MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

God Is a Bullet

I really, really wish I had something else to write about other than the surreal nightmare my life has become since entering this teaching credential program. But I don't. I am at my wit's end today. Or as I said in my Reading class today after my group presentation, I am at the end of my proverbial rope.

Where do I begin? With the dead body on the church steps on the corner yesterday as I sat at the light waiting to turn left onto the street my school is on? A homeless person died. There was a shopping cart next to the body. A cop car pulled away. The ambulance sat silent. No one was with this person. I just stared and felt nothing. Kids walked by, on their way to school.

Or should I talk about how over the weekend some fuckheads broke into the school, completely trashed several first grade classrooms, and tagged all the beautiful murals painted on the exterior walls of the building? What kind of good feeling does a person get in trashing a FIRST GRADE CLASSROOM? I'd like to find the motherfuckers that did it and cut their hands off.

Then again, maybe I should talk about the gang banger murder that went down early this morning across the street from the school. Driving down the street I saw six cop cars and an entire building roped off with crime scene tape. Retaliation shooting I heard.

There's a 42 year old woman in my cohort who is on my last fucking nerve. She's one of those "I grew up on a tiny island off the coast of Vancouver but I know what it's like to be in the Mexican barrio and I'm smarter than everyone, I'm going to show everyone up, and my shit doesn't stink." Granola eating liberal fucking ignorant bitch. When I said I was feeling culture shock at being at this school she says smugly, "Oh I'm not." Oh right! I forgot - you grew up where? On a tiny island with all white Canadians! I grew up in L.A. and I ADMIT I find this shocking. But I defer to YOU, gang expert. She tells us there's an ordinance in place against the gang that runs the street my school is on. Well, my dear, tell that to the gang bangers who were standing on the street today practically pulling their dicks out and pissing on the sidewalk to mark their territory. She told us they moved to Palmdale. Yeah? Tell that to the stiff the coroner took out of the apartment building this morning. Tell that to US, the student teachers who RAN to our students today, because we heard GUNFIRE and we had ANOTHER lockdown where the teacher started screaming "Shut and lock the doors and windows!"

Maybe her liberal ass can just 'reason' with these poor, misunderstood guys. Oh no! I forgot. They're in Palmdale now! I must've had a hallucination when I saw them on the street today.

I swear, I was NOT going to talk shit about my cohorts or let anyone get to me, but I have HAD IT WITH HER. I just had to do this huge presentation with her and another girl. She is beyond an overachiever. I thought *I* was an overachiever. She just kept adding more and more shit for us to do - even ordering me via email last night to get our materials on transparencies this morning. Between the hail of bullets, I'll see what I can do. She BITCHES non-stop about America. Now normally I am the first person to bitch about this government and America. But I have HAD IT with her fucking supercilious, arrogant attitude. If you hate it here so fucking much and we are all so terrible, GO BACK TO CANADA! What the fuck has Canada ever done for the world anyway? I am typing this so fast I am completely out of control. I am totally irrational. But if I hear ONE MORE WORD ABOUT HOW HORRIBLE AMERICA IS I'M GOING TO SHOVE MY FIST IN HER FUCKING SMUG FACE! She rides the bus and has done nothing but harp on us because we don't. Bitch, shut it. It's L.A. We have cars. We're using them. If you had one, you'd use it to. Your husband has the car, that's why you're taking the bus. You're not saving the fucking free world from greenhouse gases. I noticed when a few of us offered to give her a ride home, she didn't decline the rides.

She's 42 years old and you'd think with all this overachieving, she'd have accomplished more in her life. She just finished her B.S. this year. In P.E. But she won't teach P.E. because according to her, no one is teaching P.E. correctly. NO ONE can do ANYTHING as good as she can. I don't say "Well I got my Master's degree at 29 and taught at two colleges for 7 years. What the hell have YOU done?" She's MARRIED you know, and ALL BUT TOLD ME I'll never get married at my age. So I guess I haven't accomplished anything because I'm not married.

This bitch is making me far more upset than any shooting. And yet I have been in tears for the last several days. What the hell am I doing? How did I get here? I hate it all! When they said urban school in the valley, I thought OK. I didn't know they'd literally be shooting at each other and the school would be in the fucking MIDDLE of it all. There's a part of me that wants to quit. And another part that says no, I'm not a quitter. I don't quit things.

The program is a disaster. I hope the foundations that funded it know their money is being wasted. Even my reading professor today said they should shut down the elementary school and let the State take it over, although I don't know that the State could do any better.

All I can say is Antonio Villaragosa, our mayor, can take his kids out of private school right now, and kiss my lily white ass. He wants to control LAUSD? Let him start with this school. Go ahead Antonio, fix it. You and the new Superintendent Brewer. Fix it all. Tell me what you're going to do to make this shit better. Because I wouldn't even know where to begin.

I told you. Don't admire me. Because I may not even be in this program in a month. Or a week.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

There Are No Angels Here

Today, Friday October 13th, capped off an excruciatingly hard and emotional week. All week we've been at the elementary school where I'm starting student teaching on Monday, meeting with various staff and specialists. I've talked about the school before, but I don't think there are really any words to describe how horrific this school and its surrounding neighborhood is. The irony is that it's a Title I school - meaning the Federal Government has thrown millions of dollars at this school for every conceivable type of help and program you can think of. You name it, the school has it. They have 1200 students (100%) on free breakfast and lunch. The school qualifies for everything. They have a full time psychologist AND a full-time psychiatric social worker. That should give you some idea of the problems these kids and their families have. They have Special Ed teachers, aides, Resource Teachers, Reading Specialists, two full-time literacy coaches, a math coach, a beautiful library stocked with brand-new books. They have a nurse who acts like a small medical clinic. The kids get free glasses, immunizations, medical care, hearing aids, speech therapy, deaf and hard of hearing therapy, hearing tests, vision tests. The nurse does a lice head check every Friday in different classrooms.

I am so afraid of getting lice - there are no words.

The day we met with the mental health experts I thought I was going to run out of the auditorium screaming. The school sits in the center of one of the worst neighborhoods in L.A. County. There is a prominent gang who works the area, although an injunction was put on the gang 7 years ago...but nevertheless this gang runs the biggest crack cocaine business in the entire area. They have ties to the Mexican Mafia. When walking to and from my car, I keep my head down, I don't make eye contact with anyone and I pray no one drives down the street. I've been in Mexico over the Arizona border. I'm now in Mexico again. Out of 1200 students, there are only 100 who are classified as EO - English only - meaning English is their primary, native language. There is one Russian student at the school, one Armenian, two Vietnamese and the rest of are Hispanic descent. I truly feel like I've stepped into the ghetto of Mexico.

The stories the psychologist and psychiatric social worker told us are searing in their brutality. There recently was an 11 year old girl who was raped by her step-father. Incest is very common, as many families live in very small quarters together. Sexual molestation, domestic violence, alcoholism, drug abuse, child abuse, truancy and abject poverty are all the norm for these kids. Single mothers have 4 and 5 kids. I blame the culture AND the Catholic Church for that. The Catholic Church can rot in Hell for telling these people "no birth control." I have no words to express my burning hatred for the Church. Every time the Church says "no birth control" they condemn these kids to horrific lives. Kids are literally starving - they have no food at home. One kid said he didn't do his homework because he literally didn't have a space to do it in. There are two, three families living in a SINGLE - imagine it. Young girls beginning puberty have no privacy. They wear heavy coats in June because they're tired of all the male eyes staring at them.

Believe it or not, there are still truancy officers. They're just called Pupil Services Personnel now. We met the woman whose job it is to make home visits and track down the reasons why kids aren't coming to school. Yes, the schools get money for every child that attends each day, but it's also the law and the D.A. doesn't fuck around on this issue. The families don't answer their door; they're afraid. They're illegal. They're in debt. They're in a shitty neighborhood. One woman told the PPS lady the reason she couldn't bring her daughter to school was that her 18 year old daughter has cancer and is in the hospital and she also has two other kids, one who is an infant. The PPS woman said the infant was FILTHY. She had to teach the woman basic hygeine. A lot of the kids can't or don't know how to clean themselves.

The school is literally the best, safest place these kids can be at all day. Their clothes are filthy; the nurse said some of the kids accidentally wet their pants and when she asks them to put their wet underwear in a bag, the underwear is often too small, and so full of holes it's barely hanging together. There are many charities around the area that bring in clothes for these people. Even the parents aren't immune to the problems; one parent become so suicidal the psychologist put them on a 72 hour hold in the hospital. The kids are angry and threaten violence; one little boy took an ax to his stepfather and the stepfather beat him senseless. Many of the children say things like "I don't want to live" and have suicidal ideation.

The school, acccording to the standards set forth by No Child Left Behind, is failing. It's a PI 3 school - meaning it's a Program Improvement 3 school. It has only two more years to get its API scores up before the State comes in and takes over. They start cleaning house by getting rid of the Principal and the administration first. What really frosts me is that they'll get rid of teachers too - and so many are so bad they need to be FIRED. But you can't be fired because the fucking union is so strong. So like the pedophile priests were shuffled around form church to church to just molest more students, the bad teachers are moved around from school to school to inflict their shitty teaching on more students.

What is the problem here? We decided it isn't money. The government has thrown millions of dollars at the school and the kids are still failing academically. My friend P doesn't think it's the parents or the language problem. I disagree. I do think it's the culture - the family, lack of values, lack of education, the poverty, and coming into a new country and trying to learn a new language via a horrible, horrible, highly scripted reading program the district has implemented called Open Court. It teaches kids pure phonics - without teaching them any meaning or comprehension. So the kids learn English - they just have no idea what they're reading. They sit for hours on end making phonemic sounds. My whole cohort hates Open Court so much and yet for our student teaching we HAVE to do it. On Tuesday the literacy coaches were teaching it to us and I kept asking over and over "Yes, but when does COMPREHENSION come into play? And they just kept saying, "Oh no, it doesn't." Like it's not important at ALL to understand what the fuck you're saying and reading! I can sound out gobbledeygook words all day, but that doesn't mean I can fucking understand it! Who ARE the morons who decided THIS would be good for students?

A friend of my cousin's, who's been teaching high school English at a MUCH nicer school in a much nicer area, tested positive for being exposed to TB. So now she's on all these heavy drugs to make sure she doesn't get it. Fuck the lice - THAT scares the shit out of me.

And today...today was the cherry on top of the urban school sundae. We were sitting in one of the meeting rooms, when a woman came over the PA system and announced the entire school was in 'lockdown.' NO ONE was supposed to leave the room they were in; all teachers had to keep their students inside and keep the doors locked. Our seminar teacher idiotically opened the door and saw two policeman outside. We could hear the helicopters above. I was a little nervous.

Later, I found out there'd been a shooting in the neighborhood. I'm going to go to the police website and see if I can find out anymore information. Oddly enough, I'm not really scared of being shot. I am freaked about being exposed to some airborne illness.

I met my 'master teacher' today. She is really sweet. She seems to be around my age, not married, very nice, caucasian, also an EO (we're all labeled now with these lovely acronyms). Her 5th grade students all said hello to me and said my name perfectly. They seem sweet.

Earlier this week, we sat in the library while the ELD (English Language Development) director talked to us about the different struggles these kids have not knowing English. A class of students came into the library. I was so depressed that morning. I heard the kids laughing. Our site director, whom I refer to as a Stepford wife, went over and told them to stop laughing. It was all I could do not to stand up and yell "LADY! Let these kids laugh. These kids are the only thing that's keeping me from running out to my car, getting in it, driving away and never looking back."

My friend Gena said "I admire you. I couldn't do this." Don't admire me. I don't know if I can do it. I'm scared. I'm mostly scared I won't be a good teacher. I'm scared there's no way to make a difference there. I feel like all they're doing is rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. I am much more jaded and cynical than the 22 -25 year old girls in our program. But I've got over 15 years of life experience on them. I don't think my life story is going to be "Stand and Deliver." Maybe I am too pessimistic. Only time will tell.

Photo: Cartoon mocking the highly scripted and idiotic reading programs used in many schools today.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Middle School P.E. Class: Fitness for a Fat Generation or Institutionalized, State-Sanctioned Torture?

I'm gonna go for the second choice, because my GOD how I despised P.E. way back in the day. Oy! I had Mr. Oliver one year and I swear he was straight outta the Marines or something. I still fear him. Let's face it, I stunk at sports and pretty much anything athletic. And P.E.? My God, except for maybe 6th, there was no good period to have it. You'd get all sweaty and gross and if you didn't want to shower in front of anyone (and gee, at 13, or 14, who does?) you'd have to just get back in your clothes at the end of it and move on to the next period.

I was taken back to my early '80's nightmares today as we were told to go down to the field and observe a P.E. class at the middle school I'm working/studying at. We had uniforms we had to buy, with our names stitched on them in - get this - cursive. White tops and blue shorts for the girls. The boys had reversible gold/blue T-shirts - the colours of our school. Every Monday we had to roll 'em out for Mr. Oliver and show him that they were clean. God that man could yell. I stood there today and Mr. Chapman didn't have to yell because he had a whistle and better yet, a bullhorn. Man, I want a bullhorn. He needed one too. The kids are, yes, sadly apathetic and totally refuse to or are unable to follow directions. They couldn't do a three minute run correctly so he made them run over and over and over until he was satisfied. Then they did push-ups, sit-ups and stretches. Well, half-assed versions of them. I was flashing back like I was on ACID! Then they got to play hockey. On the asphalt. For about three minutes. Because Mr. Chapman spent all his time disclipining the students, they got no real time for P.E. Now we never got to play hockey. I had to play volleyball and softball and I tried to hide from every ball I could. Sometimes we stayed in the gym and did the balance beam and climbed the rope. I sucked at that too. Mr. Oliver loved to make us run around the entire school. I remember saying "If we fall down off school property because he made us run I'm suing!" God, 14 and already thinking about my first lawsuit.

Honestly, it's really sad. The kind of P.E. they do with kids is bullshit. My friend Peri got a degree in kinesiology or whatever they call it but she won't teach P.E. because she agrees it's bullshit. I'm telling you. Fuck Gitmo; get those high-priority terrorists out on the hot asphalt, get a middle school P.E. teacher on their ass and we'd have Osama in no time flat. I felt badly for the kids, even though they were misbehaving. I related to their torture in a decidedly personal manner.

Mr. Oliver eventually married another P.E. teacher at our school, Miss Jensen. What's really sad is that one of their children, a son, died a few years ago in an accident. I was so sad for them...and I'd finally grown up enough to realize Mr. Oliver wasn't a monster...just a teacher and a human being. I still think of him a lot. I could be wrong, but he might still be at my middle school.

I still hate P.E. and really am trying my best to block out the haunting memories.

On a happier note, I did my presentation of children's literature today in my Reading/Writing class. I presented my great Halloween book, called The Twisted Sistahs which is about the very first Halloween started by these three witch sisters who are looking for men and throw a big party for their suitors on October 31st, but then decide the men are so idiotic they just decide to keep throwing a massive party every October 31st. The entire story is kind of long, and rhymes and it's a riot, and so are the pictures. At the end, my professor was laughing and said, "D, all you were missing was the costume!" I admitted that yes, I'd wanted to be an actor when I was younger. So that was my highly dramatic reading of the day.

Speaking of acting, one of my new favourite shows is on tonight...the one with Mr. Tim Hutton, "Kidnapped." Yay. Something to look forward to that doesn't involve a damned book. What's scary is I realized the kidnap retrieval specialist the Cain family hired to get back their son is the actor Jeremy Sisto, who I first saw many years ago when I was in my early 20's and he was in his late teens in the movie Grand Canyon. I distinctly remember seeing that with my friend Jill, and how she remarked how cute he was. Fifteen years later, I agree! I'm like, shit, what happened to that kid? When did he become a man? A smokin' hot man? Although I will say his face looks really big. I mean, huge. Like his head is bigger than normal. He's the only man I've ever seen that I think looks better with facial hair. I'm sure if I saw him in person the first thing I'd say is, "Oh he's so small." That happens with almost every famous person I see. TV and film magically makes people huge. Although I really do think Jeremy might have a significantly bigger face than most of us. I like this show, so naturally, I'm waiting for it to be cancelled. I'm a cynic, I know. A cynic who likes to read children's fairytales about Halloween, and who hates P.E. Go figure.

Photo: Jeremy Sisto in "Kidnapped."

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Discombobulated and Melancholy

Those two words pretty much sum up my feelings right now. For some reason this weekend I've been very disoriented and feeling down with no real reason for feeling down in sight. Ambiguous melancholy. I hate it. I don't know why I get it. It's not depression per se, but a lonely kind of sadness, a feeling of total disconnectedness from the entire world. I know some of it has to do with this insane program I've started. OK, I knew it would be intense, but I don't think I knew just how intense. I wake up at the crack of dawn, I get home and am too tired to do anything. I've spent the last four weeks in this whole new world; I feel like I've been dropped in the middle of the ocean even though I'm working with 16 other people - my 'cohorts.' Most of them seem to be as overwhelmed and confused as I am so at least I'm not alone in those feelings. Yet the feelings of isolation and discombobulation persist. I was tired before all the time and now I am tired in a different way. I have homework and projects constantly in my mind. Both daily work and some huge projects looming over me. I've actually been doing pretty well health-wise, considering the fibro. I started a different med which has helped a lot; I'm not getting my hopes up long term however. I've been on a few meds that have helped me a lot in the beginning but in the end their side effects were too horrible or they just stopped working. With less pain however came a little more energy, although I noticed as I started getting more homework in this first month, I also got less sleep.

Two days last week I walked into the teachers' lounge at the middle school and drank a cup of coffee. Now that might not seem like such a big deal but I've never had a full cup of coffee in my entire life and I'm almost 40! I just don't drink coffee. I prefer tea. Obviously you can see I'm a little tired in the morning. Three people in our program are really sick too. I start week 5 tomorrow. I'm actually surprised I've made it this far, haha. I'm happy I'm doing this - although I have a lot of self-doubt and my cohorts and I are less than pleased with the way this program is being run. In fact, we're so confused and feeling quite angry that we've called a meeting with the professor who's running the program; we are supposed to meet with her this week. Oh I can't wait for that. These women (and they're all women) are like Stepford wives. I think they're all on a Valium drip or something; they seem totally out of touch with reality. All of the teachers are "wonderful" and I swear they're like robots. The only other school in CA to have this program is Stanford University; so we're in good company. However I really wonder how Stanford's TNE cohorts are doing. I can't imagine anyone more dingy than these ladies. Hate to say it, but it's true.

I miss everyone - S, Holly, Sandy, Veleska, my friends here. I have no time to write letters anymore, no time to even update my own blog. I'm making a concerted effort right now to get something new down on my blog because I'm sick of that stupid quiz being there. I got home Friday night and tried to catch up on my taped TV programs. I was actually happy House was going on hiatus because of the world series because it'll be one less show to tape. And watch. LOL! This is supposed to be enjoyable - watching my shows. I really love the show Kidnapped with Tim Hutton, Dana Delaney and Jeremy Sisto.

