Fuck me, I love Lana del Rey. A certain Soul – one I pushed away once upon a time – introduced me to this mistress of music and poetry. Despite my antics for metal and hard rock shenanigans (with a healthy dose of folk thrown in for good measure), I find this woman to speak to me. Her words – fuck – her words are brilliant, that brilliance that can only stem from the tortured agony of introspective self-awareness. Her escape from the Cave was wrought with dangerous Shadows and feckless Chains, yet her words proved her liberation. Perhaps that’s why, comrades, this pop star speaks to my Soul. That tattered Soul of gray, frayed at the edges, worn to the interior, yet pulsating with a light that refuses to yield. Cover it with a bushel basket and you place it atop a hill: it cannot be hidden.
Oft one might wonder what their purpose is upon gods’ green earth – yours?
Me? I serve as a reminder.
Oh, as I told my kids this past week, I know exactly who I am and what I’m here for. I remember Dr. Toland – ah, so many years ago – relating how he found his purpose under the shade of a tree whilst attending college. Not dissimilar from the Buddha (and the man could give His Holiness a run for His money in the theological thinker department).
My purpose, yes, that niggling thought e’er at the back of my mind. Between booze and smokes, under the light of eternal Luna, who wouldn’t ponder their mere existence in the light of something greater?
Call her a close friend, a lover, something more, but tonight she implored as to why I personify myself with Grendel. The monster that wrecks Hart time and time again and causes no end of anguish to the beleaguered Hrothgar. It is not until Beowulf – that bastard Geat – rips his arm from his socket that peace is finally found. Blood spilling forth from his mortal wound, all of his warfare and violence for naught, yet finding peace in the tranquility of the Abyss. But in peace, comrades, do we truly find our calling? What is a peace without assiduously applied butchery?
Today I wrote a children’s book whilst death metal blared from my antiquated speakers as I slowly put off my getting ready for church. Here, just as liable to assist children as I am to indulge my lyrical fantasies for violence and guttural shouts. Christ on a stick; what sort of existence is that where one finds themselves in such a paradoxical predicament?
Yet, comrades, I must reiterate my nature as a beast of Paradox:
I do not want children; I love all 150 of my students
I cannot commit myself to any one person; I am married to elucidation
I love who I am as a free individual; I bemoan the existence I’ve implemented upon myself
I detest school as a formal institution; I am a teacher
I love every heart I’ve broken – the list is arduous
I want the best for my charges; I cannot be a role model in my current state
I want my charges to experience failure and disappointment; I want my charges to Live without interference
Comrades, hark! What sort of madness beguiles this maddened scribe? How can any individual wish only the best for their students while wanting them to experience the bittersweet unguent of failure? Am I not mad? Am I not human?
A friend – and a few students – commented on my lack of humanity; how I have sold myself to Diogenes the Cynic oh so long ago. Yet I ponder: is such a thing necessarily bad? The bastard philosopher wasn’t necessarily wrong in his arbitrations of human nature and disposition. Indeed, being treated like a dog is a pendulum that swings both ways; a cutting blade liable to spill blood and offer enlightenment whilst doing so.
Is it wrong to want loved ones to fail the better able to sup their eventual victory? To want the young to witness and experience the tribulations of youth to better prepare them for the glory of adulthood? Forsooth, I want my nephews and nieces to touch the hot oven, the better able to learn for themselves than from the guise of a drunken lout who merely chuckles and says, “I told you so.”
Scarcely, I say, is it wrong to want suffering to be a guiding light? Who, among you, reader(s), have not suffered in your own quest?
This past week I have bombarded my charges with philosophy, trying to drill it into their heads the importance of being able to think – critically – and learning from those great thinkers who have gone before us. Yet I find myself wondering (on the occasion), am I misguided in my intentions? After all, I reason, are these blokes not very much dead?
Who gives a shit about Averroes? Avicenna? Plato? Kierkegaard? Sartre? These are dead men -rotten beyond comprehension – with idle words and ideas far beyond 10th grade comprehension.
Fuck, me. They are dead. But the idea – the idea, comrades! – cannot be extinguished so swiftly.
I am a goddamned mess – a slew of vices corrupting my virtue – yet at least I am aware of my purpose. I am an example: of things to do and not to do; of things to emulate and things to ignore; of things to savor and things to revile; of things to witness and things to ignore.
To my charges reading this drivel: go to bed.
To my charges seeking enlightenment: cross the Dark Stream.
Trust me, comrades, the deeper you go, the more that makes sense.
Now then: we’re off to change the world. One cynical thought at a time. And to hell with the rest.
Wrote this observation up late last night. I reckon it might make far more sense with all the allusions and what have you if you’re familiar with Beowulf, the epic poem (not the shitty movies), and Grendel, the novel.
Today I stayed at school until a little after 6PM, getting some (much needed) grading done and generally enjoying the solitude an empty classroom affords a weary soul. There is something to be said about a room – once previously filled with abounding energy – now derelict and silent as a still night. Upon switching off my lava lamp and taking final notes in my journal, I sauntered through the grounds to rev up the Green Manalishi (the Jeep for you newcomers) before heading home to some much needed and well-earned respite.
Blaring Sir Elton John with the e’er present cigarette dangling from my parched lips, I casually drove back to my digs to set about my evening rituals. The sun had already set by the time I made it home, a friendly reminder that perhaps I might have been at the school a bit too long. Just shy of 12 hours today.
No matter, I reasoned, for today was a good day. And comrades, any day I wake up is a good day.
Lately I have been feeling as if my calling was misguided; that my brief tenure as a teacher was not the thread of my skein I needed to be following. After all, as I’ve written times afore (nominally whilst on the Way), I am oft unsure of what path I need be pursuing. Indeed, at my age, it is typically frowned upon to be job hopping and taking sabbatical as I am wont to do. Events beyond my control, and a select few wholly of my own doing, attempt to lead me astray from time to time.
But these kids – these magnificent little fuckers – without e’er realizing it, bring me back to grounded reality, coolly reminding me that, yes, my skein has led me here. And, Odin dammit, I am doing good things. They are doing better things.
As I write this from the confines of my meager kitchen, graced by the presence of Soviet propaganda and other curiosities, I am reminded of my charges’ impact upon my well-being.
A poetry book given as a Christmas gift lies atop the table. A new leather journal sits comfortably in my old school bag. Brilliant words and honest thoughts my charges have shared with me – the hallmark of trust – are strewn about my bachelor quarters, ranging from barely legible chicken scratch to assiduously constructed characters. My classroom is adorned in hand-drawn sentiments, gaudy poetry projects, and private letters and keepsakes gifted to me by my goombas. And the words my charges speak to me when greeting one another at the door or passing by in the hall, ah, comrades! Those words shall e’er provide me succor when in my darkest depths of self-pity and loathing.
This morning as I was readying my classroom in a fatigued stupor (a wedding having taken the bulk of my weekend’s productivity), I was greeted at the door by one of my charges who wished to share her creative writing piece in privacy and solitude. As I read her tale of heartbreak and youthful understanding, I asked her why she felt it necessary to share this groundbreaking revelation with me first. She had sought me out afore her friends – even her best friend with whom she’s always chitchatting during class – to seek my input and advice. It appears, comrades, I might have become an adult after all, damndest thing. We talked over her piece and swapped ideas and tales about how best to capture the emotion and really bring the story to Life. A budding writer, a strong one at that, and one who ensured my week was off to an amazing start by seeking my assistance.
Last week I was greeted by one of my Dungeons and Dragons charges (he is an upper classman and not in my direct tutelage) and he juxtaposed himself on the wall I was currently leaning upon. “Sir,” he started, “I have read your Thing We Do Not Speak Of.” It is a running joke amongst my charges that this blog does not exist and has nothing to do with me – deny deny deny. He told me how he read the previous posts, how he read it aloud to his mother, and how the bits about public education made him lament the state of education within New Mexico, but he still got a good laugh out of it. “The stuff you say about us means a lot,” he confided, as I casually shrugged my no-nothing shoulders, a grin emblazoned upon my stupid face. “You’re doing God’s work,” he said in closing, jaunting off to class afore the bell could ring him tardy.
Instances like this, comrades, these passing words and idle chitchats, keep me motivated in my darkest of days. How easy it is to lose sight of the task at hand, to become embroiled in the petty politics and administrative autocracies public education is renowned for, to sink low amidst the refuse and rubbish of standardized tests, misinformation, and power struggles teachers oft find themselves corralled in.
Yet here, in that instant, the manacles of deprivation had been cast off by the kind and honest remarks uttered by a charming goomba, and no amount of adult flak or administrative tyranny could drag me low. Ah, kids, you haven’t any idea what you mean to your “bat shit insane” instructor. And yes, that’s an actual quote from one of my promising writers. The very same from this morning.
I have worn a great many hats throughout my tenure on Earth: salesman, security guard, student, wanderer, farmer, volunteer, journalist. No profession gives me greater joy than being a teacher. Really and truly, comrades, this is my calling. At times it is wholly taxing and I find the effort needed to survive in this trepidatious world to be almost too great; how the kids provide nectar! The pay is terrible, the administration is aloof and out of touch, the state has it out for us, the bulk of the public is unaware, but these little fuckers make it all worth the while.
I’m a teacher. It took me decades to arrive here, but sweet Christ, I’m a teacher.
Now finish your essays (and stop reading my blog).
Smoke. How I love watching it curl into the night air. Gray against the blackness of the dim night. Stars peeking out from behind the somber clouds, their faint light further obscured by the emanating ember of my fingertips, by the plumes I exhale upon vodka-tainted breath.
Ah, if only the kids knew what I was really like outside the classroom.
It has been a spell, certainly, dear reader(s), and I can run through my numerous excuses as to why I haven’t put finger to keyboard in some time. Certainly, my personal journal is stained in all manner of mad scribbles (courtesy of a sexy, new fountain pen), but I find myself lacking – wanting – when it comes time to pen things for my poor, beleaguered blog.
Inspiration; when did she desert me?
Teaching, I suppose, has consumed my day-to-day Life, as I find myself in a constant battle to keep ahead of grading (like the Germans in world wars, I consistently lose) and I oft struggle to present new information in an interesting, and engaging, manner. Wearing a bathrobe to work helps, but woe to the new teacher forced into a dull curriculum that focuses on teaching-for-the-test and not on critical thinking.
Here’s where I make a typical excuse about how I’m pressed for time due to being a tired teacher with no recourse from grading an e’er growing mound of papers and spending all my free hours volunteering about the school. How difficult it is, then, to be a poor, beleaguered teacher beset on all side by obligations.
Forgive the sparse updates; between being a full-time English teacher, my own graduate schooling, and the various shenanigans I found myself obligated to uphold, finding time to write for the blog becomes almost Sisyphean.
Yet around the D&D table – where wisdom is freely exchanged amidst peers – I was casually reminded of the importance of indulging one’s self here and there.
“If you enjoy it,” he quipped, “you’ll make the time for it.”
Ah, comrades, how true are those blessed words. Yes, I do enjoy writing for writing’s sake even if I’ll never afford food again. That is mighty fine for man cannot live on bread alone, right?
Oh my, how my hubris has taken a turn – quoting Jesus now am I? Showing off my grad school prowess? Someone rein me in, please.
Now then, on to the meat and potatoes of today’s mad ramble.
And for you Administrator types that are concerned I penned this during working hours, rest assured this was first composed the night of 10 September over a few PBRs, coffee, and cigarettes. Scheduling a post is pretty groovy.
But if you want to start including that Blessed Trinity during working hours, you’ve my support.