Past, Present, and the Road of Forgetting

I had to leave work today early.  I was sick because I haven't been tending to myself enough.  I have this problem where I get myself into too much and overdo it, especially when I need to reduce the amount of down time I have so that risky thoughts do not move furtively to the forefront of my imagination.  I have burnt out and need a weekend of recovery.  Unfortunately this weekend is going to serve as a reminder of my very recent past and it's troublesome relationship with my present.

I have always considered that understanding and appreciating one's past, analyzing one's past, and reflecting upon one's past is a means to an end where growth and knowledge of oneself and one's purpose flourish.  I have attempted to excavate the terrain of my past, which at times has been very rocky, seeking out my individualism, my purposeful division from other's in order to reevaluate me, my identity.  Basically, I am pro-past. 

However, I am pro-past as a means of understanding oneself more wholly and purely on an individual basis.  I am not a pro-paster who would recommend maintaining an open connection to what was.  The process of losing, moving on, or being done is one that has an end-point.  Classes in school, books, seminars, lunch dates, relationships; these all have an end and become the past.  In my opinion, there is a shelf-life for reflecting: as soon as possible.  These times vary depending upon the situation, of course.  I say all of this to say that I am pro-past with an understanding that the past must only actively exist for as long as it takes to get what you need out of it, then must be tucked away into a cubbyhole in our brains or hearts so that we may continue with the present.  

Tonight I picked up Edward Said's Culture and Imperialism which is some pretty awesome stuff.  Heavy thoughts, heavy reading, but phenomenal ideas and explanations.  My reading in that book led me an essay by T. S. Eliot entitled "Tradition and the Individual Talent" which discusses the connection between the present and the past regarding poets (it also discusses how all poets are crazy as a steel toed sandal and less emotionally aware than your average Sully cat...on which I totally agree).

Eliot argues that the poet is always affected by the past through the "old, dead poets" and the influences they have had upon him, which is similar to Harold Bloom's ideas in The Anxiety of Influence (except Bloom saw this as a catalyst for anxiety).  Eliot argues that "the difference between present and the past is that the conscious present is an awareness of the past in a way and to an extent which the past's awareness of itself cannot show."  Okay, so shelf life?  To be knowledgeable of what a past encapsulates, but to move forcefully into the present as if the past is history...because it is.

Currently in my life I am struggling with ideas of past becoming too involved with my present and the ways in which that past seems to haunt me, to not let me go.  In the application of Eliot's ideas to my own personal problem I think he is supporting my pro-past decision (shelf life, cubby hole)...I think.  Or is it better to deny our past the credit it deserves with the universal knowledge that the experiences we have become a part of who we are?  I think it is indeed anxiety-inducing to understand that there is a solid, complex connection between the past and the present,  and if gone without being attended may seep into our subconscious and twist the tales of history (see slavery in the United States) because often the past is meant to be forgotten, we are meant to 'write another chapter,' and prodding into the depths of what should be forgetfulness can really be gut-wrenching (on both an individual and national level).  When though, if we continue to live solely in the present without acknowledging it's friendliness to the past, do we learn?  If we aren't learning from our uncomfortable pasts we maintain a static notion of identity, but where do we find the strength to continue to poke the rotting animal within to find answers when this animal suffered a painful death, one that we do not wish to revisit often?

Paper Progress and Archiving Oldies

Proving myself to graduate schools may be the death of me.

I set aside today for the latter half of my introduction to this paper.  My to do list said this:

Establish idea of community, establish idea of classroom community in my classroom, identify which characteristics are transcendent, then establish the two communities I will be analyzing.

I basically spent all day thinking of community.  To define community is...not possible.  What is community?

I am not well versed in scholars of sociology or anthropology so spent my day looking for those people.

I then lost my focus and my brain shut down.  

Man.

Tomorrow I get back to it.  When I know I need someone to support my idea in this intro part, which won't be research heavy, I am just going to enter brackets.  Maybe that will keep me focused.

Speaking of not being focused on one topic...