Oh god, Tim Hutton. Now there's a story. He was my first actor/celebrity crush. I was around 13 I think. My friend Jill and I went to see the movie Taps. I can remember it so vividly, 26 years later! I remember the exact theatre we went to, the exact place we sat and how fucking hard we cried at the end of that movie. I mean honestly, you would've thought someone had really died in our lives. I laugh so hard about it now. What were we, insane? Taps was full of today's big movie stars. Tom Cruise, Sean Penn. But I fell for Tim and his boyish good looks. I fell hard. I read that Tim frequented a restaurant in Beverly Hills called The Gingerbread Man (it's no longer there). I tore out articles on him. He was hot stuff after his stunning performance as the suicidal son in Ordinary People; he was 19 years old and received an Oscar for that performance. It didn't help that at 14 I was really, really into my drama class and wanted to be an actor desperately. I still think that's the one thing I would be if I could be anything at all in the world. Funny, I don't even know if I can act really. Thirteen years of living with fibro tells me I can, haha.

Anyway, I badgered my mom into taking Jill and me to Beverly Hills. If I couldn't see or meet Tim, at least I could go there. I was fascinated by it - and I was a native of L.A.!!! She took us to Neiman Marcus for lunch. We were about 14 at this time. I remember that was the very first time I ever had bernaise sauce. To this day, I will do anything, anything at all for a great bernaise sauce. I mean, I seriously love that sauce. My mom was so cool; she hung back and let us go into Tiffany's!!! I'd already been to the Tiffany's in New York City (which has several floors and is a must-see for any girl and fan of Breakfast at Tiffany's!!!). I remember we went to New York when I was 12 and my dad was buying my mom some jewelry there. For some reason though, I just had to go into the Tiffany's in Beverly Hills. I look back now and wonder, what were those sales people thinking when they saw two gawky girls in their early teens walk into the store? Well, we must've behaved because I don't recall being kicked out, haha.

It's interesting; living in Malibu and Brentwood and spending so much time in Santa Monica, West L.A. and the Valley I have seen so many celebrities I cannot count them anymore. Also, while working in the entertainment business for several years I ran into more than my fair share. But I never have seen Tim Hutton. I don't know much about him anymore. I know he was married to Debra Winger, which I found odd, and has a son named Noah. I think he might have another child, I don't know. There are probably a million things I don't want to know about Tim.

So I'm watching him on this new show and I see the grey hair at his temples. I think to myself, "Oh Tim, it's been so long hasn't it?" I hate to say this, but I was always surprised Tim didn't become a 'bigger' movie star. He's a terrific actor. What happened? Bad choices? Timing? Luck? When I was in love with him at 13, he was a MAN of 19!!!!! LOL! He was SO MUCH OLDER! Now, I've caught up to him. We're all getting older. A lot older. Why is it so easy to see yourself age on other people's faces?

A couple of years ago when I was in New York city I went to a restaurant Tim co-owns called P.J. Clark's. It's fantastic. It's in a really, really old building and serves awesome burgers. I wish I was in New York now. Anywhere but here.

So I've spent the majority of this weekend either doing homework or catching up on a) sleep and b)tv shows. I took my friend Gena out for her 43rd b-day last night. Somehow I managed to get us lost in L.A. - my own damned city. That's how screwed up my head is. I'm preoccupied all the time now with homework and this program. There is no life outside the program. I have drunk from the well of the Kool-Aid people. I am lost now; abandon all hope, all ye who enter here. I swear they should've put that on the program forms we got on the first day.

Tomorrow we don't have to go to the middle school because of Yom Kippur. But I do have my Ed Psych class. I start my student teaching on October 23rd with a 5th grade class. I am seriously scared - yes, of a class of 5th graders!! I never in a million years could've imagined the amount of information we're supposed to learn and know and apply as teachers in such a short time. This makes getting my M.A. look like a walk in the park.

In other exciting news, it was overcast here all day and even rained a tiny bit. This is very exciting in a city where it can be hotter than hell all through October. I am so bloody sick of this infernal heat I could scream. The pumpkin patches are out in full force - yay! I still need to get my own Halloween decorations out. It's all I can do not to buy Halloween candy now and eat it. Those damned Reese's pumpkins should be illegal they're so addictive.

I have a quiz in ESL on Tuesday. Did I mention my teacher is this Hispanic Communist? Ok, I don't know about that, but she rambles on incessantly about her own political beliefs and basically spent a lot of class time talking about how us white folk just don't understand race relations. Um, bitch, I've lived in the biggest multicultural city in the U.S. my whole life. I was here for the 1992 riots. Two of my best friends are Hispanic. The city I grew up in is a hotbed of racial unrest. I'm not the dumb ass cracker you think I am. Seriously. There were people in the class who were shocked to find out that Mexico treats the Central Americans about as well as we treat the Mexicans here. No shit senora! And my friend P was stunned to find out that even within races, there's a hierarchy based on the colour of your skin. The lighter your skin, the better you are perceived and the better chance you have in life. I'm not making this shit up. It sucks but it's true. I am so sick of this Latina and her reverse racism though I'm gonna flip out one of these days. We have her class on Halloween this year. Maybe I should start cutting up my white sheet now. And I ain't talking about coming as no ghost either. Apparently me and my peeps are responsible for keeping the other races down. Look, I'm no dummy. I know being born white, although it was totally out of my control, has afforded me great opportunities. But I didn't have any more control over that than others have being born black, Hispanic or Asian. I don't look at these kids and think "I'm not teaching these inferior beings" - Jesus! I look at these kids and think "They deserve only the best from me." She can kiss my lily-white ass. Professors who use class time for their own personal agendas make me sick. I made sure I never got political in my classes. It'd also be nice if she actually did her job and took the time to teach me how to teach content material to English Language Learners, as the students are now called. Somehow though, I have a feeling she's gonna go on and on about that border wall bill that passed recently. I can't believe this is the best person the university has for this job. Here's a comment she'd appreciate: it was probably affirmative action. So chew on that, and viva la raza!

Photo: The lovely Timothy Hutton, 26 years after I first fell in love with him.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

This Was Going to be a Beautiful Article on the First Day of Autumn But Now it's a Quiz Because Netscape Ate My Blog (see previous blog) So Now I'm Giving You This Instead

What song makes you cry?: “All I Know” by the Church, “Fix You” by Coldplay, “I Hope You Dance” by Leeanne Womack

What do you like to listen to before bed?: The wind, the rain, my cats purring, Steve Kilbey’s voice, Alan Rickman’s voice, Peter O’ Toole’s voice, Clive Owen telling me I’m the love of his life and the best sex he ever had (I listen to that inside my head)…silence

a p p e a r a n c e
HEIGHT: 5'9"
HAIR COLOR: brown with blond highlights
SHOE SIZE: 9
PIERCINGS: 2 (one in each ear)
TATTOOS: None, thank God because you aren’t allowed to show any as a teacher (stupid but true). For myself, I’m not big on tattoos anyway. Can’t commit.
UNDERPANTS YOU'RE WEARING: white, cotton, boring
WHAT SONG ARE YOU LISTENING TO?: A Design For Life – Manic Street Preachers
WHAT TASTE IS IN YOUR MOUTH?: diet Pepsi
WHAT'S THE WEATHER LIKE?: Gorgeous, blue skies and hot, dry, windy air. The Santa Anas have arrived, thank you.

d o - y o u
GET MOTION SICKNESS?: Yes, while reading in cars and on some flimsy boats
HAVE A BAD HABIT?: Try about a hundred or so
GET ALONG WITH YOUR PARENTS?: My dad yes (although he’s dead now so it's super easy to get along with him) and my mom – well, we fight but we love each other like mad

f a v o r i t e s
TV SHOW: Nip/Tuck, Law and Order: Criminal Intent, House, BBC Mysteries
MAGAZINE: Vanity Fair, Time, Newsweek, Details, Esquire, GQ, Psychology Today, More, Oprah, Archeology Today, The New Yorker – sorry you asked? It goes on….I am addicted to magazines. I have a rare magazine gene.
THINGS TO DO ON THE WEEKEND: Sleep! Go to the movies late at night. Watch videos. Go to a book store and spend endless hours looking at books. Read magazines. Eat out. Stay up late. Now, anything but homework.

h a v e - y o u

BROKEN THE LAW: Of course
RUN AWAY FROM HOME: Yes, when I was 16. It lasted about a day.
SNUCK OUT OF THE HOUSE: No.
EVER GONE SKINNY DIPPING: Yes
MADE A PRANK PHONE CALL: God yes! When I was a kid that was THE thing to do. It was grand fun.
USED YOUR PARENTS' CREDIT CARD: Yes -only when allowed to.
FALLEN ASLEEP IN THE SHOWER/BATH: No. It would scare me to fall asleep in the shower. I think that’s called passing out.
LET A FRIEND CRY ON YOUR SHOULDER: Yes

do you l o v e

CHILDREN: More than I ever thought I did and yes, as long as they're old enough to communicate with. I especially love kids in kindergarten and first grade. Smartest people on the face of the earth. Really, they've been my best teachers in life. However, I don’t think I was meant to have my own children. I want to help children become the best damned people they can in this great, wonderful, crazy mad, sad world.

