To be honest I get mixed up between Vienna and Venice. Maybe I could picture the difference if I had traveled. I won't get on an airplane.
I wanted to be a boxer but I did not like strong thick men telling me what to do. I onl(more)y wanted to punch, even if it meant my technique was so bad anyone could come along, find a gap between my flying fists, and knock me over. For me it was about hitting.
I had a dream Al Pacino was training me to become a cop. Instead of a gun, he handed me a spray bottle, of the type Windex comes in. He wanted to count how fast I could depress the trigger. I turned the wall before me into a wet mess. Bang-bang-bang. Windex I could relate to; I was a housekeeper. I could not relate to holding any position with power and mystery, even a cop. Bonking rioters on the head. 'Losing' tickets. Kicking junkies when they were down. Zap-strap plastic handcuffs. If, even in a dream, I ever found a gun in my hand I would drop it like it was burning.
Under the radio, under the sound of boiling coffee, I can still hear forest sounds. I am connected to the greater world only by existing on Earth's only surface. But I don't know the rhyme/reason of things. I don't have email and Canada Post won't come to my mailbox for much longer. My shoes rotted outside the front door while they sat side-by-side waiting for me to run.
When isolation sets in it is like a form of slow drowning. But you find everything you need in the suffocating layers, enough to go on. To go on for a while, but no longer than that. (less)
I want a live hedgehog to burrow under my Christmas tree, reassuring me with comforting forest sounds. "No," my hedgehog will snuffle "It is not absurd to have a nine-foot conifer in your living room."
I am in a cabin filled with friends far far away from the children and the hard shiny floors of that building in that city and i have never been so tired, so stressed i get headaches, must find a moment to breathe outsde of teaching, outside of the(more) city with buildings so tall there is little sky. Yes, i work hard. Yes, i try my best. As a result, i have nothing else. Just recovering and buying groceries for tomorrow. Soon soon too soon i will leave this cabin and return in my as well as in body to that building and thosechildren and the people in charge who say "you work hard" as part of a correction. I am new and so i am in need of correction, but i also need praise, sunshine, good things to remind me that this work while never easy can also be worth it.
Lately, hard meets harder and i struggle to accept thstthis is my future, this place, these people, this violence. I did not want to martyr myself. I used to write and run and cook food. I still want these things, but havelittle place for these wants. The building says, you should wantnothing do nothingexcept raise test scores, read books on raising test scores, raise test scores, call parents, plan lessons, watch other people do it better. The truth is: i am surviving, but barely. And at the end of day, i am tired, hungry and remember wistfully a time when i was not consumed with something so needy and so hard to feel success with. I remember the past, but and one day soon i will find balance so i am not a martyr, and so next year when the children are new i have something to give(less)