its a bruised and hot saturday afternoon and i'm listening to a little song called "charmed life" which i love . once more, i have dead lines. i am the only person who hasn't done their homework. it's half term so i am the only kippie working like a mad thing when i could be:
3. riding (which i am still managing to do. nothing can keep me off my hosses, no sirree)
4. getting drunk
5. staring at the sky and thinking nothin' in particular.
6. making music.
7. making all manners of things, come to think of it.
8. um, Blogging....yesssss.
but no, i am effing working (until i decided to have a break and blog) because i have left everything to the frigging last minute.
when will i ever learn? i hate myself for it.
i hate using the blog as a dumping ground. so i won't.
i hate using the blog as a diary too.
but i must use it...it's been a while. again.
so i thought i'd share something i wrote in a dead boring meeting at school yesterday. which culminated in dead lines.
i began an ink marathon.
i wrote what i heard:
" it doesn't make any sense that sentence"
"again. it's a bit of a repeat of that other one."
"it doesn't make any sense"
"children with learning difficulties...?"
"let's just leave it at that, then."
"i just don't know how much they have?"
(why can't anyone say anything? which made me think of a line i love which my students wrote for me once: we might have accents but we speak your language which made me think i'd like to make a poster with this scrawled across it.)
then someone started speaking about The Roses which are now seen in the front office. my ink marathon continued.
she thinks that having bunches of roses in the office is ' professional'.
"it's professional," she said, "it's professional."
i don't think so. i love the scent and how they look so charming in their little cheap plastic bucket vases - so surprisingly charming. and pleasant. but no - not 'professional'. actually.
good morning. we're professional. see. we have bunches of roses in our office, yes. and then we spend bright summer days - which were made for holidays, made for watching emerald sunbirds flitter amongst the lilac flowers and red hot pokers and aloes, made for contemplating worker bees collecting pollen from the big, old tree at the swimming pool - inside stark, dark, stuffy classrooms talking about health policies and protocols and whether 'key words' should be on a lesson plan or not. we're professional. we talk about things that will kill an inherent curiosity about life. things that are duller than last night's dish water with cold old rice and greasy chicken bones floating around in it. we're going to bend and change everything that's african, original and fresh and MAKE RULES and FILES so we can fit into some foreign ideal of what an acceptable CIS school is.
what does it matter?
i hate it.
so that's why all i can do is sit and write things in splodgy blue ink and sketch stars and flowers and planets.
it looks like i will be reading jane austen's Mansfield Park on the zanzibar beach, when i finally make it out of here. ordinarily, i would've sighed but now i admire her language. it's beautifully constructed, perfectly punctuated and strangely delicate. although fanny's passivity is already annoying me. odd that i write about jane austen when before i could only write about hibiscuses in the rain, fish markets in mozambique, gypsy camps and the fact that he has birds in his eyes. . .
cathie interrupts my dreamy thoughts in this dead dull meeting. every time she says "don't you agree janelle?" i nod prettily and cleverly and say, "why, yes yes yes!" convincingly to what i don't know but it must be good because she is. and then i return to my ink marathon.
i am full of vegetable samoosa - i ate them from sheer boredom - pasty, tasteless - like chewing cardboard.
i remember telling you i ate to stop sadness and you felt sorry for me. i felt embarrassed.
back to work, oh best beloveds. if i don't finish this i won't be able to go to zanzibar and i ain't missin' that for nothin' - dead lines schmead lines.
toodely old toot, y'all and bisous X.X.X. hot storm scented ones x j