jar" to Jules
- Sunday night temple
- find PDX map
- Powell's buy Winesburg, OH

from my student

I am grading reader response journals, and this is exactly what I needed to read this morning. I am in constant awe at these tiny enlightened beings. They are more like me than I ever thought. I only hope I can provide encouragement for their ripe, raw hearts.

Here is the quote she chose, from Salman Rushdie's "Midnight's Children"
"In short, I am literally disintegrating, slowly for the moment, although there are signs of acceleration. I ask you only to accept (as I have accepted) that I shall eventually crumble into (approximately) six hundred and thirty million particles of anonymous, and necessarily oblivious, dust" (43).

Now for her response:
"I can completely relate to this passage. There was a point in my life that I was going to crumble. Sometimes even now. That I'm disintegrating slowly for the moment, but there are signs of acceleration. I even feel like I am going to crumble in six hundred and thirty million particles. I could read this quote over and over again and never ever feel different about how I feel now."

Oh, we are all in this together, aren't we?
With gratitude to the Universe,
Ms. E

now light

Today is the beginning of my last week as a student teacher. sigh. (Don't worry, dear reader, there will still be many more teaching escapades of which I can write about!)

I am all planned - I simply need to write an exam and rest up for a heap of grading. I was observed today and everything went very well. I moved the pace along quickly, my students stayed with me, and we got to everything! I even had a sense they wanted more time to write. yay. We watched super bowl commercials and wrote a comparison and contrast paper. Nothing like bringing in what they are already interested in! My prof. said I did a good job of showing examples, and I displayed a strong sense of content. HA! That's awesome. I feel like a teacher, but not an English teacher. Maybe I really do know about language...

My next class perplexed me. I don't think I did a very good job of setting up their literary analysis assignment, even though I showed them examples and modeled how to annotate a passage. They give me these blank looks and they don't know what to write about. "Like personification and stuff?" "Yes." oof. They are having a hard time connecting the language to the theme, which is understandable.

The fifth hour freshmen were everywhere. Last week, somewhere, we got behind, so I have felt super-rushed for the past couple of days . They kept calling my name a million times, needed me to print things, needed, needed, needed. It's amazing to me how students don't advocate for themselves. I am trying to get better at not doing so much for them - they can walk to the printer, they can get up and turn something in....

Somehow, however, today we got through everything and now the classes are together. It is amazing - I am somehow managing to end with both of my junior and freshmen classes doing the same thing this last week, even though they took very different paths to get there. I can't believe everything caught up.

Sixth hour peer editing went very well. I think it was because I was very explicit, even down to the script, of what I wanted them to say. Also, their drafts looked awesome. The had length and substance and organization. Interesting to see such different results with the class I felt more "specific and organized."

When I am in the middle of a class, talking, and looking out at their eyes, and it is quiet, I really do enjoy this. Today the bell rang and I thought, "Ha! I would have just been paid for that! Awesome!" My goal is to go home with energy. I want to get in a routine of working out after school, or writing, or playing the piano. Something for myself. I want to get into the routine of taking myself out for a decadent breakfast on Sunday morning and grading papers. But most of all, I want to be a writer. This is becoming more and more apparent to me. Maybe my teaching life will lead to my writing life. I was looking up literary agents last night, and it seems more simple than I thought; write something and hawk it. I want this so badly.

There is this bakery in Chicago, Alliance Bakery, where in the springtime, they would line the sidewalk with two rows of tables, partitioned off with wooden plant boxes from the traffic of dogs and hipsters and bicycles on the sidewalk. People would sit outside reading, or writing, or doing the crossword, or talking with friends. The air felt sweet, that hopeful air at the beginning of a Chicago summer, an air that makes you feel as though anything is possible. The bakery was famous for cakes - in the window were gorgeous wedding cakes - but also cakes shaped like sofas or ladies' hats, or kittens. I would always buy a sugar cookie with hard frosting and eat it like a child - nibbling, the sugar caking my tongue. I remember those few days I visited the bakery, in my young life, walking down the sidewalk of Division street, dreaming and writing, writing and dreaming.

"I like to see those pencils flying - this is the reason I got up this morning."
"To see pencils flying?" said a student.
"Yes - to see pencils flying across paper, and so many of them, in this quiet room, is the reason I got up."

in the morning

It must simply be the commute. The long, dark, lonely commute. My mind rehearses everything, wanders down trails unnecessary. I would much rather be singing loudly, writing, drinking, kissing, eating - anything during that hour-long drive in the dark.

Then, when I get to school everything dissolves. I feel immediately better. I walk by JS's room and she is there, always, either sitting on a desk or at the board, lecturing. She is spinning stories, analyzing characters, she is writing in beautiful cursive on the white-board. Her students are always sitting there, simply listening while she is being fabulous, while she is telling them about Paris and the United Arab Emirates and what it was like to grow up in the 1960s. It calms me. It is like knowing that someone, right now, is drinking a beer at the Hopleaf in Chicago and becoming drunk. It is like knowing that that gigantic Buddha staring out towards the sea, just outside Hong Kong, is still staring at the sea. It is like knowing that my lover arises, somewhere on this Earth, makes pancakes from scratch, and brushes his teeth. Therefore, seeing her sitting on that desk, a quick glance through the window as I walk by, is the most comforting way to start my day. All is normal, all is well.

I walked through the commons just now, and two of my students on the upper level indoor track, yelled down "Ms. Evans!" and waved at me from their first hour PE class. I smiled. It will be a good day, simply because William and Anna said hello to me.

It astounds me that days on the calendar tick by. That dates, seemingly far away, looming in the distance like fog or far away city lights, eventually come closer, eventually come so close that upon rising, one realizes, today is that day - today has finally come.

poems from california

I.

If a lover causes pain,
release this from them.
Walk out of their house,
turn around,
take all of the paper and coins
out of your pockets,
wipe your shoes with three scuffs,
and then
walk back into your lover's house.
Walk softly towards their face
and kiss a kiss deep
inside their golden hair.

Remember a toast that was made
over a 2005 bottle of Australian Shiraz
when you were only twenty seven:
"may lovers be constantly in awe -
the beloved always a changing thing.
May you always find the act of the lover eating
enthralling - may we live life in constant
stupor - like the first time we touched,
everyday, the sight of you in bed."

If this does not work,
walk out
and walk back in.

A wave is not a thing,
A body is not real,
both are only moments
before breaking into light.


II.

always, in the morning
when i must leave you
it feels as though my blood
begins to pump
away from my heart -
every string inside my body
is taut, pulled
ringing.