And on the last day...

One the last day of the work week Allen thumbed through the progress reports that littered his desk, took a long pull on the silver coffee thermos that always left a few drops on his upper lip, picked up the phone, beveled illuminated button indicating message.

Punching in the numbers without thinking about it, looking at his library on his shelf, the self-help books, 'finding your hidden voice', 'knowing the real you' and realized that he never really knew who he was, his reverie was broken by the tone of voice on the person who left the message, a desperate, frantic voice. Not a student, too mature for that, not a parent, the tone of voice was wrong. Sounded like an old lover. He took another look at his bookshelf.

Channeling the feelings of the last school year, being stripped from power, embarrassed by his own ideas, the position of department head eliminated this year, at the end of this school week, must have fought to hard. He remembered the advert of his youth, 'never let them see you sweat'

But this voice, startling in its tone, its nakedness, talking about moments five years prior, apologies about missing the date, and the reasons why, and he hung up mid-message, and pulled out a dog-eared journal from his bookshelf.

He looked through the entries, from student teaching, and he saw himself built up gradually, as the pages turned, and making a slow about-face towards the end of the same volume.

He shut this book, slammed the doors that hung from above down, making a huge crashing sound, interrupting the silent lunches of co-workers, spectacles dangling on the end of noses, looking up for a moment before he walked out of the planning room.

WordPress

Maybe now would be a good time to unveil my latest site. It's simple, nothing too fancy, not an overly-ostentatious candy dish that mocks from its regal distance.

This is a poetry site, one where I write little snippets, kernels of thought.

School started again, earlier than I thought, the last few days flew by, stacked on top of each other. Let's take it back to another year, turn back the clock into the future. Go further this time.

http://kronski.wordpress.com

Push yourself out of your comfort zone. Don't be content with just getting by. Unless that is your thing, getting by.

One last trip to the desert before we go into battle. Lets be like Romans, spending all of our times fighting battles in far away lands. Make those far away lands be our minds.

Keep it inside.

Are We Rolling? The Meters Say We're Rolling

Dusting off the microphone and tablet, entering data for the first time in awhile. The Hottest Day of the Year Ride, writing lessons, lets all go for beers after the ride is over. Get into arguments with neighbors about trimmed limbs. Say it over and over to yourself until the words bend and twist, and you can't recognize it as English Anymore.

Trimmed Limbs
Trimmed Limbs

Not changing gears before ascending pedestrian bridges, little pods of transit, like in the future of the 1950s, like flying cars and robots that glug and churn, spitting out data on a white sheet of paper, like all the future is little white paper, scrawled with unintelliglbe inscriptions.

Peridontal Gum Disease. The highlighted letters tell you it might mean tooth loss, but not if you follow these few, simple rules:

Never trust technology. Conduct all meetings in secrecy, never rely on who you are when you are asleep or half awake.

Don't post blog postings until you have a clear-cut idea of what you want to say.

Recipes for disaster:
One parched lawn
Fireworks
Organic chacrcoal that spits embers
Orange tape and wooden stakes
Someday, as a society we will all eat nothing but cous-cous