Today will be better, I swear!


my coffee with a consolation sigh
There were two moons again that night, both two days past full. Aomame had a glass of brandy in one hand as she stared at the pair of moons, big and small, as if at an unsolvable puzzle. The more she looked, the more enigmatic the combination felt to her. If only she could ask the moon directly, "How did you suddenly come by this little green companion of yours?"! But the moon would not favor her with a reply.

The moon had been observing the earth close-up longer than anyone. It must have witnessed all of the phenomena occurring-- and all of the acts carried out-- on this earth. But the moon remained silent; it told no stories. All it did was embrace the heavy past with cool, measured detachment. On the moon there was neither air nor wind. Its vacuum was perfect for preserving memories unscathed. No one could unlock the heart of the moon. Aomame raised her glass to the moon and asked, "Have you gone to bed with someone in your arms lately?"

The moon did not answer.
"Do you have any friends?" she asked.
The moon did not answer.
"Don't you get tired of always playing it cool?"
The moon did not answer.


This book.

The children you don't wanna raise.
It has reached the point at which looking at work causes physical discomfort. I do not know what to do about this, so I will do the work anyway?

- finish marking up my copy of The Outsiders and start developing an actual unit plan for the little sucker
- bring my Blackboard up-to-date so the admin doesn't yell at me for it (oops-oops-oops, lucky it wasn't just me-- it was everyone)
- submit all the crap needed to open an Apple FCU account and credit card
- submit all the crap needed to transfer my Verizon services to The New Digs in Hoodbridge
- grade everything for yearbook
- add all the kids to the eDesign yearbook site
- figure out how to actually use eDesign
- create mini-lesson to teach kids how to USE eDesign
- make some sub plans for next Thursday, during which I will be going on my first field trip with the kiddos to the publishing house
- start brainstorming ways to work the after-school reading comp sessions with my other kiddos
- gym... please... maybe...
- see fam (again)
- sleep forever

- leave for work at 5AM because interims, yes
- slay interims
- export at 9AM
- CT meeting
- figure out the rest of the reading comp strategies with reading specialist
- educate chidlins
- go to Apple FCU to discuss funtastic loans for moving
- weep with relief
- MFA homework

Thinking 'bout mahself.
Accepted into Mason's MFA in fiction. Yay!

They also offered me free tuition and a stipend if I sell my soul to them and teach undergrads for three years.

We all know how I feel about the vast majority of Mason's undergrads... But tuition is expensive. ...But the stipend is not enough to keep my apartment and survive.

The alternative is getting a full-time job teaching and selling my soul to someone else for a loan.

But at least I got in, at least I'll be writing again, and at least I have a very vague plan for a few more years. Very, very vague. But we'll see.

I spent the past hour trying to explain all of this to my mother and it was like I was speaking in Cantonese to her??? Taking her to her head-scan-thing on Wednesday. I love how whenever I'm at bars with friends, they all assume I'm moping just because I'm single. Sometimes I want to smack them and tell them to grow the hell up. MY MOTHER IS LOSING HER MENTAL FUNCTION AND MY PROBLEMS ARE REAL.

No, but I'm not actually angsting about that and I'm going to go bake some shit as a self-congratulatory pat on the back.

(no subject)

I feel like shit. Scraped on a sidewalk. And rained on.

Listening to Gaslight Anthem on repeat like it's my drug because hey, it kind of is and I have no idea how I became this nasty, hypocritical person who cares about all the wrong people way too much. And all this doesn't really even get into it, but the cat is asleep on my left hand, so--

Need self-worth. Luckily there's my job. Luckily I've got my kids. But I think that if I turn off this upbeat sound it'll all get shitty again. Or maybe it's not so much that I need more self worth because, really, I know I am worth something. What I need is for someone else to realize that, too, and care accordingly.

No time for heavy boots.
As expected, CTY has kept me too busy to think.