BEEN IN LOVE?: Sadly I don’t think I really have. I love people and animals and things like songs and movies like crazy though. I feel like I’m in love with those things.

r a n d o m

YOUR CD PLAYER HAS IN IT RIGHT NOW: Rob Dickinson, Fresh Wine For the Horses
IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?: Yellow. It’s happy.
WHAT'S THE NEXT CD YOU'RE GONNA GET: Don’t know. Whatever strikes my fancy. Probably a soundtrack.
LAST TIME YOU CRIED?: About three days ago. Man, that’s a record for me. I cry a lot. I'm one of those highly sensitive types and if you don't like it, well fuck you!

PART TWO

Have you ever licked the back of a CD to try to get it to work?: Kind of.
Have you ever puked at a bar or club?: God no. Never have been a big drinker.
Have you ever dated someone you met online?: Yes, I’ve gone out with some people – but nothing huge has ever developed. Although my brother got married to someone he met online so I don’t think it’s a big deal. I would prefer to meet men the old-fashioned way: at a barn dance.

Have you ever smoked pot at a concert?: Yes. Actually in the parking lot at the Greek Theatre.
Have you ever dated/fooled around with a coworker?: In the places I’ve worked? No.
Ever been involved in a hit & run?: No, thank God.
Have you ever been on a blind date?: Yes. They suck. Dating sucks.
Are looks important?: Naturally. It’s biology.

Do you have any friends that you've known for 15 years or more?: Yes. I’ve known my best friend for 32 years.
By what age would you like to be married?: Before I’m dead would be nice. Obviously marriage hasn’t been a huge priority for me but I’d like to try it once.

Does the number of people a person's slept with affect your view of them?: Only if it was an obscene Paris Hilton-type amount. Also, I think it’s best to sleep with more than one person in your life. Variety IS the spice of life….
Have you ever sacrificed yourself so your friend can get in good with a person of the opposite sex?: Hell no. For some reason, like S, guys always go for whatever girlfriend I’m out with.
Have you ever drank milk that was past the expiration date?: Yes and the horror is still with me. Therapy helps.
Are you a good tipper?: Yes. I was a waitress in grad school; I know how brutal that job can be. However, if you are horrible as a server, I mean, TERRIBLE HORRIBLE THE WORST I HAVE EVER SEEN…I will tip poorly or stiff you to get the message across.
What's the most you have spent for a haircut?: Probably close to $200 for cut and colour
Have you ever had a crush on a teacher?: No. But once I had a really hot Scottish student when I taught college; I had a crush on him. He was flirtatious but I wanted to keep my job. My friend encouraged me to sleep with him. But she didn't need to work. ; )
Do you know all the words to the first verse of Ice Ice Baby?: No, my brain power is used for more important things.
Have you ever had crispy bangs?: Christ on the Cross, what are those?
What was the worst style of the 80's?: Oh yeah, the hair. BIG. Bon Jovi big.
Have you ever peed in public?: Does kindergarten count? ; )

Photo: Clive Owen, actor. Now this is a fucking MAN.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

FUCK YOU NETSCAPE BASTARDS!

FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!
FUCKING FUCKERS FUCK IT!
FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK!

There are no amount of fucks to get across how angry I am right now. I just wrote a beautiful blog about autumn and other things and Netscape shut my computer down. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I know, I know, I should've been writing it in Word, or saved it. DON'T TELL ME I KNOW! But I didn't this time. MOTHERFUCKERS!

I could throw this fucking computer out the window right now.
Other than that, HAPPY FUCKING FIRST DAY OF AUTUMN!
THE MOTHERFUCKING SANTA ANAS ARE HERE!
It's hot and windy and dry. I hope NETSCAPE BURNS IN HELL!
Yes I know that makes no sense.

DO NOT FUCK WITH ME NOW.
And it's such a pretty day too.
Fuck it.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

The Young and the Restless

Nope, not talking about the soap opera. Talking about the little munchkins that have taken over my life these past two weeks. I'm almost halfway into my third week into my credential program and in my second week at L. elementary where the shock has warn off, only to be replaced by hideous disbelief at the two lousy teachers I've been placed with. First I get Ms. M, who made Cruella de Vil (sp?) look like a saint. This witch is the meanest, nastiest, coldest 1st grade teacher I've ever seen. She pounded so hard on those kids it broke my heart. I truly, truly believe she should NOT be in the classroom - or anywhere near children. She's bitter, angry, short-tempered, mean and I am going to have to specifically request that I NOT student teach with her if I pick first grade as my student teaching grade. I HATE HER. Not just because of her style, but because of the things she said to the students. She belittled them. She made them feel less than and they already have such hard lives. I've never seen anything like it in any school in my life. I was literally stunned.

Monday I was moved to a third grade class right across from my 1st grade class. I've been seeing my first graders all week - they come up and say "Hi Ms. D!" and yell it across the playground. The saddest moment is when they asked me why I wasn't coming back to their class. You know, it's not that I'm so great, it's that they are desperate to be around someone who's not going to verbally tear them apart. Yesterday a little girl named Jessica ran across the playground and just hugged me - while I was on my cell phone! They are fearless and full of love at that age. What happens? People like Ms. M happen to them. Sad.

Anyway, now I am in a third grade class that would make Ringling Bros. weep with envy. I mean, all we're missing are the freakin' three rings. This teacher, another Mrs. M, is older and I believe has taught longer. She knows what she's teaching - but she has NO CLASSROOM MANAGEMENT skills. Or she just chooses to let her students act like screaming howler monkeys. It's not the kids. Almost all the kids are just being kids. Except one kid in the back who kept mumbling things to himself and looking at me strangely; him I worry about. But seriously - without classroom management, nothing gets done. Instruction time is lost. No one learns anything. To give you an idea of what was going on in the class, picture the following: 20 students at their desks, all doing something different at one time while the idiot teacher alternately reads from a story and barks at the students. We had

- one student lying on the floor
-one boy who kept falling out of his chair
-one boy who insisted on switching chairs every ten seconds
-one girl who got up every three minutes for a Kleenex
-one boy who kept moving his entire desk back until it hit the wall
-one girl talking to another girl
-one boy who yes, put his pencil up his nose
-one boy who continually YELLED OUT at every opportunity, and no he doesn't have ADD or Tourette's to my knowledge
-one boy who kept sticking his pencil in another girl's armpit
-one girl wandering the class for no reason

The rest of the students were either sleeping, playing with a friend, yawning, staring at the walls, ceiling, their pencils or talking. It was SO LOUD I thought I was going to have a stroke. I debated whether or not to look in my bag for any kind of pill that would dull my senses. I am only half-kidding. This sad classroom is due to a horrible, boring, scripted reading curriculum called Open Court Reading that the school district implemented because of NCLB and it's due to the teacher's inability to control her students. Some of my fellow cohorts got to see some really good teachers in action. I am angry I didn't. Why did I have to see such lousy teachers? I mean, BOTH my teachers suck and suck hard. Sure, it shows me exactly what NOT to do....that's a lesson I suppose. But I never would've talked to those kids like dogs in the first place and I will not allow 5 warnings in the class before you get in trouble. You get one warning with me, then you'd better start praying to God because you may never see recess again.

We had our ESL class today. Half these classes are what we call 'alphabet soup' classes. ESL, ELD, EO, RIFL, LEP, LRE, MDC, SST - I'm not kidding - all of these acronyms mean something. I'll tell you now - if English is your native language then you are EO - English Only. We were being taught how to administer the CELDT exam - which is an assessment of where a student is in terms of speaking and understanding English. At the middle school we are at, almost 1000 of the 2000 students need to take it. If you are a student who doesn't speak English well, and you never make it out of the ESL classes, you are hugely likely to drop out of school and never do well academically. Parents, even if you don't speak English - make sure your kids do, somehow, someway. You come to this country, your kids are going to either learn English and thrive or fall into an educational black hole. Sadly, culturally many of these people don't value education. There's no importance placed on it. I hope that will change.

When kids are struggling academically in school, they learn to hate it, and you, the teacher. Statistics show by middle school they've made the decision to drop out. That's 6th, 7th and 8th grade. It's shocking and sad and if things don't change, it's the future of this country.

So today after class I went to the bookstore to buy a 'multicultural' book for my students to 'welcome' them to school and make them feel warm and fuzzy. Honestly, I couldn't really find a 'multicultural' book if using that term means having people of different ethnicities in it. But I did find a really cute book about the first day of school. The teacher is a flamingo and every one of her students is a different animal. It's so cute. It scares me how much I like to sit in the children's book section in the bookstore. And it'd be even better - if there weren't children there. LOL!

Since I was back in richie rich WASPville, I encountered two screaming young boys. One was literally ordering his mother to do something and she said, "Jason, don't be so commanding." He was! He sounded like a drill sargeant. A spoiled drill sargeant. I can't spell that word. This teacher is too lazy to look it up now. Ha. Now I know, I'm not a parent, but if little Jason ever spoke to me that way, we'd be out of the bookstore and on our way home for a long talk, and an even longer time out. However, my favourite moment of the day had to come with the Screaming Mom and Son team.

This woman walked through the bookstore literally (I am not exaggerating) YELLING at the top of her lungs for her kid. "MATTHEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MATTHEW WHERE ARE YOU!" It wasn't that he was lost per se, she was just annoyed. And she let the ENTIRE bookstore know it. "MATTHEW I AM GOING TO GO NOW! ARE YOU COMING!" I stood there, my jaw on the floor. Did this woman not have a shred of dignity? Was she not the tiniest bit embarrassed to be acting like this?

And then we hear little Matthew, who isn't that little, YELL right back, "I HAVE TO GO POO POO!" And mom says, equally loudly, "Well you don't have to advertise it to everyone!!!"

