Another blurp:

I'm still trying to get used to the 'workroom'.  Calling it by that name implies there is room to work.  Not the case.  There is a good sized table set against the wall opposite the stairs.  The problem is the table is full of office supplies.  On the right hand side of the table is our lamanator, which takes up almost a third of the table.  Next to that in the middle of the table toward the back are small wooden storage bins containing paperclips, rubber bands, pens, markers, and an assortment of other office products.  In front of that is a small space to work.  On the left hand side of the table is the paper cutter and the binding machine.  Using these two takes an act of juggling because there is no space between then, the binding machine needs to be moved to cut paper.  The paper cutter scares me.  The guard on the blade has long since disappeared so I always try to avoid having to move it or even lift the blade very high.  I am afraid it will come thundering down on my fingers.  The space is tight but manageable.  What makes if impossible to work on is all of the stuff that gets piled on the table.  In a rush to get back to class, other staff sacks piles of papers, magazines, and other materials on the table with an optimistic hope of returning and putting the piles away.  Once again, not the case.
Tonight I am down here binding stories that some of my students put together this afternoon.  They were excited to finish their stories that were going to be shared with family members in a few weeks at an open house, and begged me to finish them before the next day.  So here I am, once again accompanied only by materials and the creatures of the basement.  The other teachers have a habit of flying through their after school duties and heading out.  I don't mind some much though.  I like the quietness and the fact that I am alone.  Often at my old school I would be alone.  The difference is about a  few thousand square feet.  The buildings I am working in would fit in one pod of my old building.  I was never afraid though.  Many times I found myself there in the middle of the night.  I found comfort in the silent, vast emptiness of the hallways lit only by emergency lighting, and the blackness that met the windows and doors.  I never liked a lot of light.  I would sit in my room with only a small lamp casting but a glow on my table- just enough light is what I like best.  The only time I can remember ever being frightened was walking into the back door early one morning, there were no other cars in the parking lot which was usually the case, and the elevator opened.  I stood frozen, my stomach was about to jump out of my chest as I waited for the doors to fully open.  Finding nothing, my nerves settled down.  Weird I thought.  Later that day I found out from another teacher who was in the habit of showing up early that it happens all the time.  Once or twice I actually said goodnight to the night cleaning crew as they left for the evening.  This only happened during report card time- I concentrate best when alone.

From the new inspiration:

I stood downstairs in the basement with only school materials for company.  All the other teachers had gone home and I stayed to finish up work I needed for the next day.  The basement was small and made me feel claustrophobic.  It was a typical basement that I remember from my childhood.  I grew up living in older houses where the basement smelled musty and old.  I felt the dampness on my skin.  Spiders had made their webs in the exposed floor joists above.  A light bulb dimly lit the room, it looked as though the old black soft material wire was dripping a dying star; turning so that I could catch the small glow.  I wondered how there weren't more electrical fires in old houses caused by the careless wiring.  This was the work room.  It wasn't anything like the place I was used to working.  I came from a school that provided a large open room that looked like a office supply store.  It was well stocked and we were never in need.  I was getting use to the change, even though it was costing me to buy what I needed.

I have been inspired!  Finally after many years of self-doubt and driving myself crazy, I have an idea.  I am sticking to my favorite style to write, personal narrative, but it's going to be fiction.  I figure that I will offend people but hay, that is for you to figure out if I am truly attempting to offend you or simply pointing out the truth as it appears.  I will continue to post my progress and maybe add some snippets.  So far tonight I have updated my blog from the University of New England's old email address to a current email address that I am going to use for my writing.  Here it goes, feel free to contact me:  inmatthewswords@gmail.com.

Writing

I was once told in a workshop that in order to be a great writer I must write everyday.  I agree, but have failed in such endeavors.  I need to carve time out of my day (or night) to begin building my book that I need to finish.  Why, because many years ago I said I was going to write a book.  My soul cannot rest until this is finally finished and I can move on with life, satisfying that once spoken claim.  So, this winter I will will create a manuscript for my book.  What happens to it, it doesn't matter.  I simply need to get it out of my soul.

Death's Cold Hand

Peace, Peace, longing for death's cold hand,
Come, come, take me where I stand.
An old widow languidly dies,
No one there, no one who cries.

Stranded, forlorn, tired and ready,
Her wrinkled hand no longer steady.
Quiet was the evening she made her flight,
Gone away, out of mortal sight.

