Et cetera denotes importance, but a willingness to not explicate.
Make a list of things, all of stature and pertinence, then let them drift
one by one,
on periodic boats
forgotten at sea.
Make a list of things you hold dear, and spin the clock faster
so there isn’t time to mention them all
home, family, god, etc.
Make a list of things on pedestals, lifted high like a pay stub,
and forget them, each one,
promptness, dedication, accountability, etc.

That grocery list on the fridge started with the kings of importance:
toilet paper
deodorant
co-axial cable splitter
et cetera
Not that I forgot to put down toothpaste, or garbage bags, or canned peas, etc.
but I’m sure I’ll walk out of the store carrying one less item
than I intended,
as I often do, or have in the past, etc.
Like forgetting to pay the bills on time, or sign that contract, etc.
Or forgetting to call my grandfather, or visit my other grandfather’s grave, etc.

Conversations that include lists are likely to also be lacking, such as,
The students don’t listen to me, and they don’t behave, and they don’t,
and don’t
and don’t
et cetera.
But I wish they would.
Conversations that include lists are likely to be fleeting, unimportant
skipping around topics like rocks over water,
bounding lightly with skill, then sinking fast
running out of steam
running out of power
et cetera, such as,
I’d love to see a day when everyone could just be happy with themselves,
or the day when the innate destructiveness of a soldier’s post is put to rest,
or the peace of mind for my mother,
et cetera.
Conversations that include lists are like this, no?

I remember talking to him one day, and rattling off all the things I’d like in my life
all the things I’d forgotten to include when I was growing up
all the things I’d not taken note of since
Like a willingness to let go and let god
Like a desire for greater fruits in life that mere acquaintance
And the peace of mind for myself
And the days when clouds rolled back to reveal the moon, etc.
Wait, no I remember the clouds that were curtains
and how the gave way to the only distress beacon my heart ever understood.

How can I forget the multitude times my eyes drifted upward like kites
reaching heavy for the shimmer of a chill October wind,
grabbing at moonlight like it was the last rope on the last zeppelin
bound for war?
Or a smile so brief, so fleeting, it was keep locked behind clandestine lips and eyes
away from the world that had forced its flight so many years ago
and turned a once wonderful little girl into a perpetual liar?
And those clover irises. So brief.

Long before I abandoned breasts and the dovey down of a woman, I made lists.
Lists of things I’d needed or wanted, or should do, or should have, etc.
Long before the moon found me lost among searchlight stars of flat plains and high-emission
low-frequency
non-halogen lamps and headlights
There were piles of paper that navigated the day from three degrees of motion
and still, those piles climb my body and brain,
though the paper is less present than before.
Each artifact of daily importance
each monument to organization and templature
each demarcation of who and where, etc.
Separates me further from the things I wish coulda woulda etc.

I wish I spent more time with family
or made better friends faster
or got more out of college, etc.
I wish I would read more books, or write more, etc.
(Let’s shorten this procedure down, let’s be efficient)
I wish I had time, etc.
I wish I, etc.
I wish, etc.
I, I, I, etc.
Etc.
…

Et cetera denotes importance, but a willingness to leave behind
to not touch
to turn from.
Et cetera leaves room for that inward silence that is poorly abused.
Where we could take time to pontificate and wonder
we often hurry along.
Et cetera is nothing more than a shortcut
for people like me who can’t stand the thought
of knowing each and every part.
And what fear is there in knowing anything?

Weaving my way through lampless rooms,
I enter my own home, blind.
The sun has long dropped from view and
With no sign of day, I’ve forgotten that I need light.
Out of sight, mind.

I spot, in the glint of perforated light of
microwaves, game consoles, power supplies,
alarm clocks and their faux mica reflections
The trail to a room I barely sleep in,
just down the hall from the room I rend my heart in.
There is a spider on the door frame, but I don’t kill it.
It’s bad luck.

Cracks go untouched, salt, unspilled.
I take attention to the little things, to keep them in order.
I take attention to the little things, to keep them safe.
I have my superstitions.

Weaving through dark carpets,
I superimpose my wishes over daily life
like a double negative of a photo.
Like “can’t not” be this in love this fast.
Like “won’t not” make it hard on myself.
Like “love kiss” that hand for the hundredth time today.

I superimpose my desires onto templates set before me hundreds of years ago
Templates that say, be patient
breathe
give him space
give him time.
Templates that offer guidance through the toughest times
Templates that say, don’t call until three days after
and for gods sake
Don’t visit him unannounced.

I’ve ignored the guidelines, I’ve colored outside
I’ve choked on chicken bones too, but I’m still here.
What else is there to be?

Superstitions that run deep in my brain, where the seratonin is long gone.
I know my car will lead me to disaster if I let the wheel take control.
I know the week after the visit is the quietest week of life, and brimming with the stench
of failure.
I know writing about it seals the deal, packs the box, and mails my heart
to the forklift drivers that bury it next to nuclear waste in Utah.
I know a phone call is a deal breaker
I know the internet is a brothel

I know if I put my right foot in front of the left when I stand like this, I can hear
words my mother told me,
Long after I hang up the phone: give him space, be patient, I love you.

Can’t not be devastated about this
Can’t not set myself ablaze
Can’t not make him understand why it hurts
Can’t not be sad anyway.

Junior High bands are not conducive to enlightening or broadening musical experiences, except that they set my hair on fire and stretch my patience to the very brink. This is unfortunate, as I spend most of my day at a Junior High.

That said, University bands, regardless of experience level of the ensemble, are gratuitously better. Tonight I watched a certain hometown Uni take the field, warm up, and I think I had a few chills. I was indubitably impressed. This band was not this good when I auditioned for the same school. In fact, I don’t remember them sounding this good last fall when my Uni played against them.

And did I mention my school and this one are bitter rivals? Yes. Yes, they very much are. I show up at the night rehearsal, and the Director of Bands introduces me, in jest, as being from “that other place.” Not too much hissing, and most of them were pretty nice to me. I met some very nice people tonight, in fact. *blush*  It was a refreshing experience.

Good thing I had happened to be driving around at the time, or I might not have been there tonight. Or tomorrow night for that matter. You should never miss an opportunity to learn or love.

Not every weekend ends with a new car.

After a quick seven hour trip to Lovely, NM, I decided to take a quick jaunt up to Albuquerque to see the new apple of my eye. I spent some 9 hours in a car on Saturday. My car overheated multiple times, and I struggled to get into the northern heights of that fair city. I’d fought it tooth and nail, stopping to let off steam at the top of hills, using gravity to get my momentum back. I stopped at convenience and gave serious pondering to disgusting artifacts of traveler culture under the guise of hoping my car wouldn’t die before I got there. However, despite all prayers and better efforts, it finally shuddered to a halt at the corner of Coors and Paseo Del Norte.

(Note: this is not where I personify my car. I, actually, have never had the pleasure of genderizing my vehicles, and so can’t get too attached to the thing. It didn’t even have a sex-less name like Kelly or B.J.)

Cuddle (that’s the boyfriend I was going to see) was gracious enough to keep my company as I waited for the towing company to show up. He’s good at this. He’s good to look at, to be honest, and its nice to know that he is, in fact, real. He’s also useful in staving off the sidelong glances of rubberneckers that passed us. Cuddle also gave me a ride back to his house, and he’s letting me keep the old car there while I get a wrecker to pick it up. So nice!

We had a grand weekend where I enjoyed each others company and a couple very tasty meals and attempted to watch one episode of Firefly three times. He says he finally finished the disc, but I don’t believe him. He’s got the rest of them now, so he’s gonna be assimilated soon.

If you’ve never had the chance to meet a friend you’ve made over electronic waves in person, you are missing out on a solitary joy. All the ideas you have in your head, all the images, all the figures and calculations compile and collapse into the singular shape that saunters up to you in the dim light of a busy street median, hugs you deeply, and laughs hello. It is bliss. My heart is happy. He is a good man.

However, my car was dead, so I had to figure out a way to get home. Cuddle offered, I accepted. He drove me home. He drove me all the way back to P-ville, and then drove back that night. He is my knight in shining armor, my life vest, my cherished drought of water. We had dinner, he left, I became sad at his absence, and then made arrangement for a bike that I would ride to school the next morning.

It was a woman’s bike. It has flat tires that don’t hold air. It is hard to maneuver. It belongs the Mrs. Head’s daughter. I decided to walk to work instead.

