july 26, 2002.
Still no monitor. I'm going nuts here. The mean reds swell & retreat. I can't figure out if my day-long headache comes from PC-withdrawal or my growing fear in contemplating the year ahead. I've been looking through the course outlines today and frankly the whole thing gives me the willies. Also, I am not enjoying Duddy Kravitz. It's going to be a very boy-book year, what with Lord of the Flies, DK & Fahrenheit 451. I guess we can't read The Second Sex all the time.
Despite the pounding headache, I did manage to make myself useful: there were dishes washed, books read, phone calls from Scherezade & my dad, a bad poem written as per request, and two hours of mending before this tale was told. I absolutely loathe mending, but I recognize its necessity in a post-disposable-culture culture. I think the problem is that I only do about 2 hours of mending every 6 months or so - I never quite work at it long enough to get any good. Perhaps after the laundry tomorrow I should practice with my hoards of decaying sensible cotton underwear.
(Now that was probably more than you needed to know, wot?)
I've been thinking about Nic today. We had this long conversation last Saturday about flexibility and movement - he does jiu-jitsu - and he has the same problems with his feet, ankles and knees. I'm thinking that it would be really nice to do yoga with him, if only we can get something going in the fall. I already have this total fantasy of joining the chick health club I saw in Hogsboro and working off my school stress before I go home at night. (I'm also hoping to lose weight, but since I probably won't, it's best not to make a note of that.) Yoga helped me so much during Operation: Need to Fucking Pass that I'm sure regular exercise will keep me sane during this most difficult of first years. Maybe he'll do it if I drive to our parents' house and pick him up. It could happen...
In the meantime, I think I'm going to buy new copies of the curriculum books, just so I can mark up the margins without feeling guilty. And I'm going to try re-reading my textbook on Teaching English Language Arts. The whole book passed through me like a dream when it was assigned - now that I'm desperate, it just might stick to something. Here's hoping.
Ugh. Time to take my headache to bed.
The poem. Remember, it's supposed to be bad.
DEATH SONG OF THE LIVING ROOM LAMP
(an exercise in personification)
SMALL HANDS
(GRUBBY, TANNED)
REACH OUT
IN SUPPLICATION
AND FOR A MOMENT
THE HANDS ARE CLEAR
OULINED AGAINST
MY BODY. ILLUMINATED
BEFORE HE
PUSH
PUSH
PUSHES
ME
RIGHT OVER THE SIDE.
S M A S H .
MY BODY SHATTERS
SPREAD
LIKE A
PORCELAIN TAROT A
PIER ONE PATTERN
OF ENTRAILS AND DUST.
THAT LITTLE SNOT.
I HOPE HE
CUTS HIMSELF
ON
ONE OF
THE
PIECES
.
2 years ago today: me and bobby orr