I continue to suffer the aftershocks of my truth-telling. Well, I call it truth-telling but some others seem to disagree. All I know for sure is that I don’t want to say another honest thing in my life. Likely I will, but not at this place.
Each school day I get through, I put an angry black X across the date on my class schedule. Eleven down, forty-five to go. I have a strange and ugly red rash down the right side of my mouth, the likes of which I’ve never seen. It appeared two days ago. Perhaps it comes from academic vitriol.
Tomorrow our assignment for our ICLT class (Intercultural Communication for Language Teachers, which needless to say I call “CLIT”) is to bring in an “identity box,” which is some sort of collection of shite representing “self” to “share” with peers and “teachers.” It’s no one’s goddamned business who I am. No longer will I expose my soul: no doubt welcome news to many of my classmates who have cheerfully endured me thus far.
Vermontwise, things are muddy, which makes driving an endeavor full of surprises. No signs of life under the muck yet, but the snow is almost gone. I’ve taken pictures of my pond, milky-looking as it melts, but I don’t feel like playing with pictures now.
Today I drove a friend to the Brattleboro Greyhound station: a shabby trailer with six white plastic chairs neatly lined up out front. Inside, above the real cash register, I saw a red 1950s Tom Thumb toy cash register. I didn’t mean to buy it. It’s just that I so vividly remember ringing up “No Sale” again and again. According to my subsequent eBay research, the thing is worth about $10, not the $25 I paid.
Last week my beloved elder daughter, YoNenny, sent me a package. It contained a children’s book about a hippie grandmother. Stuck to the outside was a note that said, “Guess what?” and tucked inside was an ultrasound that very clearly showed the tiny head and arms and legs of my grandchild.
Words elude me, and I’m not showing my feelings anymore anyway, so I’ll let this guy emote in my stead:
[flashvideo filename=wp-content/video/weird-guy.flv image=wp-content/video/weird-guy.jpg /]
Speaking of which, one of my classmates (whom I like a lot) asked if I wanted to teach in Siberia (her homeland) this coming fall, which would be incredible. But a) I don’t want to be on another continent when I may be needed by my family, and b) I’m afraid that singing guy will be there.
Trouble is, I’ve heard that until one’s degree is actually conferred (November at the earliest, if I get my final project done) it is very difficult to find TESOL work in this country. Maybe I’ll have to sell my Bay Area house and head for some hills somewhere.
I very literally squealed when I saw that there was a new post! It turned into a full-body gagging cough, but I was so thrilled I didn’t even mind.
It’s weird to hear you say “grandchild”. I bet it’s even stranger for you, though.
I LIKE it when you show your emotions, and I can’t imagine that any of your peers simply endure such emoting.
You should poop in your “identity box” and share THAT.
I love you, Mama Ginna.
I second Nennaroo’s comment about pooping in your “identity box” and sharing that. In fact, I will give you a shiny new dollar if you do.
The video I sent! The guy who does it is not actually terrifying anymore; these days, he is very cute and amiable. Watch him here, as he watches parodies that have been done of his video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4D3xHOumwXA
Also also, this is my favorite parody of it that I’ve seen so far: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUbGcRJUDu0 It’s the actor Christoph Waltz, and it is INCREDIBLY silly, and even if you ignore the first video, you *must* watch this one. Perhaps it will brighten your delicate sad blue eyes. Pweebee?
MUD. Visit a maple sap harvesting site where they are cooking the sap down to syrup and sugar. Pretty timeless. My brother and I used to drill trees and hammer rolled up tin cans into the holes as spouts, and then hang coffee cans from the spouts. Every day before and after school we would empty the cans into larger and larger buckets. A little at a time added up. Harvesting maple sap is a lot like slicing poppies and distilling the sap down to make morphine and heroine. Both take a lot of hand work and a whole lot of cooking. Hope you are well. MUD.
Hey, uh, what happened to you?
Booooooome caaaaaack. Booooooooooomeeeeeeeeeee caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack.