it's been a busy week. it was the last week of classes, for one thing. in addition to a couple of ieps, there was a lot of work to do for christmas. i drew pictures of all of my face to face students. i realize that they were imperfect, but i felt they were still fair representations of them; plus, i wanted to pass along the message that i wanted them to see themselves as i saw them: as smart, capable individuals... on top of that, i learned that my awesome educational assistant would be switched out next quarter. her replacement is also great, a very experienced educational assistant... but the fact is that i had grown accustomed to my other ea, and so had all the kids, so switching mid year like this will definitely have consequences...
so, yeah, the week's been pretty packed with stuff.
i'm feeling a lot of despair with regards to my writing. i feel as though i've gotten irretrievably lost within the plot. i'm not sure what anything means any more. there are large ghost shadows that loom and insist on being told or talked about... but i don't know what their actual significance is, or how they fit into the larger plot...
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i think i'm coming to treasure sleep more and more. a few days this week, i didn't do my morning routine. i've given a few excuses... some legit and others not. for example, i did have to do a lot of iep work, and that took a lot of time. i also needed to finish a few drawings, and that took a lot of time as well... but no matter what, there is this nagging sense that i'm shirking my routines... at times, i wonder why i continue doing them. maybe i am a machine who only feels content with himself if the parts within him are moving, gears turning gears and such. ironic, since i like to, or prefer to, envision the world in "organic" terms; organic, here, meaning unconscious, oblivious, but natural. the alternative, the "engineered" or "purposeful" vision of life, mostly feels like too much work. and it also feels artificial. the fish doesn't "practice" at swimming; it breathes the water and is the flow within the water. it is forgetful of itself, because who needs to remember oneself?
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i've been semi-reading this book by betty edwards called "drawing on the dominant eye." i'd practically learned how to draw using her book "drawing on the right side of the brain." now, i'm not so sure what her message is, but she's pursuing this line of thought about the significance of eye dominance, i think using it as a signal for personality traits or something. in any case, i've tried a few of the tests, and found that it seems i'm left-eye dominant, meaning my right side of the brain dominates. i could be wrong though. i think part of the reason i draw, and play the piano, and read, and write, is so that i make myself as well-rounded as possible, i.e., rely upon both ways of thinking... but maybe it's not working, and is just leading to a more thoroughly confused state.
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"the only thing i ever really wanted to say was wrong was wrong was wrong."
this is a lyric from the sundays song, "here's where the story ends." i'm not sure why i recall it right now. i think it's because i know that the restless part of me, the one that looks out upon the world for some sort of toehold of recognition, or romance, or whatever, is usually horribly wrong. i am constantly misjudging the world... i feel that it is primarily filled with impatient eyes and ears... it recognizes when things ring hollow... which is most of the time... and so, by the time i work up the courage to speak something, some little insight, maybe to express some attraction or what not, i am so thoroughly off the mark... so most of the time, it is right and good for me to hover in the silences... my thoughts, nothing more than drifting clouds...
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i marvel again and again at the miracle of my wife. she has such love and sureness about her. she has been hurt before by the world, but i don't think it's turned her in any way (at least that i can see). myself, i know, there is a cruelty within me, and a heartlessness. it comes from my periods of alone-ness. i think, for a time, my heart turned and involuted upon itself, and flooded me with darkness and old dead blood... i don't think a part of me ever fully recovered... maybe i will never recover. i don't think i feel as much empathy or sympathy for others any more. i think i intellectually appreciate suffering, and respond appropriately. but it doesn't hit me in the heart any more, maybe because i lack one. i think i'm more pragmatic about things. about people. some of my students, for example... when they cry, i no longer respond with anger, or with pleading; i often offer some trite words, and walk away. i have found that either alternative doesn't solve the problem. sometimes you need to give children the time to weep. you can't treat outbursts always as things to be "solved" and hidden away. at least that's what i've found. some people think i'm heartless for doing things like that, and in some sense, in the emotional sense, maybe they're right. but it's not because i have given up on my students, or anything like that. if anything, it's because i really want what's best for them... and i'm not going to overly indulge them with pity or whatever...
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the time is drawing thin, my friend. thin as a thread of spider silk. holding a heavy sharp thing above us all...
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