My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Trying to think. Trying to breathe. Trying to do either right now. It's tough. Exhausting. A mental experiment that goes awry the moment I try to turn my scattered thoughts into actual speech. Into language. I can't talk. If I can't think, I can't talk. If I can't breathe, I definitely can't talk. There's not much oxygen left in this room. The chandelier above my head is caught in a tornado of flames. It's burning off the rest of the air around me. I'm standing in the middle of a fancy restaurant with a towel around my arm and red trickling in a Rorschach test across my forehead. I can still feel where the champagne bottle hit me. It didn't shatter, but it cracked just enough. Enough for a sharper edge to slice into my pale skin. Crimson on white. Your body was black on gold. Lit up by the lamp on the stage as the piano player clutched his chest and gulped down whiskey so he didn't collapse. I can't remember what...

"Feeling all right?" "What?" "Are you feeling all right?" "Oh. Yeah. Fine." "Tea's good." "Mmmhmm. It's nice." "It's felt different since you've come back." "Has it?" "Yeah. I dunno. So how long will you be staying?" "Not long. I'm leaving for San Ignacio tomorrow." "Oh." "Yeah. I have family there." "But you'll at least stay for the night, right?" "Sure. You have a nice bed in the guest room."

Short work week today! And yet, I still feel like a lot was done. My Yearbook staff finally seems to be settling on a visual theme and cover. We're taking photos and starting some writing. I'm getting to know my English students more. I'm able to meet with teachers and colleagues to improve my equity in the classroom and my outreach and support toward students with special needs. And I actually got to spend a Friday with my wife and take her to dinner. Thank goodness. I've also made some mistakes in terms of a few interactions, and I'm beating myself up for it, but I have to remember that I am not a bad teacher or person. I just gotta keep improving and watching what I say or do more. Yay, I'm human! Now I can actually relax this weekend and enjoy myself - maybe I can even continue Goza and do some more personal writing. We shall see! Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

Boo-tiful Breakfast by Belinda Roddie Needless to say, the ghosts couldn't digest bacon or eggs.

Come Have A Cup by Belinda Roddie Come have a cup of maple ginger tea with me on this chilly September night. It doesn't taste exactly as I dreamed that it would taste, but the brew is all right. I'll let your head rest on my shoulder, steep the contents of my mug until it's dark, and count the minutes 'til I fall asleep while trains roar and the neighborhood dogs bark a chorus of threats and apologies. There isn't much to offer, where I stand, the words meager, all too surprisingly, so I compensate by holding your hand, remembering why I hold you so dear, as my sonnets total one complete year.

To be polite, one must hold their tongue. They must stand their ground, yet not utter a sound. They must appease every single one of their colleagues, even if perhaps they are wrong. One must hold their fork and knife in the correct hands, at the correct angle, at the correct time. But courtesy isn't always required, and some bastards should just be stabbed in the eye by tines.