Me and Mr. Jones

Yes, but the conflict appears in retrospect. It is impossible for me to forget the defeated afternoon when that is all was all. I screamed, yelped, roared, hissed, and fluted. And they paused long enough to decide my fate. Which, as it turns out, was not according to my plan at all. Headaching exhaustion, despair, and a glass of wine and beer. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, sure, but tonight I need to relax.

And once again I am one of those who is living for the weekend. After a year of having seven similar days in my week, I now begin dreaming of these 48-ish hours of relief.

Ironically, I am conceiving of this break in the work-week as much-needed prep time for next week. Because, for once, I am actively engaged in work that I enjoy.

So yes, I will sleep in, and take naps, and watch television, but I also hope to write some lesson plans and buy some colorful rugs for storytime. It is surreal, for me, to be engaged in work that the completion itself is relaxing.

Tomorrow is my first day of school. Although I’ve already reported to “work”, it all begins in a little over 9 hours. In that time I need to sleep, and eat, and dress, and go, and smile. I feel like this will come naturally, as I did it for two years back in the garden state. However, tomorrow I get to reinvent myself, I am a library-teacher, I am a literacy advocate, I am a professional who loves his job. Or, at least, that’s how I must appear.

I must wear my thick skin, and my glasses, and drink much coffee. I need to remember that I am the “adult”. I must also watch and listen for there are always stories to tell if you spend your day inside of schoolhouses.

Goodnight moon, goodnight room, goodnight old self, hello new.

Do you ever feel like you’re being watched? Well, I do. But it isn’t that I don’t want to be seen, I just don’t like being scrutinized for the sake of complaint. Or investigation. I write a lot of things here: some for me, some for Tony, and some for you all.

However, I don’t understand why some people insist on reading simply to ask me what something means or who someone is as if I am a part of a conspiracy. Why can’t you read and tell me that you liked what I wrote, or that I made a good point? Or even that I have confused you, or that you disagree. Can’t you tell me that what I do has merit? A little bit of validation would go a long way. All we need is love.

Watering the grass, walking the dog, or maybe playing catch with yourself up against a wall. Walking with your daughter to church. Eating at an outdoor cafe, or drinking there. Feeling outraged about the government’s mishaps and their obvious racism. Sitting with your man on the couch. Not a cross to bare. Or too many.

The first day of this month found me in my last class ever in library school. And now on the last day of the month I officially began my first day of professional work as a librarian. I am very fond of the symmetry and completely amazed at the journey.

A mere 30 days ago I lived on the East Coast, and had no home and no job. Now I live in a lovely apartment in the Mighty Midwest and am employed as a school librarian. Which, I feared at first, isn’t too far removed from my former life as a classroom teacher. However, at orientation today I realized that I have many things that separate me from those with “homerooms”–like the fact that I have 4 extra prep periods a week and don’t have to eat with the students (the poor teachers eat with their kids everyday!!!!). And, I must confess, I am totally overwhelmed with a desire to excel in my new position in the hope of changing some children’s lives. And I say that without irony. Weird, huh?

But as for library jobs it could be a lot worse and a lot more boring. I basically get to rebuild my entire collection, re-catalog/organize it, do readalouds and bibliographic instruction in the same day, and know that it all matters. And the pay isn’t bad either.

And so this chapter of my life both begins and ends, and I have never before felt the peaceful contentment that I have tonight in my mind. I know this isn’t a very interesting blog, but it is sincere.

i am not homesick, but i am nostalgic. for open fields, acoustic songs, and moonlight. for folks who hike in the trees, and jump over creeks. the chaos of car wheels on a gravel road. lately i sit in my big city apartment and listen to patty, gillian, emmylou, and most recently mary gauthier. i read poems about Daniel Boone that were written by a guy from Kentucky. i remember my friend who wore overalls and lived in a trailer. She, no matter where she is, will never leave this rural bliss. Souls ain’t born, souls don’t die. They ain’t made of earth, ain’t made of water, ain’t made of sky. I am.

The real danger resides in the human heart. I am now a school librarian.

It happened so quickly, an ambush, and I had no reason not to accept his offer and become employed.

To celebrate, we went out to dinner. The cocktail sauce was loosely disguised ketchup, but the meal was delicious. And then we traveled to a lounge to meet some friends.

The interior was darkly well-lit, with smoky ambiance and improvisational background music that stole the spotlight.

Built from a DJ, a percussionist, and a horn-player. The first designed the context, the second the speed, and the third a little flair. (too much from time to time, if you ask me, but then I’ve never really liked the saxophone.) They called themselves “Inertia”.

And another man, Dave, had set up his easel to paint to the music. He spent a large portion of the evening crouched down on his knees, as if worshiping the empty canvas. I will admit I had my doubts. But eventually his flowers grew beautifully. And the music, it brought us all to dance.

And I considered my new position, my occasional career, and let myself be overcome. I drank, and danced, and tried to imagine the path of the future. I am scared, but optimistic. About what I am not sure. But we move forward, regardless.

She said to me:

“maybe not from the sources
you have poured yours
maybe not from the directions
you are staring at

an aeroplane
will curve gracefully
around the volcano
with the eruption that never lets you down

We all have earned a lightness
Carry my joy on the left
Carry my pain on the right”

So I can say to you:

“mon petit vulcan
you’re eruptions and disasters

It’s not meant to be a strife
It’s not meant to be a struggle uphill

I want to be flexible
I want
To go out
Of my way for you
But enough is enough

i’ll suck my tongue
in remembrance of you”

One of these mornings
You’re going to rise up singing
Then you’ll spread your wings
And you’ll take to the sky