Too.fucking.late. That reminds me. In the 3rd grade classroom, they have a list of rules on the wall. (Why I don't know as you can see no one follows them). But the one that really shocked me is "No swearing." NO SWEARING! These kids are 8 or 9 years old! Even I, the motherfucking sailor/truckdriver swearing queen didn't start swearing until high school or maybe even college!!! I couldn't even imagine a "No Swearing" sign at my elementary school. Probably because that was 30 years ago and we were at a much higher socio-economic place. Sad, but true.

Have I told you all lately how happy I am to have cats? BTW, Fletcher is cone free, as free as the cone goes...a few mornings ago I woke up and she finally managed to take the cone off. She's good. No more bruising and her incision has healed nicely. And when she has to poop, she doesn't even tell me. It's bliss I tell you, bliss.

I'm actually finding other teachers who don't have kids, which is kind of nice, because I've already had some people look at me like I'm nuts because I don't have my own rugrats but am willing to teach other people's kids. Yeah, that's the point. At the end of the day, I get to go home to PEACE and QUIET. I'm still going to be considered a biological freak by many, but so be it.

So that's the report from the trenches this week. I'm hoping to blog soon about something other than school, but it really has taken over my life. When I read a magazine or watch a TV show I actually feel guilty - like I'm wasting time and I should be doing homework. Homework is still manageable but I can see it's gonna get ugly. When it does, this blog will probably go black for a long, long time.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

The Greatest Love of All...Is No More

Whitney and Bobby are breaking up.
It's true.
I read it today. Oh the humanity!
DIVORCE.
Oh man. Just when I thought things were starting to settle down a bit.
I don't know. This really pulls the rug right out from under me.
Whitney and Bobby? I mean, shit, who could have predicted this one???

Crack is wack.
Oh Whitney, you crazy coke fiend
someday you'll want your Bobby beard back.

Photo: Whitney, who's gonna hold the mirror while your snort all that coke?

You Can't Always Get What You Want...


....and sadly, sometimes, even if you try, you can't get what you need. What a day I've had. We started our new observations today at L. elementary school in the inner valley. I want to say inner city, but it's really the valley. However, it might as well be the inner city. The middle school we were at last week is only about two and half (fairly long) blocks away and as bad as that was, this elementary school is a thousand times worse. I feel like today was one of those seminal days that changes you forever. S. Middle School is like Beverly Hills compared to this K-5 school. The neighborhood goes from bad to really, really fucking scary in only 3 blocks. I parked on a busy street, but was still paranoid my car wouldn't be there when we were let out. There's absolutely no parking in the parking lot. The cars are stacked three and four high. The neighborhood is beyond poor. It is the very image of poverty, hopelessness, fear. It's a densely populated area, and the school is impacted with about 1200 students. About 98% are Hispanic and 100% are on both Federally funded breakfast and lunch programs.

According to our site manager, this place is the safest place the students will be in all day. This food is probably the most food, and the best food, they'll get all day. Most students come from immigrant parents. Many are agrarian workers. The site manager said that on average, the parents were only educated up until the 6th grade - maybe even less for the women. So not only do they not speak English, many of them are semi-literate or just completely illiterate.

Many children live with several other families in one room in one apartment. Sometimes they have no permanent address. Some kids live in a car. This is one of the few schools that has both a full-time psychologist on staff AND a psychiatric social worker. The problems at home for these kids are monumental. Divorces, abuse, alcoholism, drug abuse, incest, violence - and bad parenting...whcih isn't a crime but should be. The nurse at the school has the biggest job of any school nurse I've ever seen. She not only treats cuts and bruises, she gets the students glasses if they need them, medical care...even handing out soap. I mean, these kids don't even have SOAP sometimes! I took one sick little girl to the bathroom (she was a first grader I was observing - oh please don't let me get sick!) and she didn't even know how to wash her hands properly. So I gently asked her to use soap and explained to her why she should do that. Her name is Jessica and she was so sweet.

I have been placed in a first grade class all this week. I have to say, the teacher is really short, blunt and abrasive with these kids. She's not a bad teacher it seems; her style just grates on me. Many of these kids are very bright, although almost all of them come to kindergarten speaking no English. Yet these kids all spoke English pretty well. I could not stop thinking about the kindergarten class I worked with earlier this year and how much those kids have - not even in terms of material goods, but in terms of a place to live, and parents who are able to take good care of them.

These parents are at the bottom of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. They are in total survival mode. One mother keeps bringing her daughter to first grade an hour late every day. The teachers usually need translators to talk with the parents. Many parents don't care; there are a rare few that do.

Regardless of how I feel about their parents coming to this country as illegal immigrants (somehow I get branded as racist for stating a fact) I do know that all they want is a better life for themselves, and possibly more importantly for their children. Most, if not all of these children have been born here, so they are U.S. citizens. Sadly they move around a lot, so the school has a very transient population of students. I fear the U.S. will simply become like Mexico one day. There will be two classes of people. The very rich and the very, very poor.

I will say they had a beautiful, colourful library with tons of nice, new books. I was so happy to see that. The school itself is quite old. The bathrooms were filthy. I thought I could handle it. I think of that cliched line, "You can't handle the truth!" No. I was stunned. It's one thing to hear about poverty in the abstract. It's one thing to drive through a poverty-stricken neighborhood or see the occasional begger. It's an entirely different thing altogether to know how these children live, and see them up close.

I was introduced as Ms. D, because my last name is a bitch to say. They all said "Hi Ms. D!" They were writing a sentence or two on the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Some wrote beautifully. One student should've been held back in kindergarten according to the teacher because he can't write at all. But for some reason he wasn't held back. This is why we have people at the college level who can't read and write. His mother didn't want him held back. The principal wouldn't back up the teacher. It's fucked. I walked around, said hello to each student and complimented their writings and/or drawings. They're sweet - they're just 6 years old. A lot of them seemed fascinated by me for some reason.

In other news, Fletcher abused her cone-free privileges and licked herself so hard it looked like she had internal bleeding. I called the vet from school and they told me to bring her in. So I missed the first class meeting of Educational Psychology. Thank God the professor was understanding. But it put so much pressure on me to miss that meeting. You get a feel for how the class is going to be in the first meeting. Although my friend P. will tell me about it and give me her notes, it's not the same as being there. I fucking NEW I was going to miss something due to this cat. I feel like even if I am sick and DYING I have to attend every class session no matter what. And little kids are always sick. I remember only too well how sick the kids at WR got me last spring.

At least they took Fletcher's stitches out. But that head cone is back on and back on for another week. I HAVE HAD IT with this cat saga. It's not her fault. But I knew in my heart I'd miss a class or an observation because of her somehow. I guess it was my own stupidity in freeing her from the cone.

Driving from the elementary school to our college for class, my friend P. said sarcastically, "We can't educate the Mexicans. Who will clean our houses?" Sadly I think a lot of people feel this way. But these kids do deserve an education. I just don't know if I have it in me to give it to them. God help me, but I don't know that I could do it. That makes me feel sad and ashamed. One thing I will always feel from now on, in a way that is completely different, is grateful for my upbringing. Grateful to the Fates, luck, whatever that I had two loving parents who provided me with a healthy, wonderful childhood for the most part. You think you have problems...then you go to a place like this. And suddenly, you have no problems at all.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

The Ruins of September

What great ruins now sleep eternally
on the broken ground of this grey city
Like souls prostrate in mighty grief
In all the world, black disbelief

Human eyes will never again see
the views to Heaven once conceived
in man's own mind
a three pound universe
the same which brought these giants down
tis now the view of Hell unbound

Who were the men, the hands indeed
that set in stone
the hopes, the dreams
birthed by Rome in concrete, stone

Of greatness built to Gods and men
and leveled in seconds by Hell's condemned
A city keens for fallen friends
Yet bent not broken in the final end.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Toto, We're Not In Suburbia Anymore

This is gonna be a short blog because it's only the second day of my full-time student teaching/school program and I'm wiped, physically and emotionally. I'm thinking this does not bode well for the future. We're at a middle school this week in the urban valley. It's got to be close to 99% Hispanic. I'm ashamed to admit this; I feel like a stranger there. Everyone is speaking Spanish. This is the new America. This school isn't nearly as bad as some inner city schools. Uniforms are required - you can't wear any colors or markings that might get you in trouble with a gang. There's a policemen and security guard on campus. EVERYTHING is locked down ALL the time. Let me put it this way...if one teacher loses one key, the ENTIRE school has to be re-keyed. I am not making this up. The teacher bathrooms are locked all the time and we don't have keys. I just realized I forgot to sign out for the second day in a row. I'm probably going to get shit for that. We have to sign in and out every day. We have to wear badges with our pictures on them. These kids are about 12 going on 35. 6th, 7th and 8th grade. Tiny kids, making out. Swearing. Could probably teach me a thing or two about sex, drugs and rock and roll. And this isn't even high school!

I had my first class today. Teaching reading. This should be one of my favourite classes but according to all former students, this professor is a nightmare. And our class is located on the middle school campus in 100 + degree heat with NO AIR CONDITIONING. I was so hot in class I started to feel sick. At 'nutrion' break' and lunch I feel like I'm going to get run over by 2,000 running, screaming kids. Middle school is definitely NOT for me. I feel sorry when I see kids eating alone. That just kills me for some reason. Maybe they're happy. But it bothers me.

