15 11 2006

 I’m getting sick.  I hate that.  I’m all achey and congested and just wanted sooo desperatly to stay in my bed this morning.  I have a headache and I’m waiting as patiently as I can manage for my coffee to finish brewing.   Things here suck this year.  I feel like a shitty teacher, I’m having such a  hard time reaching this group of kids.  THey just truly don’t give a shit about anything.  THat’s why I’m not teaching high school.  Apathy drains me.  I don’t know what to do with it.  I’m reading all these extra books and trying to apply these different strategies to “unlock” them.  Unfortunatly, I still end almost every day feeling like a failure.  Nice. 

  Sorry for the poor poor pitiful me speech.  I’ve got to get some stuff done.  It never ends.  Here’s my goal-

Undivided attention
By Taylor Mali

A grand piano wrapped in quilted pads by movers,
tied up with canvas straps – like classical music’s
birthday gift to the insane –
is gently nudged without its legs
out an eighth-floor window on 62nd street.

It dangles in April air from the neck of the movers’ crane,
Chopin-shiny black lacquer squares
and dirty white crisscross patterns hanging like the second-to-last
note of a concerto played on the edge of the seat,
the edge of tears, the edge of eight stories up going over, and
I’m trying to teach math in the building across the street.

Who can teach when there are such lessons to be learned?
All the greatest common factors are delivered by
long-necked cranes and flatbed trucks
or come through everything, even air.
Like snow.

See, snow falls for the first time every year, and every year
my students rush to the window
as if snow were more interesting than math,
which, of course, it is.

So please.

Let me teach like a Steinway,
spinning slowly in April air,
so almost-falling, so hinderingly
dangling from the neck of the movers’ crane.
So on the edge of losing everything.

Let me teach like the first snow, falling.




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