follow me down
take a second of the day
to think about the things that we have done this year
the dog lies down, the pouring rain
I'm underneath the smokers' railway arch again
Today's my last day of teaching. The other eighth-grade teachers gave me a card and a $10 gift certificate to Whole Foods. I'm sad. I'm panicky. I hate the endings of good things.
But I feel better about this three weeks of teaching than I felt about graduating from college. When I graduated from college, I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life. Now I know: I want to teach. I have been joyful these past three weeks. I've come home exhausted, but filled with gladness; I've looked forward to waking up in the morning. The only hindrance to my happiness has been the knowledge that it was going to end so soon, and that I couldn't really run the class entirely the way I wanted to because I was in the middle of someone else's curriculum. I want to teach. Middle school. High school. English. Latin. French. Whatever. Something I'm passionate about, know all about, and am joyful about hammering into the heads of wide-eyed, brawling youngsters.
the future's looking colorful
it's the color of blood, chaos, and
corruption of a happy soul
the happy soul will ride in the fields
ride in the fields
ride in the fields, till the rain dies down
Monday morning we fly for Florida. Yes, into the damn hurricane. Why not? I'm so braced for all this I wouldn't have to re-brace for Ragnarok. We're going in fighting and glad and that's how we're coming out, too, and nothing named Wilma is getting in our way.
the railway ticket states a destination
but that doesn't mean we will show
there's a fork upon the line
we pay the guard to switch the sign, and off we go
The teacher I'm subbing for asked me to stay through Wednesday, and of course I'd love to but of course I can't. Her husband's mother has cancer and they need to get her settled. I see her family medical emergency and raise her an "entirely too young to be dealing with this shit."
I have gotten used to the ludicrous sentence, "My fiance needs a lung transplant." I don't say it apologetically or self-deprecatingly or tragically or as if I might be joking or vindictively or as if this might explain something; I've said it too many times, to too many people and in too many ways. Now I just say it.
It doesn't define me. Not the way you might think. It's just my rain of jaguars.
the future's looking wonderful
it's the wonder of a businessman's
conspiracy to sell your wares
no one cares
oh you care, I know
you care, I know
you care, I know; I forgot for a while
to think about the things that we have done this year
the dog lies down, the pouring rain
I'm underneath the smokers' railway arch again
Today's my last day of teaching. The other eighth-grade teachers gave me a card and a $10 gift certificate to Whole Foods. I'm sad. I'm panicky. I hate the endings of good things.
But I feel better about this three weeks of teaching than I felt about graduating from college. When I graduated from college, I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life. Now I know: I want to teach. I have been joyful these past three weeks. I've come home exhausted, but filled with gladness; I've looked forward to waking up in the morning. The only hindrance to my happiness has been the knowledge that it was going to end so soon, and that I couldn't really run the class entirely the way I wanted to because I was in the middle of someone else's curriculum. I want to teach. Middle school. High school. English. Latin. French. Whatever. Something I'm passionate about, know all about, and am joyful about hammering into the heads of wide-eyed, brawling youngsters.
the future's looking colorful
it's the color of blood, chaos, and
corruption of a happy soul
the happy soul will ride in the fields
ride in the fields
ride in the fields, till the rain dies down
Monday morning we fly for Florida. Yes, into the damn hurricane. Why not? I'm so braced for all this I wouldn't have to re-brace for Ragnarok. We're going in fighting and glad and that's how we're coming out, too, and nothing named Wilma is getting in our way.
the railway ticket states a destination
but that doesn't mean we will show
there's a fork upon the line
we pay the guard to switch the sign, and off we go
The teacher I'm subbing for asked me to stay through Wednesday, and of course I'd love to but of course I can't. Her husband's mother has cancer and they need to get her settled. I see her family medical emergency and raise her an "entirely too young to be dealing with this shit."
I have gotten used to the ludicrous sentence, "My fiance needs a lung transplant." I don't say it apologetically or self-deprecatingly or tragically or as if I might be joking or vindictively or as if this might explain something; I've said it too many times, to too many people and in too many ways. Now I just say it.
It doesn't define me. Not the way you might think. It's just my rain of jaguars.
the future's looking wonderful
it's the wonder of a businessman's
conspiracy to sell your wares
no one cares
oh you care, I know
you care, I know
you care, I know; I forgot for a while