Nothing is extinguished or forgotten.

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine. 

If You Forget Me

Pablo Neruda

Who more foolish than I?

O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer. That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

O Me! O Life!

Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman reminds me of Santa Claus* sometimes. I guess all old people with gigantic white beards tend to look the same. I told my Dad that he looked like Sam Beam once. He seemed really confused after that.

This week, we'll have TAKS testing. I get to monitor the kids for exams during three of the days. I am hoping that it'll be a good time for me to not assign homework and hopefully get some grading done in the evening. I had an unpleasant situation in the afternoon, but I think I handled it pretty well. I didn't shrink from the confrontation, which I was proud of. I think I tend to try to take too much of a conciliatory tone when dealing with unpleasant situations, and I think that people take that for weakness. Also, my ability to apologize. I will admit if I made a mistake. I have that ability, and I'm glad to have it. It is frustrating though, when people take that as a sign that I'm wrong and they're right. I'm usually a "everyone's a little wrong and everyone's a little right" kind of person anyway. Unless it comes to feelings, in which case I'm a "you might be right but it still hurts my feelings so let's fix it" kind of gal. I can get my feelings hurt easily.

Teaching has actually been good for me, in regards to that. During the first few months of the first semester of school, I would get honestly upset. I wanted to be the perfect teacher, and if I couldn't make everyone happy than I felt that I, in some way, was a failure. It took a lot of people convincing me otherwise to get that out of my head.. and I think that I've toughened up a lot in regards to it. I'm not saying that I like the negative circumstances that occasionally arise from my job, but it doesn't hurt me as a person anymore. 

But it does make me feel stressed. I think that there are a lot of things going on right now. The final six weeks is huge, and while I do have the weight of contract-renewal out of the way (phew), I still have grades, finals, TALENT SHOWS, student's parents, MY parents, my personal life, everything is kind of squeezing me until I feel like a battered tube of toothpaste. A tube of toothpaste that's been squeezed from the middle, too, not neatly rolled up from the bottom.

Poetic, huh? If I didn't have the summer to look forward to, I don't know what I would do. I like TEACHING. Some of the kids are absolutely fantastic, and I enjoy having the knowledge that they've benefited in some manner from being in my class. I guess that sounds conceited. I like the fact that I'm actually DOING SOMETHING, though, something that will change a person's life forever. Working in retail was horrible for me, because what was I doing with my time and energy? Helping people buy things they didn't need so that some store owners could get more money that they didn't necessarily deserve. I felt this way in Korea, too. Working isn't fun in most cases, but when I feel like I'm actually accomplishing something... well, then it's worth it.

But don't get me wrong, I am totally counting the days until the end of school. 21 full days of school, 3 half days of school, 1 holiday and then 1 in-service day. Plus they'll be taking TAKS and EOCs and then AP exams for the next few weeks, so it's going to be absolute madness. 

I get to go see the Decemberists on Friday. I'm pretty thrilled. I like knowing what I'm going to do each week, even if it's simply the knowledge that I won't be doing anything. And not doing anything can be fairly positive, as it means that I won't spend money and that's usually a good thing. But this weekend, I'll be doing things! And stuff! And... other things! 

It'll be madness.


*Haaaah, I put Santa Clause.

I don't know where it's likely to go better.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile
and then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
and half grant what I wish and snatch me away
not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
and climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
but dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

from Birches
Robert Frost

All I could do was to get drunk again

the suicide kid
I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed. but all I could do was to get drunk again. worse, the bar patrons even ended up liking me. there I was trying to get pushed over the dark edge and I ended up with free drinks while somewhere else some poor son-of-a-bitch was in a hospital bed, tubes sticking out all over him as he fought like hell to live. nobody would help me die as the drinks kept coming, as the next day waited for me with its steel clamps, its stinking anonymity, its incogitant attitude. death doesn't always come running when you call it, not even if you call it from a shining castle or from an ocean liner or from the best bar on earth (or the worst). such impertinence only makes the gods hesitate and delay. ask me: I'm 72.     Charles Bukowski* To say that I'm ridiculously into this guy at the moment would be an  understatement. And yes, by this guy, I mean a deceased German-American poet.

Eulogy To A Hell Of A Dame

some dogs who sleep At night must dream of bones and I remember your bones in flesh and best in that dark green dress and those high-heeled bright black shoes, you always cursed when you drank, your hair coming down you wanted to explode out of what was holding you: rotten memories of a rotten past, and you finally got out by dying, leaving me with the rotten present; you've been dead 28 years yet I remember you better than any of the rest; you were the only one who understood the futility of the arrangement of life; all the others were only displeased with trivial segments, carped nonsensically about nonsense; Jane, you were killed by knowing too much. here's a drink to your bones that this dog still dreams about.  Charles Bukowski

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why (Sonnet XLIII)

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay