Oh, Wednesday. Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday. Here you are again. I swear that my life is measured out in Wednesdays. Actually, these midweek days are getting so much, better, primarily because my friend the theater artist Jesus Quintero is in charge of the school on Wednesdays. He brings the love. Tonight is not a whiny Wednesday. It’s a great one. I had fun at my job for nearly the whole fifteen hours. And, the hours that were not fun weren’t the fault of students, or colleagues, or school life in general, but instead were the direct result of my own insecurities, so that’s on me.
I had a really lovely night. Weird.
I had a thought to do a poem that combined the styles of all the authors of all the books I’m currently teaching: Atwood, Ellison, Joyce, McCarthy, Card, and Beatty. But, that is hard. I’ve started a bit, with the schedule that Fitz G creates for Gatsby mashed up with Ellison’s “Squirrel!” ADD tendencies and ruminations on the good stuff, and something about McCarthy and the Valley of Ashes, but I’ve yet to get to the other two. I’ll try it. We’ll See Wednesday. That could be a thing.
6:30 am: Emerge from the last chapter of challenging sleep reluctant and surly and wondering when the dream ended and who was screaming and reaching for the forgotten images.
6:35: Brushing teeth. The light and its hostility, but slapping beautiful terror of the light slanting into the window and down on the white clawfoot and reflected back into the mirror, plus the thought to students who may have appeared in the dream.
6:35: Rinse and spit.
6:35-6:45: Try on every outsized and inappropriate shirt and try not to think of the wardrobe that men would choose in Gilead while simultaneously putting tights on a toddler and finding non-existent car-breakfast. Try not to think about damage.
6:45-7:whenever: Strategize against the impulses of children like the earth is threatened by an alien species and try to remember that they are sweet and lovely and hungry and searching. The sound of the key in the ignition and the canorous sound of radio people, like-minded people, the same voice it has always been, all sonorous, proud and liberal, all the while eavesdropping on tiny voices in the backseat while gazing in the rearview at their hair in the dawnlight. Imagine twisted steel.
7:whenever till Classtime: I will not poem instead of prep. I will not poem instead of prep for these classes and at the very least I will write a vocal quiz and ignore the many characters of my life, look, there’s the Judge and the Kid and greasy cold eggs and hashbrowns, look at the sunlight on this poor and wretched youth, look at them shining and sad. Imagine children grown to this height and spottedness.
Classtime: Look at me look at me look at me look at me and listen. This is what they all think and hear before they speak. Somedays the existence is kinetic, somedays it is static, somedays they are all beautiful weirdos. Try not to think about damage and money. Try not to feel smug before the hatching.
Lunch to Classtime again: Meetings Meetings Meetings, and sometimes children are more fun than adults, what is the feeling of being so grown and small at the same time? Stephen D. would have the memory shards to share that, but I don’t, not on a Wednesday. In Gilead, Wednesday is washday, which a detail I just made up. Think about food.
3:50-4:45 Meeting of the teachers. The tired, tired firebrands, the tired crusaders, the tired and funny and smart. And thinking, mostly, of their children.
5:00-Forever: Eek through the rest of the evening and pretend confidence in the deas and carriage, what until forever to drive home cautiously by glint-eyed and horned creatures, arrive sighing and ignore the authors of the poems inspiration, talk about same said work and wonder if dreaming, what are those children dreaming when I stand there and watch them, which one of us is dreaming then?
ForeverPlusPlus: try to write a poem about it,
the art and life and everything.
Wednesday. Happy it.