my sore throat basically disappeared. maybe i do have witch powers. maybe it was a psychosomatic sore throat in response to the heavy heavy weight of my many worries. among them:
will i ever be really employed?
will i ever finish my school work in time?
what is the point of trying to teach people when i myself know roughly nothing?
will my check from the bank ever arrive in the mail or is it being stolen and forged by a master criminal?
what if i am a terrible writer?
what if i am unable to exist in the adult world?
what if i never have sex ever again?
what if there is a big disaster and i die?
what if there is a big disaster and my family dies?
what if we elect john mccain?
what if i never ride my bike again?
what if i get hit by a car?
what if i hit someone else with a car?
as you can see, there are plenty of reasons for a psychosomatic sore throat. when i was a kid, maybe from age 5 to 8 or so, i felt nauseous every single night. seriously. every night i thought,”i am going to throw-up” and i never ever did. this was psychosomatic nausea because i was worried about so many things:
what if a scary man snuck into my room and tried to murder me like on rescue 911?
what if i was electrocuted like the kid on rescue 911?
what if i was kicked in the head by a horse like the OTHER kid in rescue 911? (i only saw that show once.)
what if the nazis came back?
what if i was pregnant?
why did i kiss that boy at day camp by the tree?
what if i wasn’t good enough to be the first female professional baseball player in the world?
what if there was a big disaster and i died?
what if there was a big disaster and my family died?
i have a history of out-of-control worrying. it isn’t like the ONLY thing about me but it is a thing. i was about to write “it is a thing i can’t really help” but that is totally untrue. there must be some way to stop worrying. besides of course getting employed and rich. there must be a better way.
i used to write much better blogs about the exciting things that happened to me. today though not much happened. i finished a project at work. i have a nice place to work, though unstable because it is a work study job. but i have some of the best bosses in the universe probably. poets make good bosses or something. then i molded some young minds or pretended at least, by helping students critique each others’ stories. teaching is hard. it is hard to imagine why kids aren’t as excited about writing as i am, in the way i am. i said today, in what i thought was a leading way, “do you think to entertain people is a good enough reason to write stories?” and almost the whole group nodded yes. dang. too bad there are no wrong answers. it’s this whole thing i am learning about called “the lived curriculum.” i wonder if my old teacher keith still reads my blog. i would like to drink beer with keith and ask him about how he deals with being a teacher.
maybe he doesn’t drink beer anymore though.
after that i went on to my class about teaching kids literature and we all talked about how hard it is to make kids understand how awesome literature is. why don’t they see how awesome these things are? how can we convince them? how did i get convinced? it probably has something to do with emily of new moon and charlie and the great glass elevator. and the true confessions of charlotte doyle and all those holocaust books and i don’t know, little house in the big woods. oh and roots. also, why do we want to convince them? what is the point of literature anyway? so far as i can tell it just gives you more things to worry about. i mean, holy shit THE HOLOCAUST. and SLAVERY. and parents dying. and vermicious knids.
maybe that’s why you can’t just read, you have to write too. at least you have to write lists of the things you are worried about.
anyway it is getting past my bedtime. i haven’t thought about vermicious knids for months. thanks books. thanks a lot.