It didn't quite register what program I was working for until today. Prior to today, it's been like, "Oh, yeah, well, gifted kids come here and their parents pay craploads of money for them to do so."

Today it was basically mind-numbing. These kids come from elitist private schools all around, many of them have been CTY eligible since they were just over four years old, and many, many of them have very, very protective parents who truly believe their child is going to change the world. And everything else outside the world, too. They are sweet kids. Really sweet kids. But I see them as kids that have been deprived of any real childhood and any real summer vacation ever. This is what they know. They measure themselves (and others) by test scores. Their parents do the same. Test scores, test scores, test scores. That, and where you went/go to school.

I hadn't thought about it before today, but I'm the only one at the site who isn't either:

A. From an elitist private school myself.
B. From an Ivy League.
C. Related to someone from either of the above.
D. A previous CTY student.

And because of this? Because of Braddock and GMU? These parents and my peers seem to think I don't belong here. But as far as I can see? I'm one of the few PAs not whining about standing outside, about being energetic, about doing my job. I'm not constantly texting or complaining or talking about the admins behind their backs. I think the admins see this and I think they appreciate it, but to everyone else I'm just some misplaced and hopelessly stupid undergrad. Even mentioning the words "undergrad" or "George Mason" in conversation with parents caused them to completely ignore me and redirect their conversation to Elizabeth, the "real" instructor...

...who teaches 7th grade physics at her own prestigious private school of choice.

One week ago I was teaching special ed 11th grade. This is some really weird Twilight-Zone shit, here. But I'm doing it for the kids. Forget the rest of them. I'm going to make sure that for the tiny span of time that I'm in charge of those kids during their day, they're going to get to behave like real children, dammit. If it's the last thing I do. They are not test-taking robots.

(One last thing. Example of all this? I ask a nine-year old boy what his favorite subject is in school. I ask him if it's science. "Science is my second favorite. Gym is my first favorite." His mother tells him not to be ridiculous.)

Skip over this one.

Days when I have no idea why I'm even bothering with creative writing as my concentration. Unless I get a job as a creative writing teacher or unless I actually get something fucking published, these many, many classes and these gallons and gallons of blood, sweat and tears will be utterly worthless. Which sucks.

I'm probably just being PMS-y and psychotic (which always seems to be the way I am when my stuff gets workshopped for the first draft, which is way not cool), but tonight's workshop sucked. I told everyone that the last five pages of it weren't there because the lady I'm subbing for popped her baby out a whole THREE WEEKS EARLY and so the time I had set aside to write this sucker vanished into thin air. But I did write it. It is done. And we could have just 'shopped it next week and I could've sent out the finished first draft but nooo, even though we had to stay after until 10:20 at night to work on my piece (which everyone hated me for), I could not possibly have just gone next week.

It's my fault for not getting it completely done on time. It's my fault the first-person narrator isn't unreliable enough. But it is not my fault that almost no one ever has anything to say about anything I bring to that class. It makes me want to cry. I try so hard in that class to say something about everyone's piece, to be really involved, and no one gives a shit when I work so fucking hard on something which is, I guess, at the end of the day, just crap that no one cares about.

Miller stayed after with me for a few minutes to talk about how he liked it, how he thought it had potential, how I had to clean it up here and there, but it was a great step forward into exciting new territory for me as a writer, but what does that even mean? So Miller might care. He's paid to do that.

...But all this aside, I'm just mad that my sleep will suck tonight, because I never sleep well I feel like I suck.

Because all I ever do is talk about work anymore.
ms. wright,
you don't bore us with words of preach,
you dazzle english class with how you teach.
your pictures are so awesome & sweet,
trying to draw like you is one big feat
6th period is where it's at
I like Bianca a lot more than Kat :)
you are one kickbutt substitute!
other subs would get the boot
we were so lucky to have you
thanks for helping us geting through taming of the shrew!!


