Saturday Night's All Right, Right?

    

            Photo by Marko Blažević on Unsplash

 I refound the YouTube channel, Little Poet. I always enjoyed it and then switched to a different channel for myself because the kids follow way too many channels and never sat down to go through the hundreds on the old channel to find hers. So, it was good to find.

    It was a nice day. I worked the whole morning, charged my phone, and worked another hour. Then the boys and I had a good time, and we tried very hard to watch a show, but Alec was flying too high from the sugar and then, sadly, Gabe had a bit of 12-year-old boy craziness, and something rather dreadful happened. I don't want to talk about it. I am just ... hoping he gets through this phase quickly. It brings me back to less happier times.  One of the hard things of living with someone who is bipolar was dealing with their anger. The breaking of the things. I remember on the last week before I decided it was time to separate again, when I had already been warning him, I could not take much more, when he told me I was so lucky to have him, that my coworker was what a man wanted, that I was just a four (which again, may be true, most people are 4s and 5s, but the intent was to hurt, and I felt completely unloved, when he threw a broom and broke my cookie jar, and later that week a photo frame, and I realized that if I didn't get away, every little thing I cherished would be broken. Every wall would be marred. It was just too much to take. And then this boy, with his hot temper, brings it all back, and I have to step back and try to decipher what is happening. Liam had flashes of anger at 12 (he threw a baseball at the windshield once, cracking it) and he got past it. But this is so hard to go through. And then this sweet boy will cuddle up to me and say sorry,  and I just-- wish he would learn to go outside and push through the energy and learn it quickly.

    I am enjoying a glass of wine, but it is making me feel a little ill already. That's a little sad. I want to feel that drunken loosening of just letting go. I guess it isn't a good idea with the kids here, and I just have the one glass anyway. But you know that numb headiness where romance, chatting with the pets, and the world dimming around you overtakes you? I long for that. Of course it is more fun with other people, and memories of parties and get togethers of the past reminds of the joys of chatting with the girls and flirting with the boys and how much I do enjoy relaxing with a group of safe people. It's been so very long since I had people. But I have learned to really enjoy myself, and that's a nice thing, too.

    Work is hard. I am struggling with deciding if regular education with all the kids is the right place for me. I really struggle with crowd control. I don't know. I want to make the best choice for everyone. I like the faster pace and I like the deeper lessons, but I am just not sure if I am not really just a hindrance and disservice to the students. And all the goofiness we are expected to do. So much silliness. And I do miss reading and writing with the kids. I don't like the way the district is tightening everything. They say they are making it more equitable, but they are ripping the individuality and beautiful artistry out of the process of teaching. On top of that, we hear that other countries students think our lessons are a joke, and it makes me wonder what is really going on. But then I remember I am not independently wealthy, so I don't really have a choice to do things differently, so why bother thinking about it?

    Anyway, I didn't get an online job, so I must work work work all the time, and tomorrow is no exception, so, I'll say good night. 

    

The Snood

    

Photo by Andrik Langfield on Unsplash

 I was a child of the 70s. This doesn't mean too very much to me as I was still quite a young child during the 70s. Sometimes when I filled with a nostalgic longing for a simpler time, I will look for a used women's magazine or book from these times, and imagine living a life of domestic simplicity in the past. But mostly, I don't remember much. Living in St. Louis, I have memories of baseball games, cigarettes everywhere, moonies on street corners, and long summer days that stretched into nights playing on grass, making mud pies, and dealing with the issues that come from living in a neighborhood with other children. I was earnest, temperamental, talked too much, and loved to play school or house or ride my bike like the wind. 

    Once my mom made me a snood. A snood, according to her, was a crocheted square or something that covered my hair once it was put up in a bun. I wasn't too keen on it, but my mom insisted it was stylish and made me wear it to school one day. 

    My instincts regarding the true stylishness of the snood were on point as the other children teased me about the silly thing in my hair. "It's a snood," I told them, pointy little chin held high. Unfortunately, my explanation was not quite enough for the children of Rose Acres Elementary, and the teasing continued. 

    Later, I confessed the story to my mom, and explained that no matter what they didn't get to see me cry. I have vague recollections of my primary teachers having pianos in the classroom. I am not sure WHY I remember this-I can only assume primary teachers at the time did play some simple melodies perhaps.  It makes sense. It didn't all used to be early cramming for reading skills and tests. I slid my little body behind the piano until they tears passed and then, thin lips pressed into a smile, corners forced up, I emerged. No they wouldn't see me cry. 

    I am still her. Forty-six years later and I still feel like that girl hiding behind the piano. I come out, lips pulled up, and tell myself it will be fine. It will be good. Noone will know the shame I feel at being so otherly. So unwelcome and somehow clearly wrong. 

    The only saving grace is 46 years later I am much too busy to dwell too much. I will wipe the tear away and tell myself it is a sign. A sign I must belong somewhere else. A sign I need to move on and keep looking. And I am tired. But I keep my  bag packed and close by, and my fingers and toes are starting to itch. 

    Maybe elsewhere is where I belong. I belong where snoods are okay and noone makes us wear what we don't want to wear anyway, and hearts are open, invitations flow freely, and irreverent comments are seen for what they truly are-anxiety. A place where the silliness and seriousness are embraced. 

    I know this place doesn't exist. 

    But moving is always better than standing still.

    Smile.

