Teaching Disptach
It's not a snow day.
It's the day after a four-day weekend. It's a sweaty late morning, and I've just finished my lunch. There's a feeing that teachers get, right before a tough class, where one ponders the mood and temperment of the students on a given particular day.
Will they be rambunctious after the weekend or not? Is it a high volume energy drink day or not?
It's always hard to say, especially after a four-day weekend.
A co-worker shaved his moustache. He still strokes his chin like he still has hair there.
Visualize a new bumper sticker.
Has hair there.
The writing stalled and died this weekend. I spent a part of a morning taking things away, but not adding any new information. Not a phrase, not a new word. Nothing.
Something hit me yesterday, when I awoke, that I felt, maybe for the first time in 2007, fully rested and refreshed. Maybe it had something to do with the sky light and the slate grey sky?
Sometimes words come to me in waves, humming thrones like bees well up in my blood, urging the synapses in my brain to talk to the fingers already, and see if we can't do something about this 'lack of writing thing'
Oh, and Michael Chabon is writing a serialized novel within the splashy colored confines of the New York Times Sunday Magazine.
All for Now
It's the day after a four-day weekend. It's a sweaty late morning, and I've just finished my lunch. There's a feeing that teachers get, right before a tough class, where one ponders the mood and temperment of the students on a given particular day.
Will they be rambunctious after the weekend or not? Is it a high volume energy drink day or not?
It's always hard to say, especially after a four-day weekend.
A co-worker shaved his moustache. He still strokes his chin like he still has hair there.
Visualize a new bumper sticker.
Has hair there.
The writing stalled and died this weekend. I spent a part of a morning taking things away, but not adding any new information. Not a phrase, not a new word. Nothing.
Something hit me yesterday, when I awoke, that I felt, maybe for the first time in 2007, fully rested and refreshed. Maybe it had something to do with the sky light and the slate grey sky?
Sometimes words come to me in waves, humming thrones like bees well up in my blood, urging the synapses in my brain to talk to the fingers already, and see if we can't do something about this 'lack of writing thing'
Oh, and Michael Chabon is writing a serialized novel within the splashy colored confines of the New York Times Sunday Magazine.
All for Now
Labels: Education, McMenamins, New York Times
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