Flip It

Today was a blast for 7/8 of my classes. I just pushed ahead, and moved them onto a details-for-setting brainstorming game, and one of my two problem classes just moved like clockwork. D calmed down in my before-lunch period, and by the time I got to lunch, I was practically dancing. Not only was it the first day where I hadn't thought about jumping off of a large building by lunch, but it was actually going swimmingly.

It was a fucking blast. Ultimately, Sunday went well; I got to go swing dancing. Monday, I made it through five and half hours of grad school, then went home and updated behavior anecdotal records and things until 1 am, while watching the rest of season 3 of Weeds, related special features, and downing a variety six-pack. And it wasn't I'm-stressed-and-drinking, but relaxed, enjoyable, watching TV and enjoying some microbrews and working through some papers and things. It was excellent; what I've hoped to do for awhile now.

Today, I got through all those classes. 10th period rolled around, though, and that was a shitshow. Still, nothing happened. It's infuriating. I cannot reach them. I've been holding off on the advice I've been getting from veteran teachers, but it's time. I spent an hour and half after school dealing with a staff meeting, and then calling 20-odd parents whose kids had behaved appropriately during 3rd period (usually a problem period). In between I dealt with the idea that certain kids ought to remain in my class, because their motivation is to be able to be in general ed, and not special ed.

Fuck that. If that's your motivation, you shoulf have to work towards it, not simply receive what you desire irrespective of effort and behavior. So, tomorrow, I take the advice I've been getting. The classroom will be rearranged according to grades and efforts. Those kids who have turned something in, displayed effort, etc., will sit in the front of the room. Those kids who do not respond to zeroes, calls home, disciplinary action, etc., will sit in the back. On the board will be written "Sink or Swim," and I will not repeat directions. It's as easy as that. I felt like tearing out my hair at these kids, and the continued chances offered. If you're thirteen and haven't turned anything in for a month, you're capable of understanding there may be some kind of consequences.

Anyway, that drove me nuts. And so did pondering Emily for a second. I thought about her text for a second, realized she'd texted me to let me know she'd been traveling at literally half-pace for a few days, and my wonderful, obliging mind filled in the sordid "truth": that she'd traveled like she normally did, but had a run-in with a sexy gargantuan-dicked long haired blond Californian and spent a day or two fucking him senseless. (Perhapse he reminded her of a Humboldt County horticulturalist.)

Dumb ass shit; but it made me realize there's not much point in giving her headspace. At all. There's just sadness and misery there. I'd spent three mostly happy days busying myself; thinking of her just made me feel shitty. So fuck dealing with it. What it made me wonder is what that means about grief. Is that why I have trouble getting over people, because I don't just work through the pain--because I just try to move on without working through emotions?

Is that an emotional immaturity on my part that I haven't dealt with yet?

Or is that normal? I realize I'm using grief in a weird melodramatic way, but it's the end of something, and I think it's an applicable concept. So for a few moments, I thought about the difference between grieving the end of someone and the literal end of someone in your life. Maybe no one really moves on; it's just that when someone you care about is dead, they're gone, so you don't actually have awkward run-ins later. Which is why exes are scary, and dead relatives and lovers are a different matter. This isn't a profound concept; I just had wings and beer with the guys, and I'm a bit tipsy; I thought about ghosts--they show that you're not really over the dead, either, the dead just aren't there to prove your self-esteem wrong. Ghosts fuck with that. hence, Nancy in Weeds being fucked sideways by the potential that her husband is actually appearing in her house. Anyway, that's what I get for wondering if a Showtime special has life meaning.

What's cool is that I just decided "fuck it, not worth pondering," and my day improved. We found a bar with a wing special, that served Miller Lite and Alaskan Amber, and my mood

(haha--she just texted me, to tell me that it only took her "two days." Not the case. We spoke Saturday morning, and she was leaving Santa Cruz; this morning, she left San Luis Obispo. Saturday, Sunday, Monday--three days of biking. Not two. Not worth analyzing for the bullshit I'm being fed? (Or replying to?) That. Back to South Park and blogging about a good day.

(Jesus, again. I'm just realizing how much blogging for me is just stream of consciousness bitching and thinking. How much of this makes sense?)

Anyway, my mood has been good. Golfing, swinging, pleasantly grading with drinks by the boob tube. Today could have been Incubus, but I didn't want to go alone. It could have been swinging, but I was at school too long, missed the lesson, and needed food. Solution? Wing night. Fuckin' A. And tomorrow? Fair Trade Cafe, and slam poetry (and hopefully freestyling) time. Thursday, if I'm still conscious, Club Blunt for underground hip-hop, and Friday, we hit Sedona again. Hooray for starting to make myself have a grip on teaching, and for my first overall good day of teaching and life in a month.

Maybe I can do this. Hell yes.