My Cardboard Balcony

Damn it. I'm not doing well on these introspection posts lately. Let me see what I can do. (Ahem) Second graders. I teach fourteen of them now. Second graders are currently not corrupted by the concept of attitude. I am still a large authority to them. I must be listened to and obeyed. Unlike the sixth and fifth graders who make my sister's teaching job a little Hell, the second graders actually like me. It's really a nice feeling to be appreciated by kids and parents. It happened when I worked at a day camp. It happened when I was a catechism teacher for - ta da! - second graders. It's really refreshing to see my work pay off, especially when it comes to teaching. At the same time, I've developed my own sort of perspective in my work. As I move the kids forward in reading, writing, and math, I'm constantly being told how to teach. Which is fine and dandy, but I frankly am not a supporter of 100% "positive reinforcement." To me, that's being

Momentary Music by Belinda Roddie   Across the way, we meet eyes Only momentarily in the dimly lit restaurant, The kind with a French name that soothes the tongue But not the mind. As your sight is only sided by the sun spying through windows, You look at me in an unfiltered light Reflected off your wine glass, As the golden drops of the grapevine crystallize Upon your lips, But you don’t mind. Momentarily, that’s all. I let my eyes survey the tablecloth, The chandeliers, anything To keep away from your gaze. But the afternoon air makes my bones feel fragile. I raise my head one more time To see you as nothing but a silhouette Similar to a violinist while a concerto plays, Hidden behind sheets of music. Yet as I rise to leave and pay, I will always remember What sweet music you play. The work you see here has not been edited nor modified since December 30th, 2007.

Three rainy days, separated by four overcast days. Some people like those kinds of days to write. Others like those kinds of days to sleep. I like to take walks while the drizzle prickles my hair follicles and coats my face in damp sleep. Because while the sun is clawing to burst through the clouds, the slumber of the mist is all too familiar. And I let my boots grow wet from the puddles that coalesce around this world's face.