notes about blogging

I'm sitting in the dark right now with 30 teenagers and it isn't even weird.

We're blogging. The blinds are closed, and in other rooms:
teachers are droning. Students are taking notes. Tests, attendance, talking, whispering, silence, noise, everything, nothing. Teachers are going through PowerPoints. Don't forget guys, there's a test next time. Students are sleeping. Hearts aren't beating.

But somewhere, right now, a girl is checking her phone, hoping.

And we're doing the same thing.

We're alive. More alive than we were at this time yesterday. It's 1:26 and we're not even thinking about 2:15.

Each song is the right song. It's the right song.

Even though we're all alone in our own worlds, hiding behind our own screens, we've never been more connected than we are right now.

There's a girl reading her own blog. Yes, her own blog. She reads the 12 comments and then re-reads her own writing as if she's seeing it for the first time. Her readers made her do that.

Someone just realized that they aren't alone.

Today's Halloween. We're all dressed up. But for just a minute, we forget the paint we're wearing, the wigs, and the eyelashes. Even the masks. Our costumes are metaphors for so much more.

And in the middle of the room, a tourist sits alone. (He'll never read this, so it's okay. He won't realize he's alone.)

Twenty Paradoxes

1. Be yourself, be real, be honest, but you'll hide behind a pen name. 
2. Feel comfortable in class, but find your new seats.
3. Paris makes me feel both uplifted and bereft.
4. Be different, be indie, like these people.
5. My favorite art is happy and sad.
6. Connect with others (blogs) and be comfortable being alone.
7. Be original and steal from everyone.
8. Writing can't be taught, but it can be learned. (WTF?)
9. Should I be abstract (love) or concrete (bricks)?
10. Don't worry about what other people think. (Ha ha ha ha.)
11. We're all going to die, we're alive.
12. I won't judge your art: top 5.
13. I'm old (bald) and hip (rap).
14. I love my job, but I'm discontent.
15. I love my life, but I'm miserable.
16. Finding Paris in a crowded classroom in Highland.
17. Love/hate relationships with things.
18. The end of the football season is bittersweet.
19. You can be more than one thing, but you have to practice to be great.
20. love

My Utopian Classroom

 I'd be taller. Just like an inch or two. I don't know why.

We would sing and dance and rap and play games every day. There'd be sunshine (but not too much) and birds would be singing (but not too loud) and there'd be a soft breeze (very soft). My armpits would never sweat. I could wear basketball shorts every day and students would still take me seriously.

Students would take me seriously. They would hang on my every word. Like their life depended on it. Because it does. 

Every song I'd play would be perfect. Nobody would get distracted. Nobody would be offended. Nobody would need their own headphones. The music would never be too loud.

There would be no grades. No carrots. Just love. Desire. Hope. Patience. Water.

Students would love to read. And write. But not at first. Not too much. They would discover their potential in my class. Their success in school and in life would depend on my class. I want things to matter that much. 

I would be everyone's favorite teacher. But I wouldn't realize it until I was 70 and they all came back for my retirement party. A surprise party my wife put together. Even the mayor would be there. She was a struggling redhead only I could get through to. And my deaf son would finally understand me. (Okay, now I'm just describing Mr. Holland's Opus.) One day I would create an opus myself.

And they would make a movie of my life. How I gave up everything to become a teacher. How I saved the world. In the movie, I would be better looking, funnier, smarter, kinder, and the director would get it all wrong. But it would make my parents cry.

I would know every student's name. I would never forget them. They would all be worth remembering and I would have enough space in my brain for all of them. They would all invite me to their weddings, but they wouldn't actually expect me to show up.
 
Oh, and my fridge would work.

Home Free

Please forgive me for this post. I bite my nails and I have unresolved issues with my parents.

"I saw this picture of me playing basketball and I coulda swore it was you."-My Father

 I couldn't sleep last night because of the numbers going through my head.

1. My dad left when I was 8.
2. He was 33.
3. They were married for 12 years.

I took out my calculator and tried not to wake up my wife.

1. My son is 9.
2. I'm 34.
3. We've been married for 13 years.

[Audience exhales.] So that means we're safe, right? The children are safe. I can quit acting like my mother, now. Staying up all night, worrying about everything. That means nothing bad can happen to us now. It's all downhill from here, they say. Our hearts are wrapped in bubble paper and our memories are solid gold.

But every time I look in the mirror:

"You guys have the same walk. The same nose. The same laugh. The same last name. You have the same addictive personality. The same insecurities. You have the same relatives. The same sense of humor. The same family tree. The same DNA. You guys have the same problems. The same obsessions. The same destruction. The same regrets. The same everything."

Then why do I expect things to be different?

 
After I got married, my dad gave me some advice:
"Learn how to cook and do your own laundry. In case you guys ever get divorced."

Hindsight: Maybe he should've told me to treat her right instead. To be honest and true. To not make the same mistakes he did and maybe she'd never want to leave me in the first place. But it got me thinking.  

• Maybe everybody gets divorced eventually.
• Maybe leaves fall from trees every year just to prepare us.
• Maybe we all turn into our parents.

"It was always about to hit me."