The school day proceeds as normal, and I find myself, afterwards, in the passenger seat of the car that I’m going to buy tomorrow. A friend of my family, a car dealer, picked me up, showed me a few vehicles, and I made my choice. Tomorrow, I take the check up for the down payment, and start to worry about how to pay the next month’s bill. Luckily, I’m on a teacher’s salary (bet you’ve never heard that before…”luckily”).

So, new love, new opportunity, new romance, new car. I rock.

Again, I’ve made it through. One week down. Of course, as one of the band boosters informs me, it might not be wise to start counting weeks just yet. Dually noted, but in the course of this week, I think I may have reacquired a couple important lessons:

1. Breathe. This is my weakest lesson. I have never been able to really grab this lesson by the horns and pull, though I think its gonna have to happen soon. I’m not one for giving up on something, and I’m not one to down-size my intensity for sake of production value. I think, the harder I’m working and more excited I am, the better the end result will be, and it must be good in the end. I’m finding with so many things in my life, the candle that burns brightest, burns fastest.  So, after day two, where I nearly cried myself to sleep over my lack of preparation that was neither my fault or the fault of the children, or the system or anyone else (its just the first week, of course things are gonna be shaky), I decided to turn my frustrations into point two.

2. I just have to plan a bit better. It seems to be me that, through all the years of being in band, I learned that bands don’t need lesson plans. This is a lie. Coordinating the efforts of 50 seventh and eighth grade (or 15 ninth through twelfth graders) takes planning and effort behind the scenes that before was just that to me: behind the scenes. Even during my student teaching or college education courses, I was never told to make lesson plans or even devise an over-arching scheme of what I’d like done in a classroom. The result: a brain that teams with ideas of things it would like to improve, but no experience and making those changes, or even learning to adapt to a system in order to start changes. The last two days have been dedicated to me writing lesson plans for the next week, which have to be turned in early anyway, so that I can start on Monday again with some plan of what’s going to happen from moment to moment. These plans are rudimentary, and could be honed with practice, like so many things, but they are a great start for me. Yes, it means I’m up at the band hall until 5. It also means that I won’t hate this job long before I should, or ought to, or one of those helping verbs.

Downside of things thus far: I’m behind on podcasts that I’d fallen in love with long ago. Soon, I’ll have to sort through the ones that are worth holding onto, and tossing the rest. I’d gotten so used to plugging in every day to hear some horror story or listen to the radio version of a TV news program, but I just don’t have time anymore. Some of my podcasts can be listened to with a passive brain (the music ones) but the rest, I just feel horribly if I don’t dedicate my brain and ears to them when I’m listening. I’m not sitting in the library anymore doing mindless work. I’m actually busy doing important things, so something has to go. Odd as it is, it breaks my heart.

Of course, this doubles over into how much I’ve paid attention to my blog in the last three weeks. I can’t guarantee that I’ll be super attentive, but NaBloPoMo is coming up again, and I do intend to participate and win this year. I miss writing, but my brain just wants to veg a little when I get home. Who know how this all will work out, but I think the best thing to do is ride the wave, do my best, and not think too far into the future. I’ve been doing that for years, and it didn’t really serve me that well. It just made me bitter.

If anyone knows the voltage of AC adapter I need for a Long Ranger III, I’d love to know, so i can actually get this hideous black bullhorn out of my living room floor. Cheers!

I survived! One day down, one hundred eighty to go. I’m amazed at myself.

Something can be said for index cards and they amount of revelation they bear. Students, when asked to tell what was most exciting about band, noted that competitions and playing before large crowds is the bee’s knees. Not only that, but one kid even said he would love to play before a “big crowd of people.” It’s great to see this. Not only have these kids been taught the value of success, but they know how good it can make you feel. I’m proud of these kids and I don’t even know them. Even the percussion kids, who wouldn’t shut their little traps, were honest with how much they wanted to do well. Granted, most of them also included their own variants on “Ook like drums.”

It was a good day, and I spent the most of my afternoon planning and preparing for the next day. I hope the next day goes by pretty well. Any teachers out there wanna offer their words of advice?

I don’t get this whole classroom thing. Putting one together, that is. I’m very excited about starting to teach, which is next Tuesday, but I’m just so confused about what is really involved in starting an educational environment. Not that I’m very into the postery, pretty wallpapery type of room decor, but all the instructions I wanted to be set up, along with knowing what was going to happen during the first few, policy crammed days.

