labelleizzy: (Default)
I'm supposed to have a list of goals for the therapeutic process. I did write some of them down, and I'll add them either here or in my bullet journal once I have my head in order.

I was thinking earlier today about jobs I've held, and my favorite job. And why it was my favorite job, and I wanted to break it down a little, in hopes of reproducing the conditions someday. In part or in whole.

this is the job I held for eight years and a bit.
it's the reason why every smartphone I've ever owned had "librarianing" added to the spellchecker.

I used to be a junior high school librarian.
I just wanna list the things that I loved about that job, because there's a lot of things I loved about it.
  • It had a regular daily schedule with rhythmic breaks in it.
  • ...but I got to choose my daily tasks, and when to do them.
  • High responsibility, low supervision, I got to determine when something was done.
  • some built in regular deadlines occurred weekly (overdue notices compiled and sent out)
  • some deadlines quarterly (grades for Library TA's), or at other calendar dates (budget deadlines, book ordering, etc)
  • Lots of time with people, specific agenda of helping people (students and staff both)
  • lots of time alone to do one on one tasks (repair, budget work, tidying)
  • Teaching. computers, dewey decimal, how to process books for circulation, some basic book repair, how to circulate books, how to pull records for books that were overdue, how to research, how to use the card catalog, how to find books you wanted... so many teaching opportunities, all in small groups, and NO GRADING.
  • I could take pee breaks as needed. That's a fucking luxurious situation to consider after teaching full time in a public school. I swear to god you can't get five minutes to pee, because it takes you 3-5 minutes to just walk to the other end of the school where the faculty bathroom is, and god help you if you're on your period or have to poop. it's *exhale* inhumane. actually.
  • Professional development funding.
  • Networking with the other librarians in the school district on a monthly basis.
  • Training to be a union site rep and shop steward, learning the history of unions in the USA
  • generally speaking, high interest high novelty work, high number of positive social contacts with students and staff. Decent respect from peers and students. Increasing responsibility the longer I was in the position.

  • There's more of course. Some damn wonderful people really made the difference for me in that job. They got me through the first six months after my dad died, with challenging, interesting work, taking care of tweenagers, teaching and helping and finding and fixing, sorting and throwing out and organizing and tidying. Always something that needed doing. Always something that MATTERED that needed doing.

    It's still MY library. In my heart it's still mine.
    I miss it. Actually.

    so I mean I want another job with some more of what that job had, without the soul deadening paperwork and jumping through hoops that teaching in the public school required.

    And really I want more of that in my life. I've been trying to find that, build that myself, but it's just been so crazy challenging on my own. I miss the community, the sense of rightness and purpose, the ability to HELP SO MUCH AND SO OFTEN SO MANY PEOPLE. I was proud of my work there. It was crazy and sometimes boring and wonderful and the kids were always so amazing and my co workers were always weird, wonderful, dedicated, amazing.


    I have more on this but this is a good starting place.
    I'll go make myself some dinner and dig into my homework reading pretty hard once I've eaten, take some notes to be ready for tomorrow.
labelleizzy: (Scotty)
Today's my little brother's​ deathaversary.
Mom called me a couple of minutes ago. I hadn't truthfully been thinking about it, or him, today...
I have such a good life now. This makes the ... No... TENTH anniversary. Shit. Shit.

I loved him but it feels like I barely knew him.
I don't know what to do with this right now, now it's brought to the surface. I'mma go be productive.
labelleizzy: (inherent worth and dignity)

After thirteen years of partnership, thousands of miles together, three teacher training weekend commutes over seven years, dozens of dance events, bbq's, picnics, clothing swaps, renfaires, goodwill and grocery and recycling runs, schlepping friends and family, trips to Tahoe and Burning Man, i relinquish my car Percy to a new phase of life. Singing along to the radio and CD's at the top of my lungs, (and chair dancing too). Talking out loud about my problems, worries, and concerns as though the car could hear me and respond. There were several truly *awesome* dates with epic makeouts in the back seat, including my first date after separating from the expouse where i lost that one diamond earring...

She ws scratched and scuffed (my fault and stupid mistake) but she was mine. My first nearly new car. The first car with payments. The first car that felt truly *safe* to drive, where i wasn't chronically worried about something breaking, or running out of gas, or how can i afford to make the repairs.
Percy was SECURITY. Percy was FREEDOM. Percy helped me achieve my goals and help hundreds of students.

Best car for my thirties. What a great car she was.

Im torn between wanting to chase down the tow truck driver and get her back and an ever increasing relief that she's now someone else's task and problem. She started enough this morning to drive 10 feet over to the tow truck so hopefully she will prove useful and bring a decent donation to the Big Brothers Big Sisters which is where we decided to donate the charity credit.