The clock continued to tick,
She lied there steady as a stick.
People outside around conversed,
Death proceeded as if rehearsed.

All through life lived with pride,
Now empty at her side.
Like a quick little wink,
Life eludes her, a broken link.

Slowly, slowly, welcome it with ease,
Come, come, take me please.
Futile and vain to make a stand,
There is no elating death's cold hand.

Time

Sitting with my gaze upon the candle,
A sentry of dripping time.
The new falling over the old; replaced.
A towering flow of time and patience.
Each drop plotting its own course,
Never repeating simply crossing.
The colors blend like an old painters palette,
Stained from his sundry works.
Touched and it burns fleetly,
Unevenly, creating anomalous flow,
Leaving scars and pieces to never burn.
Wax pooling at the peak, waiting for its time,
To make its journey down across the past,
To make its own mark upon time.
Coming to an end, knowing it may have but
A short time to illuminate its glory before fading away
By the next, but knowing it has a task,
As another cascades over the edge.
Time passes at the burning of a candle.

FINISHED!

My last post was about the research part of my masters. Well, it is finished! I have completed my research and I am finished with my masters. May 22nd is graduation and unfortunately I will not be able to attend because it is in Maine. Oh well! What am I going to do now...well I want to continue posting to this blog and read. I am in the middle of the Uglies series by Scott Westerfeld. I am currently reading Pretties. Great series. Just enough science fiction to make it interesting but not enough to get me going to conventions. I will post a review as soon as I am finished with it. As of now, I am just enjoying my free time that I have found once again. It is great to be able to read what ever I want, when ever I want.

What's going on now

I have just begun the final installment of my masters degree. For the next 15 weeks I will be focusing on action research. My topic...writing of course. Since I have a passion for it, I would like my class to have a better appreciation for it. Writing is an area that most people struggle with. Since there is a need for better writing, I am going to do all I can to help each of my students become a better writer.

An Ode to H1N1

Everyday fearless teachers,
Walk into their classrooms,
Knowing that it lurks about.
But no matter, teachers
Breaks not a sweat,
For teachers know
What needs to be done.

Door knobs, drinking fountains
Desks, sinks, balls, computers,
Markers, pencils crayons,
Chairs and children
Are where it is found.
But it won’t stop teachers
From coming around.

