He stood there in the kitchen preforming the same tedious stirring motion for at least 30 minutes due to pure exhaustion before thinking to himself.
(more) "Why am I doing this? I don't even know how long I've been sitting here mixing this pudding."
A few moments later the man's wife walks into the kitchen and is surprised that he is still awake.
"Stewart, what are you doing? Its four in the
morning!" his wife exclaimed
I had first noticed things were spiraling out of control the night we rode around town smashing any mailboxes we happened upon. It was the first time I actually felt a connection with someone else, her dark chocolate hair whipping around her face. Thing had been going on like(more) this for at least a month or two before things got even more out of hand.
No more than one hour after our first mailbox, she turned, her pale green eyes piercing through my very being, and said something about a building. I didn't care; I was already lost, high off of her sweet aroma consistent with that of late-night sweat. Simply intoxicating, if not more so for the way her slim figure stuck to her dirty clothes. Before I had even realized where we were, a broken window to a grocery store lay before me; an alarm beating down on us from all around.
She shouted something about grabbing what was in the back, I simply nodded and head towards my destination. In it I found nothing worth taking, at least, not to me. She on the other hand, might want some of the stuff, so naturally I grabbed anything I could and went back to the front. After that everything became a blur. We drove around town for a bit, got a motel, and fell asleep. Our bodies intertwined, no gaps to be found between us. Before I woke up she had already left, back to our normal lives until next time.
I got home in the morning, the sound of breakfast already started. My wife stood there with our two-month old son. I don't remember much other than her asking if I heard about the people robbing a convenience store, I shook my head no and sat down.(less)
write write write until the end of the time. i challenge you to keep your pens moving, and yet, my mouth moves more readily than my pen. i challenge you, and i reward you with a sticker which is a symbol of excellence, a placating mechanism which will keep(more) you writing even though we don't grade. the clipboards that we hug to our chests while orbiting the room have names and boxes, and we mark things in the boxes, but the marks have no meaning; the marks never leave the clipboard. power is having the clipboard and knowing whether or not it will be used, and being able to use the clipboard to regulate behaviors. it is good, all of it right and voice that escapes my throat in the front of that cement box is mine, but also a fabrication of a teacher voice. also the voice of my coaches. the voices of men. i am resistant to a classroom of silence. we are supposed to be able to get 6th graders to be silent. we are supposed to assert assert assert so they know to sit down and shut up and lean forward and nod to show comprehension. nodding doesn't show comprehension, though. it shows complacency. this is a community affected by Trayvon. this is a community afraid of the word 'aggressive' because we are in the Stop and Frisk zone and there are plenty of kids in my school who fit the police profile. in fact, most of my school. and so i raise my voice i shake my clipboard and i wonder: is it enough? can it ever be enough? so i can sleep at night, i say if it is enough for one student, it is enough for me. still, i wonder. (less)