We're observing different classes, different teachers. Some are great. Some you just automatically know shouldn't be in the classroom. Many of the students in the ESL class not only don't speak much English, it's pretty obvious they and perhaps their parents haven't been in the country long, and I doubt they're here legally. Is it racist for me to think that people should enter countries legally? My heart breaks for what's happening to people in Mexico, and all the other countries where corruption and fraud are so bad, and there are simply the rich, and the poor. And yet I sat there, and felt like a stranger in my own city. I know everyone wants and deserves a better life - but at what cost?

Next week we move to an elementary school. I look forward to that because I want to teach much younger kids. I had a panic attack earlier though. It's going to be a terrific grind. I'm scared. I think, what have I done? I feel like a complete failure at everything I've ever done and I don't want to fail at this.

Something so simple seems so difficult. Oh! And you should see the schedule at this school. When I was in junior high (before they called it middle school) we had one homeroom, first thing in the morning. Every damn day is different for these kids. Our entire program (all 10 of us are in this program together) is constantly confused. On regular days they have homeroom after 2nd period. On special days they have homeroom before 1st period and after 6th period. On other days there's just one homeroom before 1st period. Today we were supposed to meet our professor at 1pm. Then they changed it to 12:30. Then we realized we had no time for lunch. So we sat there in a baking hot classroom, for a half an hour. The prof showed up at 1pm.

I know I'm complaining a lot right now. I just have to vent my frustrations. I'm sure it'll all settle down in a few weeks. What appalled me was not so much the behaviour of the students as the teaching styles of some of the teachers. Some I would fire immediately. But they're in it for life with the union. I hate the union. Why can't teachers just have jobs like everyone else? Why are they exploited? Why do they need a damned union? Everything with the union is a fight. I was FORCED to be in the union when I taught college. I had to pay my union dues. Unions do nothing but make union heads rich. I can almost see how perhaps some jobs might need a union. But here we have highly educated, WHITE COLLAR professionals with degrees and education and they can't pull it together without a goddamned fucking union?

Do I sound like I'm cut out for this? Probably not today. I'm trying to accept I'm going to have bad days and good days and that the first few weeks are going to be hard. Bear with me folks. And pray for me, if you're the prayin' kind. Oh and here's a real shocker. Every morning, everyone stands up and says the pledge of allegience. They even say the 'under God' part. I'm stunned.

Photo: Back to school. Somehow I think it's going to be harder for me, than for my students.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

The Good Do Die Young

Even if they're doing what they love, which is apparently what Steve Irwin, aka The Crocodile Hunter was doing when he was freakishly stung by a barb from a stingray in the chest somewhere in or near the Great Barrier Reef, I believe. My mom called me last night and told me. She's really taking it hard. It's odd, my mom always seems to be the one to call and tell me bad news. She told me to turn on the TV for 9/11, she called and told me Princess Diana died, she woke me up and told me JFK Jr.'s plane was missing...geez, talk about being the bearer of bad news!! Well, don't shoot the messenger as they say...

Yes, at least we can perhaps comfort ourselves with the fact that Steve went out doing what he loved. I wonder if he even knew what hit him. Hopefully not. His poor family and friends, and especially his dear, sweet children. Certainly he was in a profession with perhaps a lot more inherent dangers that some other professions...but still, it's a bitch of a loss. My mum got into him years ago. She was fascinated with him and by default, since I was back living with her, I started watching him. I couldn't believe anyone could be that enthusiastic about some of those slimy creatures he dealt with...but God love him, he was. His passion and energy were a sight to behold and his love for animals endeared him to me greatly. I'm too tired to go into any great philosophical debate in my mind, but still, the thought does always pass me by, even if I just wave at it as it goes along its merry way along my neurons and dendrites....terrorists, child molesters, rapists, murderers all live on...and Steve Irwin dies in what really was most likely a freakish accident. Apparently stingray barbs don't kill that many people. I'm 39 years old. I've been struggling with the concept of a benevolent God and the idea of fair for years. I always think I've finally grown enough to let go of it. As my dear dad would say, fair? A fair is a place with pigs and cows and cotton candy...there is no fair here. Why do I seek it then? Innate or learned thinking patterns? I don't know and I know I never will. Children will lie in St. Jude's and the bad guys will go on and on. Intellectually it's easy enough to grasp. Still, it sucks and it's not fair that someone so cool, so full of love and life, like Steve Irwin, was taken far too soon. He did a lot of good in this world, and God bless him for it. It ain't fair, it just is. Maybe that's growth.

In other less tragic news, I talked with one of my favourite people in the entire world yesterday, Mr. Thomas Irvin. It was long overdue and he was his usual charming, funny self. He's back at law school, finishing up his last year. My body and mind willing, perhaps we'll both be 'graduating' at the same time next year; Thomas with his law degree and me with my teaching credential.

Speaking of which...tomorrow's D-day. I'm excited but nervous. And I'm surprised at how nervous I am. This is the real deal. This isn't field experience. This is my program. And these are middle school students...I'm used to dealing with the wee ones, not the pre-teen set. What do they call them these days? Tweens? I hate all this bizarre new language. We'll be observing elementary school kids at some point; I think I'll feel better there. Like a school kid myself, I'm thinking, what should I wear? Do I have all my school supplies? Do I know where to go? I have instructions...but still...now I worry about more 'adult' things. Is the car gonna start? Will I park in the right place? God, some things never change. In a way, we stay children forever. Will I make friends with my cohorts? Are they all going to be 20 years old? I need to keep reminding myself that even if I am older than most of them, that's not a bad thing. It just is. And I may be older, but there ARE advantages to this. Many of these (mostly) young girls have never had the amazing experiences I've had in business or teaching college! For them, they're going straight from school into teaching, which will be their first job. I need to remember the good times I had as a music publicist - planning an entire show at the Greek theatre! Watching bands and getting paid to do it! I need to remember the good times I had working for the rat, aka The Walt Disney Company. Actually working for Disney was the catalyst that ended up getting me my M.A. and into teaching in the first place. I saw my boss, the V.P. of marketing for Buena Vista Home Video, and she had no life. She had a huge corner office, which she was rarely in, because she was always at meetings. Or having an affair with another well-known name in the industry - this guy's name pops up too often on the big screen these days so I'm not gonna name names, but her husband would call and it was so hard for me to have to talk to him, knowing what she was up to. Once, she left on a business trip, and as I sat at my desk, sighing with relief that she was in the air, flying, and couldn't get me, she called me from the plane!!! This was about 1991 and that actually wasn't that common then. Her whole life was about this job, her status, and making money for one of the cheapest, tightest companies I've ever worked for. Now the corporate track is fine if that's what you want to do. I just knew right and then and there I didnt. I wanted a little passion in my work if I was going to have to spend the rest of my life working. So - I must remind myself that I may not be 20, but I spent 6 years teaching kids that age and did a really damn good job of it, at least according to my student evaluations, my faculty evaluations and the amount of letters I got from my students. I have things to be proud of already. But still...the physical worries are the worst. Can I keep up? Is my body going to be in agony every day? How tired will I be? And then...will I be a good teacher? College and kindergarten were two ends of the spectrum; it's the middle area that's scaring me. How many of these kids don't speak English? How many come from highly dysfunctional homes? Really, really poor homes? It's an urban school, so statistically those odds are high that they will come from broken, poorer homes. Will I relate to them? Will they like me? Hate me? Will they resent me? I admit it, and it's hard to admit, if they're mostly non-white, I thought, will they like me even though I'm white? (Do you people notice I worry a lot? The best I can say for myself is I've learned to just let the worry happen, and then let it go...instead of rewinding the tape and playing it over and over.) Anyway...I feel horrible actually worrying that race will play into this at all. I hate race sometimes. Yesterday G and I were in the car, and I noticed the car in front of me had a sticker on the back window that said "Brown Power." Now you must know G is my best friend. She's from Yuma, AZ a town that's hugely Hispanic. She is Hispanic. She said she noticed the sticker too and was embarrassed. I didn't think she had anything to be embarrassed about; it wasn't her car. But it infuriated me. If I put a sticker on my car that said "White Power" I'd be (probably rightfully so) called out as a racist and some kind of pyscho white supremacist. I've never seen a sticker that said "Brown Power" before and living in L.A. you'd think I would've by now. WTF? That kind of shit just separates us. I often fear that no matter what we try to do with our higher minds, our lizard brains will win out in the end. Race. Sadly that's what L.A. is all about, a la that anvil of a movie called Crash. Don't let anyone fool you. I know I've talked about this before. L.A. is a multicultural disaster and I fear that the rest of the country is headed in the same, sad direction. Funny, Thomas and I were talking about the city I grew up in. Glendale. Which seems to be known now for one thing only: the fact that it is almost entirely Armenian. Anywhere I go, I mention Glendale and that's the first thing people associate it with. And let me tell you, the Armenians are despised by every other race in Glendale. A black man got up and yelled at the city council that he couldn't understand anyone in the city because they all speak Armenian. It's basically true. The Mexican and Armenian gangs fight like the Crips and Bloods. The Armenians I feel, have been the true test of my ability to not become racist. This is really hard for me to admit. Many times I've made comments that are quite negative about them. They grow up in a culture so different from ours. It's highly aggressive, highly opinionated; not wrong I guess, just different. They are fast, loud, pushy and from a Western European standpoint, often considered rude. They came to Glendale, but like so many other races, didn't really integrate into the city. Instead they built their own schools, their own churches, their own stores, bakeries, markets, shops. I have know some wonderfully kind, nice, lovely Armenians. So I refuse to slag an entire culture - but it's hard for me to embrace a people who stare me down like I'm a piece of garbage in my own city. Why? I've never said or done a mean thing to these people but still, I feel like a stranger in my own home town most of the time. They insulate themselves. To marry a non-Armenian is akin to marrying a piece of trash. Is this not racism? I know this exists within many races - even within Caucasian families. I just don't get it. My brother's best friend married an Armenian woman from Russia. She is raising her two year old daughter in Glendale. The child only speaks Armenian. This woman came to my brother's wedding and complained she couldn't eat the food. The food was as American as you could get. But she doesn't eat American food. She only eats Armenian food. She's nice, but sometimes I wonder why she's here. Sadly I think I know.

