I realize that this could be the very first time you've ever read this blog. Welcome! Thanks for reading. Too bad you chose to read this during the week I've lost all my marbles. Seriously, they've all rolled away into a drain grate or something where I can't reach them.
I've decided that I need to take a week long writing break at the minimum, because I'm afraid that if I don't, I'll reveal to you all my deepest, darkest secrets, and like your brain or heart needs that right now. Plus, how mortified would I be in two weeks? What I need to do is lock up all my old journals in a trunk and throw the key into the pile of leaves sitting outside, so I'm not tempted to share every revealing thought I've ever had. Because some of them are pretty pathetic.
I know my week long absence could be really heartbreaking to you and everything, on account of how you'll gain ten minutes of your life back everyday by not having to read the sap I put on here.
I decided I needed to take a leave of absence after writing two paragraphs. One's called "Everything I Hate About Who I've Become," and the other is called "Everything I No Longer Believe." I decided to keep them hidden in my journal because, as you might imagine, neither one is filled with uplifting, beautiful, or funny things for you. And I don't want you to have to read things that bring you down. Because I care about you, I really do. Even though no one cares about me <-- whoops, see, that's why I need to take a blog break. I start writing things that are probably not true. They're all fictionalized in my head.
So instead of sharing paragraphs that make me cry, I will instead tell you this: in place of my heart, something as tiny and black and shriveled as a raisin now rests.
The thing about having a raisin-heart is that it's full of anger and bitterness and not-funny stories, and it loves to think mean things about the person it dwells in. Raisin-hearted people often wear stonewall expressions, and it looks like they feel absolutely nothing, except maybe sadness or hate, but in truth the raisin heart feels everything, except when it is numb, which is often.
I'd pray for a miracle to happen inside of my heart, but that's on the list of Things I No Longer Believe. So maybe you could pray for a miracle instead. If you're into that sort of thing.
Hopefully I'll see you in a week or so, if I find a way to get rescued in the meantime.
I warned my students that parent-teacher conferences were coming up, and that they better start turning in their homework, because I would be talking to their parents about it. This kid never did turn in the homework that was assigned, but he did write this. I was so enthralled, I'm thinking about giving him credit anyway.
Click on the photo to enlarge for readability.
and then of course you must read the back.
My favorite reason is in the middle, near the apparent bite-mark. "I will not be a secret-agent if I don't do homework."
Last week I had to confiscate a laptop from one of my 4th graders. It was distracting her. What was she doing in class instead of reading? Facebooking. This is what her self-made computer looked like. Notice she didn't X out fast enough before I caught her. That button must be stuck.
What you need to do is click on the image so you can view it in full size. This piece of paper was folded in half so that the screen was standing up and the keyboard was flat on the desk. These are the things you might notice:
She's on Facebook, of course, but her other open tab is YouTube.
She's listening to You Ain't Gonna Tie Me Down.
She looks a bit disgruntled in her profile picture.
She has 8 friends.
Her status is "I'm so bored," but I stole her computer before she could click share.
The friends who showed up in her news feed were Kelley and Melissa.
Two friends are online.
She's Facebook chatting with Marsha. The conversation reads:
hi.
hi.
what are you doing.
nothing, why.
just asking.
oh
Now let's take a look at her innovative keyboard. It has the numbers across the top, of course, along with Bakespace, which is a lot like backspace, except that you bake tasty cupcakes when you push it.
She has a non-qwerty standard keyboard. Instead, the keys are in alphabetical order.
There are arrow navigation keys.
My verdict? Facebook has its grips on even our youngest youth. They're thinking about it even when they aren't near a computer.
I kept thinking about this, about how I could forge Beautifully Broken and Crescendo together. When a chandelier meets a music note, I wondered, what happens? And what does this have to do with me? And where does God fit into this? Sadly, most people who write poetry on blogs run the risk of sounding like a sappy goon. But I figured it didn’t really matter.
Maybe you remember reading "Nobody does detective work like I do," where I told you about how some major jerk backed into my car in the parking lot and fled the scene of the crime without leaving their contact info. So then I had to do extensive detective work, which I am quite proud of, though I had to stop my investigation due to lack of access to Walgreen's computer system and the refusal of Knife River Construction to hand over their employee roster.
