This week's sign that the Apocalypse is upon us:
I walk into the boy's bathroom at my school to yell at them to stop horsing around, take their respective pisses, and leave. Two brilliant works of calligraphy, written in bright green marker, are on the walls.
The first work of art says, "Bitches." The message is brief, but it's tactful in its simplicity, and it does a relatively effective job of expressing its intended message. I'm almost pleased.
The second message, "School are for Pussys," leaves me slightly disheartened. It's apparent that I've much work to do.
Indeed, school is for pussies...
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
And He'll Probably do it Again too
In other news:
A Panda Bear eats, chutes, and leaves.
These grammarians are not so bright as they seem...
Put that in your chute and smoke it.
Vengeance!
A Panda Bear eats, chutes, and leaves.
These grammarians are not so bright as they seem...
Put that in your chute and smoke it.
Vengeance!
To Set Things Straight
Some things you should know about James:
He doesn't say intimidating things ala Christopher Walken, but he does do the intimidating things that Christopher Walken would say. You will not be told that "your tone is all wrong." He won't say, "Your talkin to my guy all wrong. You do it again, and I'll stab you in the face with a soldering iron." James isn't much for conversation.
However, if you do make the mistake of using the wrong tone with James' guy, then, you may very well be stabbed in the face with a soldering iron. There's witnesses to this very occurrence. Witnesses who swear they couldn't believe that liquefied metal could plunge daringly through a man's left cheek and out his right with such grace. This happened twice just last May. Neither time were words exchanged.
James likes to make a point, going as far as to say that he'd do two or three years in Riker's to achieve that end.
And as such, if he feels a point needs to be made, he'll come right through this computer screen and make one. Don't say you haven't been warned. Chuck Norris has nothing on me.
He doesn't say intimidating things ala Christopher Walken, but he does do the intimidating things that Christopher Walken would say. You will not be told that "your tone is all wrong." He won't say, "Your talkin to my guy all wrong. You do it again, and I'll stab you in the face with a soldering iron." James isn't much for conversation.
However, if you do make the mistake of using the wrong tone with James' guy, then, you may very well be stabbed in the face with a soldering iron. There's witnesses to this very occurrence. Witnesses who swear they couldn't believe that liquefied metal could plunge daringly through a man's left cheek and out his right with such grace. This happened twice just last May. Neither time were words exchanged.
James likes to make a point, going as far as to say that he'd do two or three years in Riker's to achieve that end.
And as such, if he feels a point needs to be made, he'll come right through this computer screen and make one. Don't say you haven't been warned. Chuck Norris has nothing on me.
The Legend
Pseudonym Jim (please call me James) is an evil, heinous, villainous soul. He plunges his worn battle axe into innocents without hesitation. He pillages villages, ravages cabbages, and rhymes unabashedly and without scheme. Worst of all--he feels no sorrow for what he has done. He'll wake up bright an early tomorrow and repeat it all over again.
When he was young, he called out in class without ever raising his hand. He spoke solely in profanities and vulgarities. He had no consideration for what anyone thought of him. His personal hygiene was abhorrable, his bad habits incorrigible. He didn't learn much in the classroom, but the playground, well that was his battlefield. He killed three peers with a dodgeball in one day, and believe me, there's witnesses who will attest to that.
"I heard he filled the dodgeball with rocks,"
some said.
"No, he simply has superhuman strength,"
others insisted.
I know the truth.
"James rules! Not O'Doyle, James! Long live James! Long live James! Long live James!"
But they called him Jim. They insisted that if he was only a pseudonym, he could do no harm. They knew they could never bring those three children back. Nor the others, the many, many others. They insisted that if they could kill his legend, they could kill him with that legend.
They were wrong.
When he was young, he called out in class without ever raising his hand. He spoke solely in profanities and vulgarities. He had no consideration for what anyone thought of him. His personal hygiene was abhorrable, his bad habits incorrigible. He didn't learn much in the classroom, but the playground, well that was his battlefield. He killed three peers with a dodgeball in one day, and believe me, there's witnesses who will attest to that.
"I heard he filled the dodgeball with rocks,"
some said.
"No, he simply has superhuman strength,"
others insisted.
I know the truth.
"James rules! Not O'Doyle, James! Long live James! Long live James! Long live James!"
But they called him Jim. They insisted that if he was only a pseudonym, he could do no harm. They knew they could never bring those three children back. Nor the others, the many, many others. They insisted that if they could kill his legend, they could kill him with that legend.