Oh. Having some feels about my car that isn't my car anymore. Brb, some dust in my eye.
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
Smoke Signals, from a prompt on @NaNoWordSprints (started 7/5/15, completed 7/9/2015)

Her efforts were all in vain. It was stupid of her to believe she could remember those ridiculous long ago lessons in woodcraft and firemaking. Despair struck Darla hard in the chest for a moment. She might not freeze to death, if she were careful, but she needed fire for light and to scare off predators larger than the mosquitoes and black flies that had been biting and pinching her for what felt like hours and hours.

How did she get separated from the rest of the women on the rafting trip? She let her hand drift to the welt at the back of her head that the black flies had been tormenting. Quite a knot there. She recognized her own disorientation, dizziness, and difficulty with balance as likely symptoms of concussion. Thank god she still had her canteen and her “batman utility belt” as her lover teased her. She had a good small knife, water purification tablets, and a weekend-plus-one’s dose of her medicines in a tiny orange waterproof matchholder, all firmly attached at her waist. If only Darla weren’t so beholden to “better living through modern chemistry, she’d still have MATCHES in the matchholder instead.
“You’re going on a rafting trip with a professional guide and half a dozen other forty-something women,” she mumbled out loud to herself, “YOU won’t need matches, the guide will be prepared!”
She took a short drink from the canteen.
“No, much better to use the waterproof container for your meds, it would make you miserable and risk your life if you got THOSE wet or worse, you’d inconvenience everyone else needing to get a helicopter lift out from the campground!”

She groaned and leaned away from the tree she’d propped herself against to slump forward, elbows on her knees and hands supporting her head. Darla hissed as her uncautious fingers poked the large, sluggishly bleeding lump behind her right ear. It was very tender, as she already knew from allowing her giant head to thump back against the tree trunk earlier. She hoped it was just a bad bruise and a bit of a cut, actually cracking her skull seemed a bit much even for a klutz like herself.
Read more... )
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
Pavel stamps his feet into the too-large snow boots and wraps the warm muffler tightly around his neck. Even at seven, and small for his age, he knows better than to forget anything that will help conserve body heat out in the deep taiga forest.

Papa is waiting.

Pavel buttons up his coat (also too large) and checks for his mittens and hat in the coat pocket, taking a last deep breath of the warm air in the cabin as he fumbles for the door latch, hands eager and his heart in his throat.

Papa is taking him hunting.

The snow is crisp, crunching beneath his boots, the air sharp in his nose and throat, the light reddish and dim through the thick branches. Pavel is proud to finally be big enough for Papa to bring him here, to the family cabin, to learn what Chekovs for generations have come to the forest to learn.

Papa is huge and dark in the dim light of dawn, the old fashioned projectile rifle held loosely at his elbow, barrel pointed down.

"Always pointed down, my Pavel, always down and away from other people, until it is time to take aim at your target," rumbles Papa's deep voice in Pavel's memories.

Papa this morning is silent, but his white teeth flash bright in the dark bushy beard. Papa always grows his beard out strong and thick to be ready for the long Siberian winters. There is no ice in his beard yet, but it is only October, after all.

Papa tips his head, a glint in his eyes, and Pavel grins. Though Papa cannot see his mouth behind the warm thick muffler, eyes smile as brightly as mouths do.

Ivan and Stepan have hinted that today, words will not be necessary. Today, all day, he and Papa will watch, will walk, will eat in silence.

If the right moment comes, Papa will pass the rifle to Pavel, will help steady his aim, will brace his shoulder against the recoil of the antique weapon.

This is his most important birthday ever. Pavel is eager to do well, to make his Papa proud.

He and his Papa turn and walk toward the sun, into the deep forest. Chekovs together, silent, focused, and determined.

This is my entry for Week 15 of [ profile] therealljidol. The week's prompt was "Chekov's Gun" and yes, I went there. Sue me. =)
Link to the poll for voting will be IS HERE, please feel free to explore other entries for the week at the elegant and finely-crafted link HERE.
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
I've been thinking for the last few years, that attention is the rent we pay for being in relationship, for being in community.

It was never such a privilege to pay attention as it was, many years ago, when I was teaching high school reading and drama classes, and became the advisor for the Improv Comedy Club. Thinking back, I marvel at the quick wit and facility with ideas, language and expression that these teenagers had. How fluent and adaptable they were to performance situations where anything could change (and did) with the drop of a word or addition of a new gesture!