Someone once told me that I was not a writer.  This someone also determined that I was inadequate in other aspects of my life, according to this person, which means very little to my sense of self or worth in my life.  The thought that I, someone who writes for various purposes every day, discusses writing every day, teaching writing every day, and reads books (that were written) every day, is not a writer has recently caused me to ponder what qualifies one as a writer.  I think I am a writer, whether I publish in paper back journals or win awards for what I compose.  What is a writer?  What is community?  Unanswerable questions may be the death of me actually.

So many questions.

I have written more with my students...they are writers, right?

"The 'Art' of Forgetting"

Dedicated to a man and woman who wore their heads on their necks upside down and backwards and to the things that they wished out of their lives and the things they maybe wanted back one day.

If only my mailbox could muster the courage to form the words you must’ve meant.

As if a little glitter is enough to patch up a hole in the wall that begs the bitter wind enter safely.
Or a check hidden in a fold could buy back skinned knees, honor roll certificates, pre-fem playground games, post-pubescent heart troubles, the first rally, the first and second graduations.
All things spectacular, mediocre - a fall from Grace,
a journey to enlightenment - have rushed past without your knowing.

Hallmark certainly doesn’t erase snotty noses, smoking barrels, swallowed fearlumps, or sheets hiding tiny, tear-stained faces from a troubled memory.

The days of sugar and spice and everything nice are long gone and the evenings completed by mothball scented animal crackers have been tucked into the pockets of forgetting.
The only thing worse than a Driftwood Dad is the older generation of bandits that acted as his accomplices.

And if you knew me at all you would know that I hate pink and don’t believe in angels.

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Thinking more on writing and writers I thought that maybe what makes a writer a writer, aside form skill and public acceptance, is one's courage or ability to share what s/he writes.  I have books of secrets, archives of baby thoughts dating back to 1996, but never had courage to publish or share.  I was published when I was in kindergarten though.  That is a fact.  A story I wrote in elementary school was published in a journal and I was in the newspaper along with a friend of mine for this achievement.  Does this qualify me and my abilities?  Great!

Here is this piece, and here's to sticking it to those who think they have all the answers, but are truly grasping for straws.

"Tiresius Bound"

Knee deep in the entrails of then – of nevermore
The son of the Shepard seeks truths in the sewage of yesterday’s massacre.
Veils of ignorance, of falsehood, slurp in excrement scraping along behind the staff that clanks the rusted and forgotten pipes.
Seeking ablution for becoming lost in this wasteland.
Following only the sounds of filth flowing into an
unknown abyss the blind prophet seeks his grail of contentment.

Party Mix and Politics

I liken the teaching staff at a school to a bag of GORP:  chunks of very different snacks, all of which affect your body in different ways (proteins and wheat and chocolate goodness) and, separately, have flavor explosions in your mouth that are delightful.  They never mix and become one, sometimes the combinations can be satisfying, but still the peanut and the raisin are alone in their journey to the pit of your belly.  

I am not sure what influenced this particular metaphor, it is rather ridiculous, as am I right now.  I have just been reflecting on the differences between me and some of my colleagues.

Today I took part in a conversation, rather was on the receiving end of one, where a friend and colleague was discussing his feelings of going on to a PhD program.  He wants to start a writing program for underprivileged children who wish to work hard modeled after a rather successful author's writing workshop and centers in other cities.  This idea, these types of ideas, are amazing and promising when put into action.  My frustrations came from the realization that his ideas are rarely acted upon.  He allows the "system" and the "administration" become excuses for why he should not dream or do.  

He reminds me of a friend who is a Libertarian, which I personally think is crap (it's my blog, I can say it).

To me the idea of being a part of a party that is anti-big government in a country that is run by big government is synonymous with giving up.  

It as if I, as a public school teacher, were to say, "the system is far too flawed, I can't do anything" rather than doing what I am doing:  making changes, in one of the countries most flawed systems, from the inside.  To surrender to the powers that be, the powers that know nothing of classroom life, would bear no fruit, would win no small victories.  I choose the small ones, politically and in my daily life.  We have to work in the systems that exist, because they aren't changing...only shifting...very slowly.

