I hate April Fool's; I had a kinda bad day; also Poetry Day #1
1. April Fool's Day = be an asshole day, Y/Y? I spent all day hearing things that *made no sense*, and I would say "That makes no--...oh, April Fool's. Ha. (not)". All. Day. The radio talking about left handed hamburgers was kind of funny, on the way into work. Everything after that, not so much.
2. Today I got my performance review from my current preceptor (a great, groovy lady), who said "I'm sure you've heard this before, but you're too enthusiastic. You're like a puppy. You need to be less excited by everything; I've heard this several times from my staff. It's just kind of immature." (upon my look of utter disbelief) "What do you *mean*, no one's ever told you that before, are you SURE?". She did say all of that in an incredibly nice way considering. But.
A Color of the Sky by Tony Hoagland:
Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn't make the road an allegory.
I should call Marie and apologize
for being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I'd rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.
Otherwise it's spring, and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.
Last summer's song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,
which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.
Last night I dreamed of X again.
She's like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I'm glad.
What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.
Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;
overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,
dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,
so Nature's wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It's been doing that all week:
making beauty,
and throwing it away,
and making more..
2. Today I got my performance review from my current preceptor (a great, groovy lady), who said "I'm sure you've heard this before, but you're too enthusiastic. You're like a puppy. You need to be less excited by everything; I've heard this several times from my staff. It's just kind of immature." (upon my look of utter disbelief) "What do you *mean*, no one's ever told you that before, are you SURE?". She did say all of that in an incredibly nice way considering. But.
- one: enthusiasm is bad, apparently. Did you know?
- two: my mistake was apparently in trying to be friends with the office staff. The nurses liked me fine. I should have just never talked during lunch.
- three: I hate being called immature.
- four: I don't know what to do with the feedback of my immaturity given that it comes on the heels of SEVERAL preceptors commenting on my MATURITY. Does not compute.
- five: I suppose any 25 year old in a room of 50+ y.o. women is gonna come across immature, but I don't know. I *thought* it was going fine, and that we were all conversing like equals. Shows what I know.
- six: I tend to operate my life with the waxing and waning understanding of the fact that I REALLY wasn't supposed to survive being born at 2lb 8oz 3 months early in 1983. That kind of means I find almost EVERYTHING a little exciting. It's my worldview; I don't know how to change it. :(
- seven: a puppy? Are you SERIOUS?
A Color of the Sky by Tony Hoagland:
Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn't make the road an allegory.
I should call Marie and apologize
for being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I'd rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.
Otherwise it's spring, and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.
Last summer's song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,
which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.
Last night I dreamed of X again.
She's like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I'm glad.
What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.
Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;
overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,
dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,
so Nature's wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It's been doing that all week:
making beauty,
and throwing it away,
and making more..