I never caught the culprit, but my car is in the shop getting fixed. For 9 days. My insurance policy doesn't cover rental cars, so I sweet talked my sister into letting me drive her car. I normally drive a '98 Toyota Corolla, so I gained a lot of cool points driving this:
What I didn't realize is that this car has like, twelve blind spots. You literally see nothing but seat and black frame when you turn your head to look over your left shoulder to switch lanes. It's a miracle I didn't side-swipe anybody. When I drove this car, I parked as far away from other people as I could, because I knew backing up would be an issue. But I looked cool, right?
I was supposed to get my car back on my birthday last Friday and pay my $300 deductible to the shop. Happy Birthday to me, right? Well I called the body shop and they told me it wouldn't be ready until Tuesday. I informed my sister of the situation and she was getting upset since she was driving her husband's truck 40 miles to work everyday and it was being a gas hog. So what I did was call my mom to see if she could help me out somehow. She kindly suggested I drive my grandma's old station wagon, which my father recently acquired for $1000. Nobody was actually driving it, so it would work out great. So now I'm driving this:
I call it The Wagon, of course, and any cool points I racked up from driving the silver coupe disappeared when I sat behind the wheel of this thing. At first I was like "No problem, I've got loads of disguises I can wear while I'm driving it." Then I realized that all my disguises are still in the glove box of my car, which is still at the shop, along with both pairs of my sunglasses. Everybody should really keep a few disguises in their car, in case they need to elude creepers or mafia members. Or in case you're trying to get really close to Robert Pattinson when he visits Seattle, which I have personally never done.
So now I'm driving The Wagon, which has like, zero blind spots because it's all windows, which means everybody can see who is driving it. It's like a fish aquarium on wheels. I'm trying to just embrace it. I drove it for the first time on Sunday afternoon. It was all dusty inside, and the lights on the dash don't work, so I never know if I'm putting it into drive or reverse because I can't see. Thanks a lot, daylight savings. Also, you should know that I heard rumors of a mouse nest in the radiator or something (but my dad cleaned it out).
But the really great part about driving this station wagon is that my grandma left her Swiss polka cassette tapes in there. So I'm currently listening to "Echoes From Helvetia," which is fine, because my dad's side of the family has a very strong Swiss heritage. In fact, Echoes From Helvetia was copyrighted in 1998 by the Grossen Family Band and The Helvetia Alphorn Trio, who are my dad's cousins. No wonder that yodeling sounded so familiar.
The actual alphorn trio. I found this image on Google, not the family photo album.
These people are fully my relatives. They're getting ready for the Swiss Parade.
Another feature of this vehicle is the blue handicapped parking window hanger that came with it. If I'm ever in a pinch to park, I can display that. It doesn't even expire until 2016.
There I am, feeling a bit goofy sitting behind the steering wheel, mostly because it is as large as the wooden wheel that a sea captain might stand behind. Plus, I could fit like, ten people in the station wagon if I tried. Probably more.
I was driving to school and I thought to myself "I wonder if this is what my boss feels like everyday," because he totally has a white station wagon. We're like twins right now. Except that I'm not over 40 or balding. But I'm wondering if he gets as big of a kick out of driving his station wagon as I do. He probably doesn't, because he's not listening to Volksmusikanter while he's driving.
1cre·scen·do noun\krə-ˈshen-(ˌ)dō the peak of a gradual increase
As the cold November rain falls outside my window, as it hits the pavement in my driveway, I think to myself, "I need my life's crescendo to be here." Because my life's been a piece that's been played way too slowly and way too softly. I want that excitement of a crescendo. The anticipation is killing me.
There's nothing like the drums beating loudly, the piano echoing through the room, and all of the strings playing at once. It's a burst of beauty. You cannot describe crescendo accurately with words, because there is something that happens inside your heart when you hear it. But the more I think about it, the more I think "what happens after the crescendo?" Usually after the peak, things start to slow down and soften again. And then it ends on a coda.