Nick was a wiry, nervous Italian looking kid, earnest and new to the Improv team, often half-a-beat late with his responses, or just this side of awkward, in its own kind of funny. Mariel was a comic genius, with a rounded buxom figure, huge brown eyes and an impressive range of physical expression, and she could also get really LOUD in all the good ways. Tawd was clever, almost effortlessly funny both onstage and off, and a deceptively mellow, slow voice. He's the reason I acquired a nickname among the drama classes, and I remember him fondly for that. Aliza was slim, sly, sarcastic, with a drawling kind of vocal delivery that could quicksilver turn to something manic and panicked if the character called for it. Lucas was tall, with what his friends teased him was "emo kid hair", at that gangly teenage stage where his every gesture seemed floppy, but he sure knew how to use that puppety-ness to his advantage, like a Tim Burton character. Brandon was short and compact. He had a deep voice that belied his small frame, and an onstage poise and speed on the uptake that was nothing short of marvellous. Adam was blond, almost with ringlets, and our tech guy when he wasn't onstage. He was ridiculously silly and ridiculously smart, and I still remember one skit where he was spontaneously, slowly, somersaulting around the stage for no apparent reason.

They were all, every one of them, hilarious, but Parker felt like the ringleader. That kid... well. Damn, that kid was a force to be reckoned with. Sandy sort of dishwater brown hair (and I'm not just saying that because he had a positive TALENT for pissing me off), a nondescript sort of everyman face, and sleepy-looking hooded eyes, he was an absolute fucking chameleon onstage, with a rubber face and a skill at vocal characterization that reminded me of the young Jimmy Stewart. He's the one who I remember (with Mariel and Tawd) as starting the club and teaching the other kids all the improv games. He had a very strong personality, and he pushed hard to get the team members to practice all the different kinds of games and to get them in shape for competitive Improv Comedy events with other schools.

Parker was so funny and occasionally so bizarre... I remember how impressed I was with how much he knew about comedy and improvisation. I was brand new to the drama gig, and I don't mind at all saying that I learned virtually everything I know about improv and theater games from these kids. From Highway Patrol to New Choice, tongue-twisters and physical warmups, their speed and sarcasm and joy and silliness just delighted me. I would watch from the audience space and sometimes grade papers as they worked and played and tried new things, always new things, even with the old games they all knew well.

Building characters and scenes with zero stage props or maybe only hats or scarves or a couple of chairs from the audience is what made me think of them when I saw this week's prompt. These kids? I could imagine them EASILY getting a "confession from the chair." You'd be laughing at the one-sided conversation, imagining the chair's responses, and then cheering as the chair is dragged offstage. Of course, there'd be implications that a well-deserved beat-down will happen once the chair is in lockup.

It was a privilege to pay the rent there, to be on the sidelines watching the worldbuilding these kids could do in the blink of an eye. I got no call to be proud of them, I didn't teach them anything. They did it all themselves, but I'm proud of them nevertheless. It was a pleasure to know them.

I hope they are all still finding joy in words and connection and their own quick minds, making creative and subversive things in the world, and messing with people's heads.

This has been my entry for [ profile] therealljidol . This week's prompt was, as I mentioned, "Confession from the Chair."

Here is a link to one place you can find short descriptions of improv comedy games, you can also google "theater games" or improv games if you would be interested in learning more. Also I recommend comedysportz san jose as an example of improv comedy as a hell of a lot of fun for an evening's entertainment. (hmmm, I need to get out and see that again sometime soon!)


Oct. 2nd, 2007 07:13 pm
labelleizzy: (happy family)
I've been thinking about my brother a lot the last few days. Nothing like the onset of fall for remembering; to me the crisp cool weather and the grey skies just trigger sad, thoughtful retrospection.

Mom called tonight.

She said that Sarah, Scotty's wife, has made the decision to scatter Scotty's ashes and did it early early early yesterday morning. One factor was that Judy, Sarah's mom, was due to return to her own home, after an extended visit of support and love.

Another factor was that, for Sarah, it just felt right.

Mom reinforced in the phone call with Sarah and Judy earlier today, that it was Sarah's call, that while Jen and mom and I might have had our opinions and wishes, Sarah knew what he'd wanted, and that's exactly what she did.

you have three guesses as to where Sarah went yesterday morning at 5 am to scatter Scotty's earthly remains.

Read more... )

Rest in peace, Coach.
labelleizzy: (Default)
I wrote the following for the Writer's Circle Mario started up this year. I had some trouble moving out of autobiographical writing style (too many years journalling, I guess) and into fiction.
Technically, it's untitled, but it's saved as,
"His ashes are still in a box..."

Read more... )
more anon. Still waiting to hear about when the SN&R is publishing that poem o' mine.


labelleizzy: (Default)

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