This Burden at My Feet

 

                                                           

Photo by Joshua Fuller on Unsplash

Yesterday, a hesitant person shared information with me. A story as old as time, of decades-old pain remembered differently by two people. As they were speaking, my head was screaming why are you telling me this?  Was it to ease their own pain and get some understanding, or to prevent me from hearing it from another source? Regardless, the knapsack was placed down and I have to decide how much to pull out and carry along with me. At the time, I sent a fervent prayer up for wisdom-wisdom to speak wisely about something I am not a party in and which is destined to bring pain-beyond that which has already occurred.

We are not others. Our soul is distinct and our journey is ours alone. However,  people join us for parts of our journey. They walk in step with us for a time, come and go perhaps, or even just flash by quickly, with a knowing smile and a quick wink. I believe we know each other in the beyond-but the ties are different there. 

In our animal bodies however, tribalism runs deep. Familial ties have meaning that perhaps they do not have in the afterlife. Tribalism run deep in me. I will defend my own. 

But the question is, what is my own? Is it humanity, my sex, motherhood, my birth family, my children. Is it teachers? Coffee drinkers, book readers?

This is a situation where either one person is lying or one person is remembering wrong. And you know what? I will never know. 

And so I gaze at the bundle and I wonder, how can I best mitigate this pain? I cannot turn my back on someone who hasn't hurt me, someone whose lonely life is destined to become lonelier, and yet, I do this with a sigh, knowing my values are being stretched, tested, perhaps. I do not have answers. Just this knot of sadness sitting there waiting for me to decide. So I reach into the bag and pull out a coat to carry. I will give warmth to this lonely person, I will provide a bit of shelter to a quieting life force. But my heart will always burn for the pain of another, and a light will shine for them there.

Hello, Dear Blog! Hello, New Year!

     This blog has fallen out of favor among my writing blogs, mainly because I struggle with defining where I want it go. I really don't want it to be another positive, motivational, self-help blog because there are so many great ones out there already. As a teacher with no interest in administration, telling others how to climb the corporate ladder seems a little absurd to me. So, this leaves me with wondering, what CAN I fill these pages with? 

    I like self-help and self-improvement. I like watching videos and listening to podcasts and reading articles. So maybe sometimes, this will be a place for me to observe my reactions to that information. I don't want to TELL you want to do. It has never been a driving force for me to persuade others to do things my way. I just want to share my thoughts, so you can either incorporate them into you own worldview or choose to just to let them pass. I don't need to be your leader anymore than I really need a leader. I just want to BE and SHARE. Although every now and then someone will come and be directive and give me such sweet, practical advice, and it literally tickles me down to my toes. I think I missed out on some gentle mothering as a child. No blame, I probably neglected my own children in the same way. We can only do what we know.

    Maybe this will be a place to respond to the books and movies I read. I want to do more serious reading. Its hard-I work a lot. I mean, a lot. Between my regular teaching job, tutoring, online teaching, and delivering food, I am putting well over 60 hours a week. I awaken early to work. I come home and rush out the door to work. It's not ideal, but its enough to scrape by a decent life. 

    I know I have addressed this issue on here before, but never really took it anywhere. I feel the need to take it somewhere, though. Even if I am just screaming my opinions into the wind, I need to get them out there. 

Just a collection of thoughts

     I ran out of coffee this morning. Well, that isn't true-I have those single serve coffee bags. However, my usually well-caffeinated body is really struggling to wake up. I was up at 4:30 and working early, but without my coffee, I just don't feel the kick. It's fine. I can survive on weak coffee bags, and my Walmart pickup order is at 5 tonight. 

    I finally gave in and watched Call Me By Your Name last night. I know it came out over six years ago, but it takes me a while to get around to things. Whenever I would search for a "very romantic movie" it would be on the list. I was reluctant to watch it because is guy on guy action really romantic to me? I was reluctant. But I was not disappointed.

   

Now, be forewarned if you frown upon same-sex coupling, this may not be for you. 

What I loved about the movie: Timothee Chalamet's face. Just exquisite bone structure. His body was a little small, but I guess he was young then. I loved the quiet subtle desire. No "most ardent" passionate speeches. Just persuasion and lust and admiration slowly growing and enticing. Now, I could have done without the self-love scenes, however they did bring a reality to movie, but oh, the awkwardness. I felt I was in the room with him, hoping his dignity was maintained and he didn't get caught with his little escapades and snooping and um...peach experimentation. It was really well done.  His character seemed really young, but I know the age of consent is lower in Europe, so it probably wasn't quite shocking to see his youth sexually exploited.

    The worst part. The peach. Good lord. And Elio's "Duckie" hairstyle at the end. I hated his hair so much I felt a little contemptuous towards the tear-dripping wimp. Not really, but it was awful. 

 The loss of a great love or relationship (when chemicals get involved it is so hard to separate love from lust), may not be something we have all felt, but the feeling of desiring something that we cannot have, this resonates with many. 

Mr. Perlman: We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to make yourself feel nothing so as not to feel anything - what a waste!

 

My thoughts were much better (I tell myself) when I was driving in the car, but now I am so very sleepy and they have fled.

Christmas looms and I want to pack everything away now. The clutter is overwhelming. In the past week, Alec has intentionally cut the slipcover on the library sofa and one of the boys have broken the leg on the coffee table in there. Add this to the large hole in the rocker (which I loved), and let me tell you, we are not living well. 

Anyway, I need a nap.

    This song is stuck in my head today.

And there she is again

 

Tumble-joy reigned

Topsy-turvy 

alone again

voiceless,

fail again

 this place,

 smile.

Ah, yes. 

Home again.

This infp (who believes personality tests are pure crap for the simpleminded (like me), is drowning in the angry feels today:)

Have a good one!

P.s. I am totally being overly dramatic. It makes me happy.