I'm not sure crescendo is the right thing at this moment. It will be lovely and beautiful when it happens, but maybe I still need to practice for it. A bit of more time spent reading the music, you know? But I'm ready to move forward, past these measures I've been stuck on. This is where the tempo quickens. I can hear the metronome ticking. I'm going to start playing faster now. And louder. The 24th measure has been completed.
The crescendo has been composed, I know. It has been written. I'm getting there. I guess I just need to keep listening.
1) Red Velvet's new store. I wish I could travel to Springfield, Missouri just so I could actually go inside, mostly so I can buy one of those vintage typewriters. Also, to meet Elsie. Do you see the little "Up" dollhouse? Beautiful place.
2) Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Okay, so after that Cheese Touch post, I thought I'd look into it more. I have my kids read to me a few pages of their books, and when I get to a student reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid, I always laugh. On Thursday the part a kid read to me was how "Shel Silverstein is an author who wrote poetry for kids, but he looks more like a bearded burglar." I watched the Wimpy Kid Movie last Friday night. I'd check out the books from the library and read them in full, but there are a zillion holds. So I'll probably just have to buy them. My kids keep asking why we don't have Wimpy Kid books in our class library anyway. I'm like 2.5 years late jumping on this band wagon, but whatever.
3) Pumpkin pie with lots of Cool Whip. It's like Thanksgiving every time I taste a bite. It also reminds me of my great-grandma, and how she'd bake pies every Thanksgiving and she'd hold me in front of the fire and we would look for fire creatures in the logs together. Fire creatures are like cloud creatures, but better, because every time the logs break or burn through, something new transforms right in front of your eyes. It's also a lot more cozy. I think of her every Thanksgiving. Miss you, Grammy.
4)Audacity. Already wrote a post about how I'm learning to use this, but I feel the need to reiterate how awesome it is. I feel like I need to make a cartoon and narrate it now or something. Plus, make my voice sound two octaves lower.
5) Sleeping At Last. I'm majorly behind on their music, as I'm still listening to their October songs from Yearbook, and it's now November. Also, I need to catch up on all of the other albums they've ever done. But I'm liking what I'm hearing.
And how gorgeous is all the artwork done by Geoff Benzing?
Here is a link to the November song, Emphasis, and if you are reading this post on November 11th, then watch ABC's Private Practice tonight (or later on-line), because one of their songs is supposed to be featured on it.
6) Typewriters. Okay, so I've been liking them for a good while. Sadly, I don't own one. If I could have this one I would just die of happiness.
While at the gym today, I listened to the song "Blue" by Eiffel 65, in which the main lyrics are: I'm blue da ba dee da ba die...Maybe you remember it. This song reminded me of how, when I was 14 years old, I decided it would be a good idea to create a new nickname for myself. I was going to start high school in a few months and was pretty much the new girl, so people wouldn't know if I had gone by that name since birth or not. My nickname of choice? Blue.
Oh god I was a moron. But my sister was partly to blame. We came up with this idea because my middle name is Jean and we were like "Blue Jean, hahaha". The other large factor going into the stupendously stupid nickname idea was the fact that 90% of my wardrobe consisted of baby blue t-shirts. I was a fiend for the color. So our plan was that my sister (who already went to that school) would call me Blue, and it would catch on. Thankfully, I grew some more brain cells over the summer or something, because I decided to keep my regular name upon entering high school.
However, sophomore year I tried to really embrace the French-ness of my name, and started writing it Joélle. You'd think the accent would help the morons who pronounced my name Joel-lee. It didn't.
Let's backtrack though, to some other nicknames, the ones I was and am actually called. I was Jo Jo until I was seven years old. I remember the day I discovered my name was actually Joelle. I was in the kitchen with my mom, sitting in front of the microwave, probably watching my mac and cheese revolve under the lights. My sister was asking how to spell her middle name (Kathryn is very difficult) and I asked my mom what my full name was. When she said "Joelle," I was shocked. I said it a few times, to test it out on my lips. It felt funny. I remained Jo Jo for a long time after, so long in fact, that I remember receiving a birthday check from my aunt the day I turned 14, and it was written out to Jo Jo.