[Also-also, I am totally-for-sure getting an apartment this summer. Dad's cosigning the lease and this bitch is expensive but beautiful. Check 'er out. I get to move on in at the end of May. HOORAY!]

I talk about teaching so much lately, it's starting to make me realize how much I just generally dislike being a student at Mason. I'm more than ready to graduate. Grad school is a must, but it'll either be for creative writing or education. And if it's still at Mason, it's because they're paying my way in full. BYUH.

And one final thing: my next story for workshop is about my dead relatives from the Civil War era-- George, Frank and James Coombs. It catalogues their adventures in logging industries and rubbing elbows with Freemasons and going broke and shit, only this time around James is a mute, Frank has magical hands of sex appeal, George is a doddering fool and there may or may not be a demonic bitch who ruins everything. I... am excited.

Shaky, shaky.
SO. Long-term subbing is something else. Suddenly I have things to grade, lessons to plan, strategies to make, and I'm quickly realizing that nobody cares about my little accomplishments but me. Well, me and other teachers, like the lady I'm subbing for 'til the end of March. It's hard to explain, though, how satisfying it is to have your plan work, to have these kids actually reach a conclusion bigger than the one they began at.

Example: "Men and women have different viewpoints in their relationships" evolving to "All people, no matter what their relationship to one another is, have different viewpoints." And it sounds so simple, but getting them to reach it on their own is an entirely different animal. I don't know. It worked excellently with fourth period, this discussion, and I'm thinking of letting fifth period have another crack at it. After all, I have to find a way to make Of Mice and Men last until the end of the month. And seeing as they're halfway through...


Yeah, no, but really. I mean, my job is the best thing on the planet. No, I know it's not really, but for me it is. I get so excited and into it and I've had kids ask me to stay on as a teacher's assistant, I've had kids point out that I'm always smiling, all the freakin' time, and that's fantastic. Also-- and this might just be in my head-- Brian and I are even more awesome. Tomorrow I meet with Miller (fiction workshop prof) to decide if it's really worth the ego-bashing and $600 to apply to creative writing programs for grad school. Or, more realistically, should I tuck that dream away in a drawer and move onto more sensible things-- that sort of issue. I know what I want to do, I just also know that it's not reasonable, that's it's not likely to get me anywhere.

...And also-also, I'm getting Real Money from long-term subbing, because I get paid more when I'm signed on for such an extended period of time. Which means that come May, when I hopefully get my apartment, it is going to be hot shit. And I'm gonna have a freakin' cat. If I could bottle my excitement and sell it, I'd have it made.

The Mississippi on her knees
I am struck by the sudden urge to plan a cross country trip.

Well, not really cross country. More like from D.C. to the Grand Tetons, but it might as well be cross country. Gas ALONE would be almost $500, two weeks of camping in various places would probably be another $500.


I wonder... If I could gather $2,000 in subbing before summer (more than doable), it could work. I could go in late May or early June and if I get a job teaching at Johns Hopkins, that'll replenish my bank account with a little over $2,000.

This is where someone assures me that this is a bad idea. Brian would want to go (and my mother would want him to go, seeing as she thinks I'll get raped anywhere without him...), but then he would insist on paying for things when I'm pretty sure he just can't. ... ... ...

BUT THEY'RE THE TETONS AND I MISS THEM. And think of how awesome it would be if we actually did it?


Ba da buh, ba da buh buh-duh.
Bad night of phone arguments and general ANGST.

Only thing that can make it better?

Curling up in bed with two of my unconditional friends-- my dogs. I never really realize how much I appreciate them until I'm crying into their fur and they're licking the tears off my face and nuzzling up against me. (HOW CLICHE, BUT HOW TRUE.) Tonight is the first night Rigel has actually been perceptive enough to pick up on someone being sad and to go comfort them (something Lylah's done for me for years) and it's also the first night in a long time where Lylah's wanted to climb under the covers and sleep right next to my legs.



Log in