Reflection on the Inconceivable

17 Dec
As I read and write the posts on sites around the world, they all reflect the same ultimate sentiment……the profound sadness and loss of this horrific tragedy……..and…….along with this, the unconditional innate instinct of “we” teachers to love and protect “our” children.
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Eye-Catcher

13 Dec

potpourriEye-Catcher.

MY COMB

12 Nov

This is my comb.

It is multi-toothless, scuzzy-looking and holds what looks like years of gel, spray and other hair condiments of no known origin. I don’t know how old it is but I use it everyday, and I look for it in the morning and search for it if it is not readily available with intensity and concern, as I would for an invaluable, but essential heirloom. There are other combs in the house, in my purse and in assorted locations, but THIS is “the” comb, the definitive item in my daily hygeine and beauty routine. It is a pathetic-looking item. Among other things, it speaks to hurried “clean-ups,” meticulous arrangings, subtle changes, agonizing moments, and wistful feathering.

I go into the drugstore on a fairly regular basis and look at the combs, look to replace “the” comb, for an instrument of more functionality and use, to seize the moment and take a leap of faith moving ahead, moving onward into the twenty-second century, but, as I seek, as I search……alas….I am moved to return, to return to my sense of origin, of history, of non-functionality, only to slither the little-toothed crushed yet caressed styling comb through my similarly used, long-lingering and sometimes matted hair. I am a creature if of not habit, of incredulity, and “it” is a monument, a testament to a well worn life.

Aside

DREAMS

10 Nov

Visionary dreams whirring in my head   

Like spindles twisting endlessly         

Among these dreams lie quiet peace                                                                                                                      

Adorning serene-like waves                        

Floating beyond chaos and fear                                                                                                                        

Leaving them behind like empty shells of bitterness

Enveloping and cloaking me with tenderness

And open windows to fly through     

                                                                                                                        
To leap, to fly unhindered

Unhampered, free and delicate 

Breathing, blowing, streaming through the air                                                                                                                         

Featherlike and soft

                                                                                                                                                                                       Could I but reach such nirvana as this quiet place  

Make up your own word and define it – prompt

9 Nov

Response to Make up your own word and definition

SMIRCHERS:
1-those who smirch and mock
2- members of the smirching and mocking family
The smirchers tried to get a rise out of the class of students by attempting to “play” teacher.

Just Fine

7 Nov

     Circa 1955, Bronx, New York. O’Connor Family. 9:00 a.m.

     “C’mon, c’mon.  We’re gonna be late for church,” Maggie called.  “Next to each other.  Dad in the middle.”

     “Shit,” Dad muttered. “Lacy, Kevin, c’mon,” he said dispassionately.

      Dad got in the middle, looking stern and stoic.  He was uncomfortable in his Sunday dress.  Hated it.  Rather be in sweats with a drink and a good football game, but…..it was Sunday.  He would do it for Maggie.  Maggie was his girl, had been for he can’t remember how many years.  Her shiny auburn hair flying in the wind, even when it was pulled back, it had those strands flipping around her head.  She could still stun a guy, even now at age 35.  When did they get so old?  When did they get a four year old and a seven year old?  When did routines begin?   When did all the “have tos” start?  He couldn’t get a grip on it.  All he knew was that they lived in this little homey Bronx apartment paying rent, going to work everyday, and doing the Sunday morning church thing.  He didn’t hate it.  He just didn’t understand it all.  When did his life not become his own?  All of these thoughts went through his head as he stood steadfast and smiled, with one hand holding each child’s hand. For a moment he thought of letting go of those needy little hands and running fast and furiously down the street into the old world, the one without hardships and responsibilities.  Dad wouldn’t like that.  And that would be awful.  

     “Great pic guys,” Maggie said.  “Let’s get going.”  John let go of his kids’ hands and fixed his collar.  He walked next to Maggie.  She smelled of Shalimar.  He wanted to get her Chanel Number 5.  He wanted to get her a lot of things.

      “You ok honey?,” she asked. She could read him like an open book sometimes.

       What should he say?  Should he say, “No not really. I’m not ok. My life is not my own…… Hey, let’s ditch these kids and this place, and go off to Europe.”  Should he say, “I want a different life.” Should he say, “I’m tired of Shalimar.”   He looked at her weary eyes and fabulous smile and at his kids all clean and neat and running several feet ahead of him.

       “Yea, Maggie.  I’m fine.” He put his arm around her waist, wiped a tear from her eye. “I’m just fine.”

     

Dreams

6 Nov

Visionary dreams whirring in my head Like spindles twisting endlessly Among these dreams lie quiet peace Adorning serene-like waves Floating beyond chaos and fear Leaving them behind like empty shells of bitterness Enveloping and cloaking me with tenderness And open windows to fly through
To leap, to fly unhindered Unhampered, free and delicate Breathing, blowing, streaming through the air Featherlike and soft Could I but reach such nirvana as this quiet place