My favorite nickname is Joey, and it's probably because that's what another dear aunt of mine calls me (to this very day). I like it also because of the "y" , which is a term of endearment, like how in Spanish you might add "ito" or "cito" to a name. You know, Pablo becomes Pablito, Abuela becomes Abuelita, etc. It's like saying Jessy instead of Jess, or Grammy instead of Grandma. Basically, it sounds like you are loved.
Somewhere during my adolescence my family decided to endear me less, because I became Jo. I am Jo all the time. Which is fine, but it seems so very plain. It's the shortest nickname I have, so I guess if you are trying to call for me from across the house, it's effective.
In college I once had the nickname "Stretch" for two weeks. The guy who gave it to me thought he was being clever because I am only 5 feet tall. But I'm pretty sure he called me that because he thought I was cute, him being 6' 3" and all.
Once, while in Mexico, I took on the moniker of "Super Model Poncho" due to my awesome see-through-plastic-outerwear that saved me during the daily torrential downpours in Morelia.
The name I hear most often now is "Teacher." Teacher teacher, look! Teacher, I need help. Teacher, can I go to the bathroom. Teacher, he hit me. Teacher teacher teacher.
But at least no one refers to me as one of the primary colors.
I just love the settings and the gorgeous styling done in this music video by The Honey Trees. The song is called To Be With You. My favorite prop is the glowing tent. I also am now craving a vintage suitcase to carry around with me. Though instead of toting a guitar on the other arm, I'd probably be lugging around an old Royal typewriter.
So I had this dream...Wait right there. I know what you're thinking. Is Joelle really going to tell me all about the wacko dream she had last night where she was flying and then met James Franco on top of the Sphinx in Egypt? But he turned out to be someone from high school instead? No. I'm not. I'm merely giving you some background information, mainly so you know that I was in my subconscious.
This is what happens: I'm dreaming, and in my dream I have to do a bunch of sit ups and push ups. And then I finish and I'm sitting up, and someone (very handsome who will remain anonymous) puts his arm around me and asks "Are your arms sore?" What I do is cuddle up next to him and say "No. My soul is sore." Which is pretty much true, but I'm a bit surprised that my subconscious would come up with something like this. I mean, I'm asleep.
I dream a bit more and there's some ice, a dead body, a cardboard box, and a truck involved (sounds eerie but it really wasn't because previously mentioned handsome person was hugging me for most of it). Then I wake up and think.
My soul is sore.
Just like how my arms get sore after lifting when I either a) start lifting more weight or b) haven't lifted in a while, my soul gets a work out when a) the burden begins to weigh more or b) I haven't had to deal with stuff for a while.
My soul is sore.
I suppose I should look at this positively, because it means I'm actually working my soul out. It's not sitting around, eating puffy Cheetos and becoming flab. Here's the thing about being sore: you feel weak and your body aches for a time, but when you try lifting the burden again, you'll find you've gotten stronger after your recovery. Sore souls mean strengthened souls. I mean, don't they?
But here's where I'm at: the aching stage. I'm not in recovery. I am not strong. Though I will hopefully get there some day.
A few weekends ago I picked up a super nasty gold painted frame from Goodwill for $2.99. We're talking so hideous that even some out-of-fashion grandma decided it was too ghastly to keep in her house. I fixed it to look like this:
I think turquoise makes anything look better
What's handy about the clothes pin design is that I can change the photos out easily and frequently. Because, you know, I have lots of friends and have to replace their faces often in order to keep track of who I know.
Another crafty venture I took on was this felt leaf garland for my dining area window. It took like all of 78 cents for materials. Which, you know, is surprising because it looks so expensively made.
Crafting things on the weekends is so much better than grading math tests.
So I am totally digging the audio recorder and editor that is Audacity. I downloaded it for free, so it might have a virus that I don't know about or something and it will ruin my computer very soon so I should probably back up all my files, but thus far I've been having a really fun time recording myself and changing my voice to be lower or higher in pitch (sounds super strange). I can also create echos, or make myself sound like a chipmunk, or I can reverse the audio so I sound super freaky like I speak in tongues or something.