Back to my colleague.  This colleague says daily, "I don't feel like teaching today."  This colleague thinks highly of only his advanced placement students and these thoughts are represented daily in the language he uses regarding his regular level kids.  This colleague cannot make a change because he will not allow for one in his life.  

He, quite frankly, has given up.

In this conversation, when I could get a word in, I would say things like, "Well, you shouldn't allow the way the administration feels to determine your classroom activities or your personal philosophies...look at "A" and me.  We are doing whatever the hell we want in our classrooms and it is working and it is, well, very different, but no one (knock on wood) has given us grief about it. We are pushing brand new ways of thinking and blowing kids minds with HUGE questions every day.  Do you think the administration has any clue what we are talking about in here? Do you think that stops us?  No."  These statements were met with, "Yeah, but..."  

Don't gimme that cynicism! I am fighting my own demons every day!  I frown at the state that the world is in, but I smile and cry too because good things are happening and I am making some of them happen.  The world is a pretty place littered with a little bit of ugly and bad, not the other way around.  

A very dear person to me told me recently that a person has to make her own happiness.  It's true in all that we do.  Everything.  

No matter how much we love something, it can be hard.  I think you just have to be a fighter.  

Tonight my heart has a lot of sadness in it and sometimes I want to cross to the other side where things are half empty and people are never good, but I can't.  No one has ever changed the world by saying, "No we can't."  

  

I have written something and it's my blog and I put things I write on here.  It follows this posting.

Cheers to a life worth living!

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Réquiem ætérnam:
Réquiem ætérnam dona ei Dómine; et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Amen.
                                                                                                         -Eternal Rest

"Vigil for the Departed"

Let us attend to the soul of the lost:

An altar littered with mementos of a sunbeam gone too soon:
Poems that speak of truth in a heartnest,
Banjos that once tweetled tin can tunes,
Trifles, like confetti dreams, that fell from planes,
A handmade honeypot, drained of it's sweetness.

The tenor bell tolls:

Hyssop in mason jars bow as St. Martha sings of hope.
Cor mundum crea in me…
Forgive me father for rainy days and dreamcharms.
Forgive me father for uniting passion and reason.
Blot out my iniquity and make me pure.

Rest is given to the souls of the faithful:

As perpetual light radiates St. Joseph's
hope of a pilgrimage is laid to rest,
lamp lighting and Sweetgrass fantasies drift heavenward.
Thou preparest a table for me,
I shall break bread in the solitude of my healing.

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive…
Forever and ever.

Amen.

The Morning After: Open House

Dante may believe that there are only 9 circles of hell, but after my first open house experience, I would argue this theory.

I started my day yesterday at 7:45 in a meeting regarding a very intelligent student's progress.  His progress:  he's doing great!

I didn't leave work yesterday until 8:45 p.m. and didn't get home until 9:30.  

During the day I did my normal teacher routine:  Teach kids great things, let them write a lot and read a lot, attempt to grade some essays, stress that I don't have the daytime to work on my own essay, stare at a stack of books and feel guilt shoot up through my side; a guilt that sings, "Na-na-na, boo-boo. You won't go to grad school!"  

After accepting my fate as the girl behind the desk, I begrudgingly began grading papers.  

In no time, or two and a half hours later, my student's parents filtered into my room, sat in the desks, and listened to me ramble for about 7 minutes...6 times.  I am a fast talker, but in order to give the parents what they wanted (to hear their kids are being challenged, in what ways, being prepared for life and, unfortunately, tests, and maintaining an excitement in the classroom) I had to hurry it up.  I performed all day for children and then again for parents.

Today was picture day and pictures are taken in English class.

I had to escort six classes to the gym and deal with club fair and my club's table today as well.

I can't remember the last time I was this exhausted, but still the thought that I haven't looked at my research in two days is hanging over my head like a bucket of slime...just as the 120 essays that have yet to be graded are.

How to find a balance?

How, how, how?