Posts tagged ‘summer’

August 28, 2016

Nesting into Fall (or) those philosophy books I took out of the library were worth every late fee.

by lisa st john

“I believe you are your work. Don’t trade the stuff of your life, time, for nothing more than dollars. That’s a rotten bargain.” Rita Mae Brown

philosophy

 

Nesting is that weird thing that happens to some pregnant women towards the end of their nine-month ordeal, glow-time, happiest fatness, hemorrhoid awakening, pleasetakeitoutnow uhm, term. But teachers get it too, and it starts in August. Sadly, New York State doesn’t start school until after Labor Day (I’d much rather have June off than August) so I am getting the nesting urge a bit late this year.

I am cleaning and filling the hummingbird feeders, catching up on all laundry, emptying sand as best as I can from the car, looking for clothes that don’t show cleavage, stocking up on everything from cat food to toilet paper, and OH how I wish I could pee ahead of time. I’d save up, like, thirty pees just for September. Urinating any old time you have to go is a blessed luxury; it’s one of the best things about summer break. Truly.

Don’t believe me? Ask a teacher.

Rookie Teacher First Day Worries:
What if the kids don’t like me?
What if the kids won’t listen to me?
What if I am boring?
What if the principal comes in while I’m teaching?
What if a kid acts out or misbehaves?
What if I am no good at this?

Experienced Teacher First Day Worries:
I’m not here to make friends. Where’s the free coffee?
How do I listen to (and learn) the names of 50 kids named Megan and 80 named Tyler?
What if the kids are boring and won’t talk and just want to take tests and stuff?
I hope the principal comes in while I am teaching; I could use help with this year’s group.
Unless someone has a knife and tries to use it NO ONE is leaving this room.

I hope I can sprinkle some love of poetry on them while I teach them how to be good humans.

Empathy 101 anyone? That degree in Comparative Literature can sit in the back for now.

Goodbye long, slow mornings. Goodbye midnight (I’ll probably see you in a week or two while I reach for the insomnia pills). Goodbye drinks before five. Wait. Scratch that.

See ya’ Summer. Thanks for never really leaving me. I will tuck you in well. We’ll share some sweet dreams with Fall when she wakes up. Until then, I have some teenage minds to warp.

ponderingsYou can buy my chapbook, Ponderings, HERE at Finishing Line Press.

July 6, 2015

Doing Things

by lisa st john

IMG_2720I made coffee, fed the cats, drank the coffee, made the bed up with clean sheets, got dressed, paid two bills, did three dishes, started one load of laundry, put away one load of laundry (why this is my most hated chore next to cleaning out the kitchen drain is beyond me, but it is), took my vitamins, ate some cereal (with almond milk—“real” milk disgusts me), signed up for a short story writing class (online—obviously), put an open-mic reading in my calendar (just in case I actually decide to go somewhere), almost answered the phone when “no caller id” appeared, added my frequent flyer number to an upcoming flight to Colorado, renewed my subscription to The Academy of American Poets, began a children’s story about a sock, put stamps on envelopes to be delivered to companies who don’t use PayPal for some archaic reason, thought about typing out the latest poem in my head, chose to brush my teeth instead, and then the noon whistle went off. Yes. I live in a “hamlet” and the noon “whistle” (more like a sounding horn) goes off at noon every day except Sunday which is, presumably, a day of sleeping in past noon (or at least not caring that it is, in fact, noon).

Why the litany? Well, it’s occurred to me that of the many things we “do” on a daily basis the things we talk about are never the inside things.

“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”

Shouldn’t this be a normal conversation? It’s not.

“What are you doing this summer?”
“Thinking.”
“Thinking about where you are going, huh? I don’t blame you I couldn’t decide if I should … [fade into meaningless babble].

I am thinking about thinking. I am thinking about writing and making new art and smelling fresh grass and wondering if color would exist as well without smell. Isn’t the grass a brighter hue of green when we smell the freshly mowed kind?
Time jumps and bobbles and I am writing a sequel to the sock story (that I haven’t finished yet) that begins, “Somehow the strawberries got involved…” I wonder, also, if it’s possible to live on fresh fruit pies alone. And then I am mowing the lawn writing a poem in my head that never ends.

A New Poem:

You would hate the way I mow the lawn—my line-ish things, my
lack of symmetry, my
desire to go over the same spot twice.

You would hate that I go right over the rocks you taught me to avoid. My
patterns don’t make sense and if I stop to flip a turtle or watch a baby snake periscope its new world, I can hear you asking. I can sense your puzzlement.

You told me once: “Lil, if there is an assbackward way to do something you will find it.” I smile, remembering running down the up escalator in the Paris Metro—you catching me in time for the free concert in Saint Sulpice. We made it. We always made it.

And now I hit the rock and it makes that crunching noise
and now I go over the rock
and over it
and let it make that crunching noise because something should be allowed to make noise.

You would hate the way I keep stopping the mower to get a drink or write a few lines.

You would hate the way I go over twigs of increasing size just to see how much the blades can take.

You would not understand why I keep it in first gear
only. And only you would understand why sometimes I mow the lawn more than once a week.

IMG_2702

Now I have poison ivy on my face and I am going to see Amanda Palmer at Bearsville anyway because I am supposed to do things. People are out there doing things. I am a person, therefore… .

Ponderings is still available at Finishing Line Press.

September 29, 2014

Summer Version 2.0

by lisa st john

IMG_3053

I hear it all the time. As soon as someone learns I am a public high school teacher, it starts. “Oh! It must be so nice to have summers off!” A low growl begins in my inner gut as I decide whether the human uttering the offensive comment is worthy of an explanation or not. Taylor Mali explains it best. What DO teachers make? Puhlease.

I don’t really have the energy for that argument right now, however. I am currently embroiled in a conflicting dialectic with Summer Lisa. Work Lisa hates her. I mean that with the best definition of hate in mind—a feeling so strong that it circles back around dangerously close to love.

True cruelty is apathy. e.g.: “I wish I cared enough to hate them.”

This conversation turns into a polemic at times, but I can’t help but feel that it’s an important discussion. It goes something like this:

Work Lisa (WL): “You need to step up your shit. We are way behind in grading.”

Summer Lisa (SW): “It’s okay. It’s too nice out to grade. The garden needs work too, and …”

WL: “No. We have essays to read and lessons to plan. Think about the kids!”

SW: “I love the kids. The kids aren’t here now. Just a lot of Oompa-Loompa paperwork. Let’s go outside…”

WL: “We usually have the whole semester planned out by now, we’ve got to–”

SL: “Maybe we don’t need to have everything planned out so far in advance, maybe–”

WL: “SHUT UP!”

SL (whispering): “Oh look…Gibbs is head-slapping Tony again–”

WL: “STOP! We are soooo moving the computer desk away from the television… .”

SL: “No!”

WL: “EXCUSE me?!”

SL: “Wouldn’t it be good to dig our toes in the sand again? To read uninterrupted? Remember daydreaming? Remember writing?”

WL (pause): “There’s no sand. It’s almost winter.”

SL: “There’s sand just an airplane ride away. And almost winter is not the same as winter anyway.”

WL: “Well…Missy is coming tomorrow. It’s always good to play.”

SL: “YES! Now you are getting it. Puppy joy!”

WL: “It’s not that I don’t love you and need you ya’ know. I just–”

SL: “in-just spring…”

WL: “See what I mean?! Off on another tangent… .”

SL: “You love my tangents. You love me. You just don’t remember me that well. It’s been awhile. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

missy

p.s.: Many thanks to mi hermana (L) for letting me steal the Oompah-Loompah phrase regarding idiotic, meaningless paperwork.

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