Just let me get to teach poetry to sixth graders (or another section - I'm open) like I did yesterday with Langston Hughes' A Dream Deferred, and I will be over-content the rest of my life.
Seriously, that was only 15 minutes of my life, and it's hard to find another time in recent history I've felt that happy and alive and worthwhile.
All of it - the finding ridiculous ways to define 'fester' (and acknowledging that after one of our girls heard it, it would totally be one of 'her' kinds of words because that's her level of interest - I was right :) ). The making them have to take things from surface level and go deeper. The number of hands I had up after most questions proving they were engaged and trying.
I seriously could not ask for more. This would truly satisfy me daily. If only it were my reality and not basically a one-off at this point.
...though I AM getting the kiddos all to myself from 10:00 today until ? because Trish has a meeting and we don't have a special ...
“The lady who owns the house 2 doors down from me does not live in the house. She hasn't lived there in nearly 10 years, but still owns the property. From time to time, she comes by the house just to make sure no one is parking in front of it. When someone is parked there, she writes a note on their car saying to "Never park here again or your car will be towed!" She has also put a NO PARKING sign on the tree in front of her house. Cars parked in front of this house have absolutely no effect on her life in any shape or form, yet she is obsessed with keeping people from doing it.
That's what I think people who are against gay marriage are like.”
It begins -- the rewrite is done. The cover art is designed. The type is set. I am signing a contract. A WINGED THING, AND HOLY is about to take flight. I am about to collapse from the mere overwhelmingness of it. A long time coming but the finished novel is about to be launched.
There she sat, all five feet six of her, mostly leg, all one hundred and twenty three pounds of her, mostly bone, her huckleberry hair pulled back into a low-slung ponytail because it was another damp jungle-hot Chicago summer.
There she sat, slumped into the contoured seat of a library chair listening, listening, listening…
Rhythmic music came from a close-by conference room. A thumping hum came from the ventilators. Then the voice flowed down the heavy oak library table like a rivulet along a forest floor. It carried words poeticizing an act of love.
And people are hard to suit. The man who plays the piccolo, Is a bore to the man with the flute. And often to myself I've thought how lovely it would be, If every person I ever met would simply agree with me.
But since they won't, I think the way to make the whole world bright Is never to mind what others say, And do what I think is right.”