All I really know is that I’m supposed to stand on the box in front of the class and wave the stick and hope everyone follows along.

Mrs. Head informs me that I needn’t worry about all this stuff, because most of it has been taken care of before hand. All I had to do was make copies of several forms the parents have to fill out for the kids. Otherwise, relax, don’t worry about stuff, and just…wait. *sigh* I hate waiting.

So, anyway, here, I am, not doing anything school related. I was able to get several things marked off my list, but I still don’t feel like I have accomplished all that much. I don’t know what I’m gonna do that first day with the kids, and I certainly don’t know what level the kids are at. *more sigh* I should just chill out and enjoy the rest of my weekend.

So, to help me do that, here is a fun video from Lasse Gjertsen. *Edit: let’s see if the whole video will show up now…*

I turn face up, the Magus.
Face lit up by tiny little bonfires resting gingerly on ropes that tie back my eyelids
And my eyes are peeled hard to the card
Looking deep in that little placard for meaning beyond meaning
Meaning beyond life
And I only see the swirl of colors, dimmed under candlelight.

What’s that in his hand, I ask myself
Self, I says, and I go about the other cards.

I gaze as hard at the sun sometimes.
I fight it with my brain behind thin veils of tinted plastic
They claim to be UVA and B compliant, but I am anything but.
I’ll battle that star until my last dying day, and it will not kill me.
Sure, its packed full of energy and all the good stuff momma warned me about,
but I’m anything but simply compliant.

Sun, I says,
You and me gonna go ‘round.
You are hot, and I’m burning already.
Why do you have to cook my poor sad skin even worse?

Sun, I says,
I liked you when I was younger, when you and the day were bright
and I took to liking how like the
long pulsar bulbs of all my classrooms you were,
but now you just another candle, melting me..

Sun, I says,
What happened to the moon? It’s been so many days since I’ve seen her.
I swear the sun is telling me secrets that the moon long hid from me,
but I’ll never tell.
Words slip down my face, collecting in my collar, where I wipe my hands.
I’ve got hands full of tiny sentiments, seeping in my flesh, and they don’t have
no where to go, but in
Words slide into my eyes, and pain is a new vision, slitting my sight
Words drip in my ears, where the wind sublimates them; silent August snow.
The moon never says anything this cold.

I wonder if, when I next I pull my deck out, if I’ll say the same things I’m saying now.
If all the wondering about, fighting the sun, dialing out the day,
will be anything more than an eager fight to say I had one.
Thin sheets of plastic, wrapped around my body, and all I have to show for it
are freckles buried under eye-bags and heavy brows,
‘cause its so hot.

Next time I flip that Magus, I’m gonna smile and not look too close,
‘Cause the Son of Man is a bright motherfucker,
And he’s got a handful of hurt waiting for me,
squinty-eyed and sweating.

There once lived a sinister enchantress in the dry plains of the West, where she sought great power and to do evil deeds. She was a short woman, plump as a peach, and had smile as big as an umbrella. Often, the kindly townfolk would approach her and ask her for very vital financial information regarding payroll and expenditures. She would smile ever so big, flashing the alabaster white teeth of a feline demon and give all the numbers anyone would want. Everyone was so pleased to work with her, they would say things like, “My, my, Plump Sorceress, dear, you are so pleasant! Thank you for helping me out so much!” and they would go back to work like usual.

This was the way things went for the enchantress. She would help people out by offering them little bits of help every so often, then at night, deep in her lair, she would scheme on ways to ask favors from every single person she helped. She would stand, staring into a deep vat of hot, soupy liquid, chanting about bat wings, dog noses, and post-it notes while she conjured up the perfect plan to reach the highest ranks of Financial Kingdom in the little newspaper in the dry plains of the West. “Soon,” she would cackle to herself, “I will call in the grandest favor of them all, and move right to the top of the accountancy food chain. Ee hee hee hee hee!” Every night, she did this, for a year and a day, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

Then, when the time came near, she readied her dark portfolio and presented it to the Grand High Publisher, doing everything in her power to seem helpless. “Please, Lord Publisher! Please make me an Accountant Queen. I can amoratize and reconcile all the accounts faster and better than anyone! And everyone likes me so much! I’ll be the best Queen you ever had!” Unfortunately, the Grand High Publisher was not one to be sullied with, and not accustomed to handing out titles like candy to simple scheming sorceresses. So the sorceress went back to her lair to scheme more and more.