This is the melting pot. No one is melting. Well, at least not the Armenians. A shame. They have great food. I didn't grow up on it, but I was willing to try it and I love it. I live on Mexican food - both the Americanized version and any real Mexican food I eat at Gena's, or the great stuff her mom makes. I feel sorry for the 'illegals' but yet I see what it's done and what it's doing to the fabric of a city that is collapsing under the weight of too many people who are either being exploited or aren't pulling their weight. I don't know how I got off on this delicate topic. I am not perfect. I've had racist thoughts. I'll admit it. But I try and remind myself not to be that way; to live with hate is not to live at all. That is not what we were put here for; to spend all of our time in hatred of others with different-coloured skin and languages and food. Half the time I feel ashamed because I am white; like I bear the burden of all the horrible things all the white Europeans did to people of other races, colours, countries. As if I alone am responsible for slavery, and colonialism. I'm not. I could not help being born white anymore than anyone else can help being born black or Asian or Hispanic. It's one thing to have pride in your background; I wouldn't deny that to anyone. But here I am, worried that I will be seen as the Evil White Oppressor to a bunch of kids when I have done nothing. I never conquered another country; I never created a colonial outpost. I never ordered the Indians to march west, I never put a "White Power" sticker on my car.

The very fact I'm worrying about this is probably stupid and sad. And so I won't worry anymore. We'll see how it plays out. And I'll be sure to let you know.

Fletcher Update: Fletcher had her fentanyl pain patch cut off her leg today - man was that thing really stuck to her fur. Poor thing was in pain, but I tried to get it off as gently as I could. She had her brekky (as those Aussies say) and had her Amoxicillin dose. She's still in the head cone, although it's breaking my heart to have to keep her in it. I want to give those stitches a few more days - and I won't be here during the day anymore. The cats are probably going to freak out about that. They're very sensitive to any kind of change. Fletchy is sleeping on her pillow now, cute as a button. Zoe is still being a territorial diva bitch cat, hissing and growling and she won't even come into the bedroom. That's fine. I'm gonna let it all just ride. Her hissing is getting old though, and everytime she does it I laugh at her. That just makes her worse.

Last but not least, new TV this week! I'll be taping most of my favourite shows....but I can't wait. New House, new Nip/Tuck...although I have to wait on that. I have three discs from the last season to get through and I refuse to watch the new season until I know everything that happens in season 3, especially who the Carver is. DO NOT TELL ME IF YOU KNOW. I will hunt you down if you do! Luckily I don't watch that many new TV shows, but there's always something fun about the start of the new season (the new fall season I should say as TV shows now have seasons throughout the summer too). Even as a child, fall was my favourite time. I loved going and buying new school clothes, fresh new school supplies...the days got shorter and cooler (yeah, before global warming made us feel like we live in a toaster oven), and the new fall TV season would start. As I've mentioned before, summer and I won't be parting ways with any tears. It can't leave soon enough for me. I still love autumn. And oddly enough, here I am again, starting school...besides, the best movies come out during fall, my favourite holiday is Halloween, and believe it or not, we actually have trees out here whose leaves change into the most spectacular colours - just like the trees in New England. Don't believe me? Well, the leaves are still green, but when they change, I'll post a piccie for ya. That's about the extent of the seasonal change. Our nights will get cooler, stores will be full of holiday stuff you don't need but want, and once again ladies and gents, all this, because of the Coriolis effect; the fact that this crazy spinning ball we're all on is tilted on its axis 23 degrees. That's just so weird to me. We get these amazing seasons because our planet is tilted. Was that an accident? Did the big bang make it happen? Intelligent design? Oh man, that's a whole other blog, for another day.



Photo Credit: CNN - Steve Irwin, RIP. You brought joy to many - the animals were better off because of you, and so were we.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Eat My Dust You Insenitive Fuck

With all apologies to a one Mr. Rob Dickinson,
I am borrowing perhaps one of the greatest sentences
in the English language to describe my current state
of mind this lousy, hot Saturday afternoon. Oh and
congratulations to me and my blog. I may not write
like Kristin, and that's a bitch of an ego blow (but
that's OK because reading her stuff makes up for
it) but this is my 100th blog. Yay me.

Rob, I tip my hat to you, as I listen to your elegant
and stunningly beautiful solo work, "Fresh Wine For
The Horses" or, as I like to call it, "Look, He's Throwing
Horse Fish Back into the Ocean." But that's only at 3am
at Canter's after a long night of being a merch wench.

Ah, was that only a month and a half ago? Jesus, it seems
like I was about fifty other people back then. Who? Who knows.
Who am I now? A very tired, hot, pissed off bitch, that's for
certain. All that concert fun seems so long ago. Reality set in,
and set in fast and hard. Summer's over.

Everyone knows (don't worry, we're not heading into
Leonard Cohen territory here) about the saga with
Fletcher, my angel kitty. Life has been one long vet trip
since I got back from Chicago and all hell broke loose with
her, and myself as well. She had surgery Thursday on her
bladder to remove 'stones' which the vet said looked more
like sand. I wanted to ask, "Really? What kind of sand?
White, fine sand? Black sand you'd find on the volcanic
beaches of Hawaii?" Because I just paid $1000 and my kitty
had her bladder and belly cut open to remove this sand.
Which has to be sent to UC Davis to be analysed. So the cats
are on a shitty, expensive new PRESCRIPTION diet.

I have to be one of the dumbest smart chicks this side of the
Mississippi. Fuck me, honestly. Zoe had a few stitches on her back last year, near her tail, and they said, "Oh she won't need a cone; she won't be able to reach around and take these out." Thank god she
healed quickly, because within a week, she'd used those tiny
teeth and that flexible body to UNTIE each stitch. Not just
chew through them, but literally untie them. And these were
small stitches. Little fuckin' Houdini. I was ready to hand her a cherry stem and ask if she could tie it in a knot with her tongue. Let's face it, we're animals too, but we're big, motherfucking clumsy beasts. And we know better (most of the time) not to take our stitches out.

So I bought the same bill of goods AGAIN yesterday when the
vet said, "Cats don't usually take their stitches out" and even as
I heard myself explaining the story of Zoe, I STILL didn't ask for
a head cone for the cat. I must've subconsciously thought, "Well,
this is Fletcher. She's different." Or I'm just a dumbshit lately.
I'm gonna vote for the latter.

Last night, G came over and Fletcher had been licking her tummy
raw. Then she wasn't peeing. She was making bi-hourly visits to the
kitty loo but nothing was happening. So Icalled the vet earlier and
you guessed it, we took our third trip in as many days to the vet.
Poor cat. She had another X-ray, more strange hands feeling her
bladder. And this time I DEMANDED a head cone. I wish you could
all see Fletcher now. She can no longer hide under the bed. So I lifted
her up on top of the bed. She's got two front 'arms' shaved. She's
got a fentanyl pain patch wrapped around her rear right leg, which
I'm about to rip off and start licking myself. I'd like a fentanyl pain
patch for my soul. She's got a plastic cone around her head, tied
with a torn piece of an ace bandage. Her belly is shaved, and stitched. She's got the reminants of the pink Amoxicillin anitbiotic
on her face from this morning's fight to get it in her mouth. She
closes up her jaw when I try to give it to her. Her back has big areas
where I had to cut off patches of fur, because she tends to get these nasty knots and I don't know why and the only way to deal with them is to cut them out. No amount of grooming seems to help. She looks like punk rock kitty. I'm ready to just stick a safety pin in her ear, put a "Pretty Vacant" T-shirt on her and call it a fuckin' day. I can barely stand to look at her. She looks so sad, I'm about to cry.

Mom is tired. And this isn't even a kid. This is why mom doesn't have
kids, haha. Life is just a series of going from one minor crisis to another sometimes, and we must thank these capricious gods that
they're only minor crises, right? I would do anything though, to keep
my furry babies happy and healthy. Wish I could say as much for
myself. I'm still fighting this brutal sinus infection. Good thing I had
that $10,000 sinus surgery four years ago. Just once, ONCE, it'd be
nice to have a problem, and have it GO AWAY. FOREVER. Ah, but
that would be too easy. And easy's never been a real big part of my
life.

I never got to write about Chicago. And then I didn't want to write about it. I'm listening to one of Rob's songs though, and I remember
sitting at the Park West, my eyes filling with tears as his somewhat
tired, rhaspy voice sang it. Some guy made fun of his lyrics, specifically these, on the song, "Intelligent People." Funny, I didn't
get to really hear Rob sing in L.A. or Santa Barbara. So when I finally
did in Chicago, and when I heard this song, I insantly started to cry.
And I don't know why. Probably because I think it's a gorgeous song,
and I find the lyrics to be so sweet and so apt. I wish I was back at the
Park West, sitting behind S, watching Rob, watching the male fan
whose story I wrote about on SK's blog watch Rob, his face rapt with
attention and his eyes glossed over with bliss. Meeting S and H was
fabulous, seeing Rob was so great. He's one of the kindest people I've ever met, and that includes people in and out of 'show business.' To
find that kind of decency in a human being anywhere, anymore, is rare. People rarely have that kind of class. Funny. That's what this
song is all about. "Seek out good souls because they will be the ones...to hang around and prosper from" he sings to his son. Does he
really have a son? I don't know. Doesn't matter. I don't, and this makes me want to play this song for my future classes.