They were wrong.
Monday, October 29, 2007
A Leaf
A leaf is only a leaf if you let it be a leaf. Theoretically, a leaf could actually be whatever you decide you would like it to be. For my purposes, this leaf will be a window—not a window glimpsing my imagination, but a window into my past.
A leaf makes me feel reminiscent of my past. The same leaf that now sits on my windowsill could just as easily be the leaf that long ago initially crackled but was later reduced to dust beneath my footstep, blew out to sea, and was absorbed in a high tide. The leaf on my windowsill is green, but the former leaf was not.
The former leaf was glowing orange and fire red. It was in a giant pile of its brothers, some of whom shared the same color, but some of whom were as yellow as the sunshine, as green as the Irish countryside, or even a miraculous purple that occurs only in a select few of those who have fallen to the ground victim of a harsh Autumn wind. Even those leaves whose brown staunchly contrasted the life in their still-green counterparts, did not feel it was their business representing death, as George Moore or James Joyce might have once suggested.
No, those rogue brown leaves refused to represent death. Rather, they represented life to come. They persevered to maintain their status as a longing certainty that everything is cyclical. The children who played atop of these leaves, crushing them into smaller and smaller tattered bits, fed off of their spirit.
I fed off of their spirit. The brown leaves, the orange-red, the green and the yellow, even that miraculous purple. And so it is that a green leaf on my windowsill reminds me of my days spent in youthful bliss.
This green leaf is a window in itself. The window that allows me to view neatly raked piles of Autumns past—when stress didn’t seem omnipresent, worries were few, and jumping in was not a choice but a certainty.
To be continued...
A leaf makes me feel reminiscent of my past. The same leaf that now sits on my windowsill could just as easily be the leaf that long ago initially crackled but was later reduced to dust beneath my footstep, blew out to sea, and was absorbed in a high tide. The leaf on my windowsill is green, but the former leaf was not.
The former leaf was glowing orange and fire red. It was in a giant pile of its brothers, some of whom shared the same color, but some of whom were as yellow as the sunshine, as green as the Irish countryside, or even a miraculous purple that occurs only in a select few of those who have fallen to the ground victim of a harsh Autumn wind. Even those leaves whose brown staunchly contrasted the life in their still-green counterparts, did not feel it was their business representing death, as George Moore or James Joyce might have once suggested.
No, those rogue brown leaves refused to represent death. Rather, they represented life to come. They persevered to maintain their status as a longing certainty that everything is cyclical. The children who played atop of these leaves, crushing them into smaller and smaller tattered bits, fed off of their spirit.
I fed off of their spirit. The brown leaves, the orange-red, the green and the yellow, even that miraculous purple. And so it is that a green leaf on my windowsill reminds me of my days spent in youthful bliss.
This green leaf is a window in itself. The window that allows me to view neatly raked piles of Autumns past—when stress didn’t seem omnipresent, worries were few, and jumping in was not a choice but a certainty.
To be continued...
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I'm in the Witness Protection Program
So, during my long hiatus, I came upon a job teaching sixth grade. I decided I didn't want my students reading any thing I might have written during my "formative?" years.
For some time, I was content to just not write and/or leave my posts hidden until I could find an appropriate way to deal with this dilemma. My solution would of course need to appeal to my laziness. Nothing ever came along. However, I've decided this will have to do.
Yes, my full name is in the email address that's attached to this account, but I've done rigorous testing to ensure my privacy. By rigorous testing, I mean that I've googled myself. My feelings: if Google can't find me, a bunch of sixth graders can't either.
Just to be safe, I won't deliberately demean or make fun of any of my students as a coping mechanism on this blog. At some point, I'll make a new blog for that.
Pseudonym Jim, over and out.
For some time, I was content to just not write and/or leave my posts hidden until I could find an appropriate way to deal with this dilemma. My solution would of course need to appeal to my laziness. Nothing ever came along. However, I've decided this will have to do.
Yes, my full name is in the email address that's attached to this account, but I've done rigorous testing to ensure my privacy. By rigorous testing, I mean that I've googled myself. My feelings: if Google can't find me, a bunch of sixth graders can't either.
Just to be safe, I won't deliberately demean or make fun of any of my students as a coping mechanism on this blog. At some point, I'll make a new blog for that.
Pseudonym Jim, over and out.
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