The whole reason I got Audacity was so I could record books for my students onto CDs. I haven't recorded any books for them yet, but I have been practicing. Here is my first read-along. It goes with the post I wrote awhile ago called "A True High School Story." What you need to do is push the cute little play button and listen as you follow along with the text. As I tell my students, when you are listening and watching the words, you are practicing your one-to-one correspondence, visual tracking skills, and you are listening to modeled fluency and expression. So enjoy.
A True High School Story
I'm fifteen years old, a sophomore in high school, sitting in 4th period biology class. I sit in the center, third desk back, far enough away that Mr. Flemming's* spit can't reach my face. Mr. Flemming always spits when he talks. And he talks a lot, mostly about living creatures and cells and spinal cords, because duh, it's biology and not ceramics, which you'd think is easy but everyone I knew who took it all got Cs. Mr. Flemming does another thing a lot. He pits out. Every day. He wears these long sleeved striped or plaid printed shirts in neutral tones, and everyday I watch as his pits turn yellow. It's really disgusting and can't be helped, on account of how much arm waving he does, like when he sings the Cell Bugaloo. For someone who knows so much about how living things grow and develop, you'd think he'd know more about perspiration.
One thing he does that drives me insane is say "when you run down the basket ball field" or "when you are on the football court." And I'm not even an athlete. I bet it drives the football players in our class mad. I can visualize the steam coming from Parker's ears. Even though Mr. Flemming is kind of gross in an awkward biology teacher sort of way, I like his class. I like his class for two reasons.
Reason #1: He grades on a curve. And okay, not to brag or anything, but I set the curve. It's really the only thing I'm good at. I'm not a soccer girl, or an ASB girl, and I don't get cast very often in plays even though I try out, but I totally set the curve in biology. People always get mad because usually I get 99% or something, and that doesn't help them out much if they haven't studied, but I don't let them know I set the curve. I keep all my tests private and don't brag about it to anybody. But they found out it was me by February. They're like "who is 002646 and why do they always score so high?" By process of elimination, they found out it was me.
Reason #2 why I like biology: Jake* is in my class. I've had a crush on Jake since freshman year. He's got these gorgeous cerulean eyes and a good sense of humor. Right now he sits behind me in class. Having the guy you like sit behind you in class is not nearly as good as having him sit in front of you, and here's why. When Jake sits behind me, I have to think about if he's watching me chew on my pencil or if my butt crack is showing even though I am fully wearing underwear and have tucked in my shirt, and I get really self-conscious. When Jake is sitting in front of me, then I can stare at the back of his ears and watch him instead.
Jake's nice, but I am fairly certain he is using me. He asks me for answers on worksheets, and he thinks I'll know because I set the curve and everything, but here's the thing of it: I can't do my homework in class. There is no way I can concentrate with him there, staring at me, waiting for an answer. I have to think about these things.
So there I am, Tuesday morning, right before lunch. Mr. Flemming has given us some dumb worksheet, and we have seven minutes to start it before class gets out. The class is quiet, and then Jake whispers to me "hey Joelle, what did you get for number five?" I look down at my paper, and by some miracle I actually have the answer already, even though I have a Greek god sitting behind me and can barely concentrate. Without looking at Jake, I lean back to whisper my response, only, he had been leaning forward and I didn't know it so we accidentally bump heads. Of course it becomes the most exhilarating moment of my life since last year when Jake and I had English together and he complimented my poem on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
My mouth turns dry but somehow I manage to say "I think it's arthropods." Which you know, is really romantic. And that's it really.
Jake says "Oh hey, that's what I was thinking?" Was he? And two minutes later the bell rings for lunch.
The next day I'm sitting in class trying to shield my eyes from Mr. Flemmings stained pits when I start to day dream about if we had an armed intruder drill. There's this tiny back room, more of a closet really, and in the first week of school Mr. Flemming told us that if there is an armed intruder drill, we are all supposed to smash into the supply closet, because our classroom has so many windows and we could be machine-gunned down. It doesn't seem like an entirely safe bet, that back room, considering that is where the formaldehyde drenched dead cats are (in the freezer, but still).
Pretty soon my mind starts to wander more, and I think, what if it's not a drill, what if it's real? What if we have to be crammed in that closet for two hours or something while the police try to catch the psycho, and I am in there squished next to Jake? Or maybe there are bullets and Jake shields me from them. Or maybe we'll be so crammed in that closet that I'll have to like, press myself into his chest so my leg doesn't get shot to smithereens or something. Or maybe Jake gets shot and I have to apply pressure with gauze. Mr. Flemming is probably talking about mitosis or blastocytes or whatever, and I'm wishing that one of the drama kids would lose his marbles and come seeking revenge so that I could be stuck inside the supply closet with Jake. Well, Jake and the 27 other kids in class. Plus Mr. Flemming. With my luck, in all the chaos I would get squished next to Mr. Flemming, nose right in those sweaty pits of his. For two hours. I shake the image from my head, try to snap back to reality.
There I am, fifteen years old. Wearing a retainer because I just got my braces off, sitting in biology class with a boy I ache to be friends with, and I can't do anything. I can't flutter my eyelashes, or say something witty, or impress him with soccer skills, or talk about snowboarding or anything, because all I can do is one thing. I can set the curve.
*names have been changed for my protection, not theirs.
Author John Green shared this link to some images people have created in connection to a quote of his from the book Looking For Alaska (which I recommend reading, despite its controversy in public schools). Here are some of my faves:
I once dated 70 guys in one night. And none of them called me after. I blame my epic failure to date during college on the Student Activities Board, hereinafter referred to as SAB. Let me tell you about it.
During freshman orientation week, the university had planned a ton of get to know you activities so that we could make friends and feel at home. One of them was "play fair" where you run around the gym like an idiot. Another was the new student week dance, which all upper classmen refer to as "the hump fest," and then there was speed dating.
I tried to get my roommate to attend speed dating with me, but she didn't want to for some reason (which was really odd, because of the two of us, she definitely seemed more likely to attend). I can't believe I had enough courage to go alone. So I get to the student center where there's like 200 people waiting in line, popping Listerine strips and practicing their smile. There were so many students, they had to shut the doors and promise a second session in an hour. But I got in.
There I am, sitting in front of these guys, telling them my 40 second life story. We were given this sheet of paper and we were supposed to mark down the numbers of the people we liked. Top secret, you know? To avoid that awkward "I like you but, oh wait, you don't like me back?" thing. The people on SAB would then go through the next week and see if there were any matches. If the guy also liked you, he would have put your number down, and you'd live happily ever after.
So there I am. Same basic schpeel most of the time. What city are you from? What's your major? What do you like to do in your free time? Blah blah blah. I think I marked down like 6 prospects. One of them I soon thought to be gay (see the story "He's not gay after all"), one of them ended up becoming a good friend of a friend, and the other two I can't remember.
That leaves one. Probably the only reason I remember him is because he had a Superman symbol tattoo on his bicep. We talked about it. He was blond. He was also probably in love with me, but our future love was foiled by the cunning members of SAB.
Because I checked my mailbox for three weeks after, and no results ever showed. Not even a "sorry, but nobody liked you at all" message. I don't know if any of the guys whom I speed-dated that night liked me or not. They probably thought I didn't like them, because they never got a match confirmation in their tuna-can-sized university supplied mailbox. So they never talked to me again.
Thus, the course of my life was forever changed. I mean, heck, maybe I would have been married to Superman-tattoo-guy by now if SAB had actually finished what they started and sent out the matches. What I think happened was they got so overwhelmed by how many people showed up that the task of going through the paperwork afterward seemed monumental. So they didn't do it. Should have thought of that before you told everyone to secretly write down their crushes. I mean, what SAB should have done was say "if you find someone you like, make sure you get their contact info." Or like, follow them to their dorm residence after so at least you know where they live (this was before stalking people on Facebook became popular). But they didn't. We all thought we were being super stealth speed daters.
And now there are like, 432 people walking around wondering what could have been. Or at least, there is one.
