Springtime is a better time for resolutions!

A head cold makes me a whiny baby.  A sad, pathetic mess.  I wish I were more in tune with the natural things of this world.  Some friends of mine are so spiritual and in touch with those mystical, feminine goddess powers.  I want that.  Have I ever mentioned my burning desire to become an apothecary?  A friend posted on their facebook about Mars in retrograde fucking with her or something and I thought: What the fuck does that mean?  It sounds so nifty.  And instinctually I feel like some retrograde has been fucking things up for me, too!  I want to know more!  I want to know more about planetary alignments and tarot, and the moon's pull on my balance, and the impact of my dietary choices on my mood, well-being, and equilibrium.  I want to know when I'm fertile (if I'm fertile at all), and all sorts of other pagan wonders.

And I have no time for any of that deep, wonderful world of womanly wisdom.

Nay.  I have a headcold and am pumping my body full of chemicals, rather than seeking the natural remedies that I know I ought!

I want an herb garden!  And time to make herbal teas!

And aromatics!

I want natural, organic, true blue food and drink!

Basically: I want an entirely new and fresh start and lifestyle!

I resolve this:  I will make an appointment with a nutritionist this week (make the appointment, not see them.  I probably won't get an appointment until months from now, but I have GOT to take that first step!)!  I want to be on the road to health and well being not only in my mind (which is being treated with care and concern.. and a fair amount of chemicals...)  but my body as well!

And I resolve to go for a walk at least twice this week!

Yay for resolutions!

Fade away

ELA MCAS is this week.

So...

Stress to the max.

Also.

They're slipping away.  At last.  I never thought I'd see the day, but as all imaginary friends go, so do, at last, the folks from Cedar Falls.  Maybe its the meds.  Maybe I've just out grown them.  Maybe I've so much on my plate that they just can't get enough oxygen or sustenance to subsist.

It is a little lonesome.  And a little bit of a relief.  I used to be able to conjure them into my head at any given moment--just try to keep them out!  They would spring to mind and scenes would play out, dialogue would unravel, new plot twists would bubble up and play out and I'd either write or be frustrated by the inability to capture the vitality with my clumsy prose.

Now they're fading.  Ghosts, sometimes walking the same haunts, sometimes repeating fragments of dialogue that they'd once said.  But they aren't alive anymore.  They aren't dynamic, they aren't growing.  They are dying.

On one hand I am breathing easier.  It wasn't easy existing as a subpar writer, one craving more time to write her schlock whislt resenting her dayjob.

But it is also a sort of grief.  How many years now have I been stoking these embers, hoping to ignite something great?  How long have I breathed my own soul into these characters, poured my own blood into them, given my heart so that they might live?

Every day--and I am not exaggerating--every day I would read and reread scenes.  Edit, add, or simply just absorb the writing--or, rather, absorb the characters despite the writing.

I guess I loved them, in some way.  And when someone you love leaves there must always be a grieving for the loss.  That's what my therapist told me.  Not about these fictional characters, of course, do you think I want my therapist to see how crazy I am?  But, I think the message applies nevertheless.

Farewell folks.  It has been ... a pleasant diversion, a source of comfort, a place to meddle creatively, and I think two full years of my life.  Thanks for being there.  We'll have to see what new obsession comes in your wake.  Those won't be easy shoes to fill! 

Metaphorically speaking

Overwhelmed.
Took the day today to get fucking grading done.  I seriously lack the time and organizational skills required to do this job properly.  Or the attention span.  My therapist thinks I may have ADD.  Also, mood disorders tend to manifest in an inability to focus, hence the ADD symptoms.  We'll see when we get my meds right if I can miraculously get my life together or what.

In a fluke of fate, Aaron also took the day off.  He'd been having some disturbing chest pains.  He opted not to go to the MD, so let's hope all is well with that.  It was nice having him home, though I wish it hadn't been for a reason that was causing him distress and pain.

Liking therapy, but wishing, as I'm sure everyone does, that there were a simple solution and a quick fix.  Looking, I guess, for a miracle.

Looking to enjoy the things I once loved.  Looking to stop being so cripplingly self-critical.  Looking to find alot more silverlinings than storm clouds.  Looking, ultimately, to find a way to make peace with mediocrity--the nemesis I have been fighting and loathing and slowly becoming for years and years.

They assure me that self actualization will come, in time.

I'm tired.  So fucking tired.

Off to make a lackluster powerpoint about figurative language!  Ciao!

Roar...

In like a lion, eh?

I could've used a bit more heart behind this roar of a storm.  Boy, oh boy, was I ever yearning for a snow day.  It was pretty while it was snowing, but didn't amount to much trouble after all was said and done.  And my body is having a devil of a time adjusting to being back to work.  In the beginning of the year they ease us into it, you know?  the first 'week' of school is only like two days.  Then the next week is probably four.  Then, when we've finally adjusted they begin with the real work weeks.

I could've used a little of that toe-in-the-water approach this week.  A snow day would've been a great little reprieve from what has proven to be a rather punishing week.

But here I am.

And this week we're working on personal narratives.  The kids are flailing.  Their schooling thus far has been so singularly focused on standardized tesing that they've forgotten their imaginations.  They don't know how to just WRITE.  These are personal stories; non-fiction, but in story form.  And the kids are asking me:  What should go in my first paragraph.  And: how many paragraphs is this supposed to be?

Sigh.

It's been tricky trying to undo this slavish adherence to formulaic, strictly-constructed writing.  And it feels so rushed and half-assed, too, because right after we get done with this is when we move on to strict MCAS prep, as they take the exam on March 21st and 22nd.

But this week has actually been somewhat enjoyable.  Talking about descriptive writing.  Imagery.  Dialogue.  Making the story come alive!

Makes me want to sit and write, myself. ;)

One of the kids said to me, as I was giving an extemporaneous example of descriptive writing--describing in graphic, juicy detail a scene from a horror film--: You got a big imagination.

She said it almost as if it were an insult, or as if it were something for geeks, or as if it were a weird trait.  I thanked her.  I do have quite the imagination.

I only wish theirs hadn't been drilled out of them.

Well, keeping the old fingers crossed for a snow day.