Which brings me to Tuesday, when my life is going to change so
drastically. Each morning, I'll be observing middle school and elementary school students. Observing, interacting, helping. These
schools are quite different from the one I was at last semester. WR
was a rich, white suburban school. These are urban schools primarily full of many ESL students and those who didn't win the
socio-economic lottery, or possibly even the parenting lottery. What's the saying? You need a license to fish but anyone can go out and have a kid.

Reminds me, my friend Jill just got back from a camp where she worked as a counselor with abused foster kids. The things she told me these kids go through and have been through pierced the core of my soul. The abuse these poor souls have had to endure at the hands of monsters is indescribable. 10 year old kids in diapers, fighting, hating everyone. Kids screaming all night from nightmares. Kids who were never socialised properly and cannot get along with anyone. And those are the happy stories. Seriously. I don't believe in the death penalty, but those who abuse children and animals deserve to
die a slow, painful death and burn in Hell for eternity. I know it's usually a vicious cycle, but the desire for vigilante justice is strong when you listen to these stories. How could anyone ever, ever, ever hurt a child? And not just hurt, but starve, burn, beat, verbally turn
to ash these children's little souls. I cannot think about it anymore. I am lucky I don't have to.

Reminds me of last night when I was bitching about the idiot kid at
Blockbuster who put the wrong Nip/Tuck disc in the DVD case. I kept wondering why it seemed the storylines had jumped ahead. Well, because I missed three episodes. This was after I told G I'd ordered a Catherine Wheel CD over a month ago and the post office lost it, as usual. And after our dinner delivery was missing a pizza and I called the restaurant and gave the manager a verbal smackdown because this was the second (and last) time they'd fucked up like this. This
goes back to a blog I did months ago on why no one can seem to do his or her job properly. From simple things, like delivering food, or mail, to things like getting onto the right plane and taking off from the right runway. G said, "D, you have the worst luck with this stuff."

And I got really angry. For the first time in my life I got angry. Because that's something the old me would've said. I grew up thinking and believing somehow I had bad luck. Blame it on what you will; alcoholic father, getting the big mystery disease, shit luck with men, dealing with the nasty suicide - you name it. Whatever. I was angry at her and I made it clear I did not have bad luck. I made it crystal in so many words that it wasn't me, it was people who couldn't do their jobs properly. I'm not buying that bad luck bill of goods anymore. I really don't think I believe in luck anyway. And if I did, bad luck is being born to a parent who sticks your hand on the stove or sticks you in the closet without food or water for days. Bad luck is getting on the wrong plane, with pilots who don't have a clue, and going down a runway that's wrong and too short, with one tired air traffic controller who's busy doing paperwork while you crash and burn. That's bad fucking luck.

So listen up, that line don't work here anymore. That scene isn't welcome in my little psychic diorama anymore. I can't see my pain
therapist anymore because her schedule sucks, and I'm going to be busy during the day. So I have to be my own therapist now. Maybe it's about time. I'm sick of the coddling, the bullshit. I'm sick of feeling like the only damaged doll at the store. Eat my dust you insensitive fucks. I may not be entirely sure of who in the hell I am on a day to day basis, but I'll tell you who I'm not anymore. I'm not the simpering, scared little girl who's afraid to rock the boat, or speak out to family or friends when something's not right. My mother constantly tells me what a mouth I have on me. She is I believe, mostly referrring to my swearing, and she's goddamn right. I swear.
But I think she also refers to my ability to verbally take down anyone anywhere, anytime. It's true. I could probably verbally make a flower wither on the vine. So if you don't like it, don't piss me off. Don't tell me I'm unlucky. Because I'll show you unlucky. Once I had a friend actually warn MWP not to get into it with me, verbally, because I'd win. I would. But sparring with pseudo rock stars is so yesterday. I've got kids to teach and great songs to listen to, and kitties to love. I've got some good luck to deal with.

Photo: Fletcher, in better days...with better days to come.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Life,
the Way They Said it Would Be

I could love even these gods
so grand and final in their cruelty.

You want the silence of worlds unknown
the memories of lives unlived
black hole universes and womb-like salvation.

I lost so many hopes in this darkness
and so many days.

I try to hang on. At stoplights and street corners
but this grind is a beastly creature
so insistant with its coffee spoons and cocktail voices.
And smiles, long and lovely across crowded, lonely rooms
here is infinity it says;
memento mori.

What will the silence of eternity sound like?
Like shadows long and warm and falling slowly
to caress the pale facades of buildings at dusk...
the smoky, yellow leaves shifting in the chilly autumn
breeze...
and snow that drifts down to balance lovingly
in the aching arms of trees?

It will sound like trees that sway in lonely colonnades
between flickering street lamps and brick-faced bars;
it will sound like the last and final highway in the desert night
the stillness of nowhere after the whoooosh of the last, solitary
car

It will sound like the smooth, velvety voice of the singer
that you never knew
who sang to you sad lullabyes through so many years
from a place somewhere far and deep and wide
the watery depths
of your very final tears.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Narcissus Redux

You were never a chrome hero I begged to follow
Merely a divine and tantalising shadow of an elegant beauty
Oh but you were as a God; a mesmerising form I longed to make love to
You were some twentieth-century icon created for fun

I suppose that I shall make some
sufficient payment for it
(not unlike all the rest)
Ecclesiastical wishes fall by the wayside
when you command them to undress

Shall I hold the utmost honour of becoming
the sweetest taste of the vile and bitter fruit
that is you
Your concupiscent self plucked carelessly
from the crowd?
Or just another entrance point for your manhood
Another mirror to reflect your fading beauty

When it is over
this white-hot penetration
will you even stoop to pretend
that I meant something more
than a woman of no importance
who posessed no difficulty
lying down and spreading my legs wide
and accepting the God that was you?

You must know your cruelty
far outweighs whatever beauty is left
in that angular, hard facade you possess
Your words like arrows
Your eyes contain a darkness only
you will ever understand
Though I doubt you even have the ability
for profound introspection
Maslow would find you a sad case study indeed

You must know your reign is slowly ending
Your knighthood stripped away
Your servants are building your tomb my Lord
You've given your secrets away

You use and use without care or concern
Scorn is the currency of your day
You toss us away like yesterday's news
You open your mouth and perform the ugliest of plays

Your throne is ash now
Your soul has set like the sun
And your delusions keep you company
when all is said and done.

Photo: Who in the world could this be???

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

A Prayer for the Grey Season

The Madame has been very sick. She still is.
She lies in bed, doing her best Camille impression.
The fever brings delusions and dreams.
Her life is in flux; she is possibly changing her
entire credential program and her kitty is
having surgery on Thursday morning.
The Madame feels as if a vampire has bled
her dry. To sleep, to sleep, perchance to
dream.

The Madame would like to take a moment
however
and remember
all those souls who were victims of both Hurricane Katrina
and the absolute inexcusable treatment by this tyranical,
insanely inept and callous government.
God bless those souls who were taken to the other side.
God bless those souls still stuck in some living Hell.
God bless those souls who survived and who struggle to thrive.
The Madame prays for you all.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Wisdom Is A Useless Currency When Your Heart Is Breaking

I want yesterday back and tomorrow in my arms now
I want positive test scores and negative
medical results
I want the freedom of ignorance, oh sweet Jesus
how I long for this bliss
I want the ignorance of youth, the
innocence of years not yet lived
I want my old body back
The one that didn't hurt 24/7
The one that wasn't always tired
I want to stop feeling this awful ache
This long, deep bitter want inside of me...
For what I do not even know.

I want movies to be real and reality
to be an illusion
I want to stop asking the questions
and be content with few answers
I want my three pound universe to
slow down
I want a wall between myself and the
world
I want to stop crying everytime I see
the news
I want to bring back ghosts
I want to hug my father again, I want
to smell him, and hear him say my name
I want to take away the 15 years of agony
he went through
I want to change the fucking rules of the game

I want to go back and undo so much
I want to scream, don't split the atom
Don't ignore that invasion, pay attention
to men who taking flying lessons but never
want to learn to land
I want to scream until my throat is bleeding
I want to evacuate the innocents
I want revenge on the perpetrators
I want to stop feeling everything for just
one lousy day

I want songs inside of me; I want to
be the music itself
I want to turn back the clock and go
back in time
I want to say Dad I love you
just one more time.

I want to visit my grandma, now 11 years gone
I want to hang on to the flow, but it's gone before
I know
I want to heal myself and love myself
I want someone to tell me "Everything's going to be OK"
And God in Heaven, I want to believe it again.

I want to know the men whose hands built those
glorious buildings
I want to know why all my heroes are dead men
I want to take away the sadness, the pain, the grief
from everyone I've ever met
I want to stop asking the questions
for which there will never be answers
I want to stop the desire
the root of my suffering
I want to love my animals and never
ever have to bury them

I want all my yesterdays back
I want to know it can be better
than this
I was told by a friend there's a whole lot of hurt
before you get to the bliss

I want to know the bliss is real
I want to know I won't disappear
I want to know what this place is
A school? An illusion? A veil of tears?

I want my sweet 6 year olds to stay 6
I want to climb inside paintings
and sneak inside books
I want the inside scoop
I want the hidden looks

I want things I don't even know yet
And I don't know why I want them
I want to stop wanting
I want to be a child again.