Three times she approached the Grand High Publisher, each time a little wiser, bearing gifts of fine silks, spices and even the Golden Ass of Greshemshire. Each time, the Publisher was impressed, saying, “My! I am truly honored that you found the Golden Ass of Greshemshire and give it to me now! My wife will love it. It will look wonderful next to the Seventy Silver Flames and the Prostrated Monk I also have in my possession.” He took the gifts with great gratitude, but he did not give the sorceress the power she so longed for. This made the sorceress quite angry.

Late at night, she concocted a new plan. “This time,” she cackled again, “I’ll take the Queendom for myself. No one will stand between me and ruling over the General Ledger. No one!”

The sorceress plotted on her calendar a date when the moon was right and the airfare the cheapest, and called in a smaller favor to the Duke of Human Resources, who permitted her to attend a conference in the far mountains to the North, where she planned to learn the deepest secrets of corporate ladder-climbing and seek the hidden tools she needed. She left in the dark of night on the wings of a steel avian beast that roared like thunder and flashes brilliant lights against the storm clouds.

When she returned, she carried with her a flight of white dragons with fiery breath, twenty mystical warriors of Credit Approval, and the Rod of Eternal Account Adjustment. With this, she stormed the newspaper, and called out the Grand High Publisher. “You pathetic weakling! You cannot resist me! The Queendom will be mine!” However, the Publisher was no slouch, and summoned the Seventy Silver Fires to protect him and destroy all the sorceress’s minions. She screamed in pain as one of the flames cut deep into her, severing the Rod of Eternal Account Adjustment in two and scorching her dark portfolio. She was defeated after all.

It has been many centuries since the Plump Sorceress with her bright smile tormented the dry plains of the West. However, rumor has it that she now is the Director of Finance at a small boys school, where every night, she pours over a small printing press, whooshing out document after document, compiling a dark portfolio again, and amassing a financial empire so deep and large, it would spill like a virus over the land. So keep your checkbooks close, and don’t let your 401(k) balances stay out after sunset, for in the dark lurks an evil woman with the power and knowledge of Black Accountancy.

The trumpet duet in the first song of P-ville High’s marching show is the topic of some frustration. Not only did it create a situation in which two seniors threatened to quit band, but it made the Head director (we’ll call her Mrs. Head) cry just a little, and made me quite frustrated.

It is not that the duet is really challenging, or that the students involved would not be deserving of such a duet. The true problem lies in that the students, J and C, thought they deserved the duet because they were seniors. This was the total of their rationale. Forget that they found out second hand from my flapping mouth that there would be an audition, and forget that the two melophone players who want to try for the duet sound pretty amazing. Two seniors simply walked into Mrs. Head’s office, confronted with news that she’d heard they wanted to quit band because she’d violated some sense of tradition. Senior, apparently, get solos and features by default, and no one has the authority to change that.

Mrs. Head cries a little, voices her disappointment, and tries to repair the egos of the crest-fallen and rather angry students.

I, on the other hand, am seething in the corner, wanting desperately to lash out at the kids. They do not deserve anything. Wait, let me rephrase that: They should be honored to be typically credited with a solo or duet, and should not have this raised-nose attitude of entitlement (buzz word!).

It infuriates me to think that a student should feel they are deserving they are worth something before they prove that worth, save for the few things like personal safety, a sense of well-being, and human rights. I was not raised to believe that things should be handed to you simply because you have reached the appropriate level of…anything. I am only 23! I fall into the typical age range that is known for its inability to work for success. I will admit to my own non-desire for work yet still want money, but I damn well make sure I thank my mother every chance I get, and I do my best not to abuse the charity that she shows me so incredibly often.

To have two students come to me and tell me they deserve to do anything because they are seniors, or because they are 6′0″, or because they just happen to own an original copy of Richie Valens’s Nevada driver’s license is far below acceptable. My father may have messed up a lot of things, but I did learn one thing from him: “I don’t care if you are black, white, or purple polka-dotted; when you come out here, you work.”

Do you hear that, children of the entitlement generation? Earn your keep. Make your way. If you want that duet, you have to prove you are worth it. If you want it bad enough, you’ll earn it properly.