One of These Guys Is Not the Same

I awoke one delightful Saturday morning to do my imitation of a lumber jack. Why did I decide to do this, it was for a good cause, my church needed help cutting down three dead trees. Ok, so I’m not what you would call a get outside, get your hands dirty, grunt- grunt, smash a beer can on your head, lumber jack type. The only thing I know about a chainsaw is that it can cut your leg off if you’re not careful but if used properly it can quickly bring down a tree. Oh sure I know there are skeptics out there who would crinkle their foreheads and ask in a demeaning and sarcastic tone, “You?” But I appreciate those who have more confidence in me who would give me a reassuring smile and say, “That’s very nice of you, always good to try something new.” So this is a tail of my attempt to impersonate a lumber jack.
As I prepared for this new undertaking, I scanned my closet for the proper attire. Wanting to fit in, I needed to dress like a lumber jack. Finding my flannel shirt I thought, Ah, perfect. Doesn’t the lumber jack on Brawny paper towels wear a flannel shirt? Then I remembered back to the night before as I was watching the evening news- HOT I recalled. Here in lies the critical decision that I had to make at that point: properly cover my arms to protect them from wild tree branches and look like a lumber jack or comfort. This turned out to be a tough decision. I wanted to look like a lumber jack, but maybe I could let the lumber jack attire slide. Protecting your arms or sweating in blistering 90 degree heat with 56 percent humidity. (Yes, I know. All of you easterners are thinking, “56 percent humidity! That’s nothing.” Well, when you move out west to something called ‘dry heat’ your perspective drastically changes!).
Passing through the kitchen I thought, Forget breakfast, I’ll pick up donuts for everyone. Stop right there, that should have been a clue that something wasn’t right. Real lumber jacks would have fried up a dozen eggs, a side of pig, pancakes and washed it all down with a pot of coffee. Then again what did I know about lumber jack dietary habits? Doesn’t everyone enjoy a chocolate frosted, cream filled donut? Everyone except lumber jacks I discovered when I showed up at the church with a Starbucks iced coffee in hand- again, another obvious sign that something wasn’t right. When I announced that I had donuts everyone glared at me with a fully satisfied look that told me, “No thanks, there isn’t room next to our dozen eggs and side of pig.” Realizing that I had failed to eat the proper lumber jack breakfast, I sheepishly sat down and ate my donuts while drinking my coffee through a straw.
When I finished my breakfast, I looked around to see what I could do to help- it was obvious that I wasn’t going to handle a chainsaw. While trying to decide on how I could best be used, I made several observations. First, I was the only one driving a car- everyone else arrived in a truck. Second, I was the only one without a chainsaw. Third, I was the only one without gloves. To the average Joe logger wearing a pair of gloves comes naturally, but it’s me we’re talking about here, the inexperienced want-to-be lumber jack. On the scale of glove necessity I would probably rank picking up trash or demolishing a wall, (yes I have done that) higher than picking up tree parts. So of course I didn’t think much of asking for gloves until it was already too late. I didn’t even pick up three branches before I was wounded. Yes, those gloves would have come in handy- a nice long scratch across the back of my hand- it was at that time that handling trees moved up on my glove necessity scale. Not wanting to admit my failure to know the importance of gloves on the job in front of the others, I simply looked down at it, shrugged my shoulders and moved on. This choice turned out to be the correct lumber jack response because everyone gave me their grunt-of-approval.
Finally the trucks were loaded- I managed to dodge more embarrassing wounds- and it was time to tie the branches down. Trying to move away from the trucks as quickly as possible, my worse fear was soon realized when someone threw the rope over the top of the branches and asked, “Matt, would you tie that down over there?”
I froze. Maybe I could pretend I didn’t hear him. But it was too late; the guy beside me asked if I was going to get that. “Sure,” I said incoherently while still frozen. “I mean, of course,” I tried to sound more like a lumber jack. This was it; I couldn’t escape total embarrassment now. You see, I was never a Boy Scout and therefore, never learned how to tie knots- surely there are designated knot for the job; knots that were manly and would never come undone. Unfortunately the only way I know to truly secure a rope is to tie a double knot. The scene flashed through my head a dark room with only a spotlight in the middle of a circle of chairs full of sorry looking men with their heads down in shame. I stand up slowly, head still bowed and with every ounce of dignity left I managed to get these words across my lips, “Hello, my name is Matthew and I do not know how to tie manly knots.” As I shamefully lowered myself back into my seat, the rest of the members of I’m Not Really A Man Because I Never Learned How To Tie Knots Anonymous- INRAMBINLHTTKA for short- pitifully greeted me, as though the sheer acknowledgement was going to strip them of what manliness they had left, with the sorriest “Hello,” you’ve ever heard. I turned around and quickly tied the two knots hoping that my lack of skill would go unnoticed. When I finished I quickly scanned the area, thankfully the person who was standing next to me earlier was gone now and no one was close by. I snuck out of there as quickly as possible so that I would not be associated with the wimpy, non-manly knot.
The short drive over to the tree’s final resting place was about a mile, but that was the longest self-actualizing mile I had every traveled. In the stillness of the cab I could sense the driver sizing-up my lumber jack manliness and the quiet and tension ostensibly cried out his findings. Oh sure I don’t have a beard and I wasn’t wearing a Harley Davidson t-shirt, ripped pants, steel toed work boots and a dagger on my belt but the goatee on my face, college t-shirt, nice jeans, tennis shoes and blackberry in my pocket had to count for something right? Ok, so I rated low on the lumber jack manliness looking scale- so what?
Unloading the tree limbs went rather quickly and we were back in the truck in no time, and not a word was said about the knots. Another dodged bullet! The only event that might have tipped anyone off of there not being anything right was my obvious observation that it stunk when we arrived. Was it the mounds of wet, moldy, decaying trees or the water treatment plant across the fence? Looking back I can’t say for sure, but either they didn’t hear me or were too offended to respond. Can you get cologne in eau de crap?
When we returned to work, we had one more tree to load. We were about half way through loading the tree when someone looked at me and asked if I wanted a pair of gloves. He told me he had an extra pair in his truck and would be happy to lend them to me. The first thought that crossed my mind was, Gloves, what real man needs gloves, but then I realized that I wanted to fit in, be a lumber jack, and obviously they wear gloves. “Sure,” I responded with a slight grunt in my voice.
The final tree was loaded, the work had ended and I was walking to my car humming the song from the children’s program Sesame Street, Three of These Kids Belong Together. It is obvious that my attempt to impersonate a lumber jack failed miserably and that I am not nor ever will be a lumber jack.