Typical Teachers' Lounge Conversation

Ok. Not always. But it usually seems this way.

How Well Do You Know Your Music

Do You Know Your Music (Sorry MTV Generation I Doubt You Can Handle This One)

Good. You know your music. You should be able to work at Championship Vinyl with Rob, Dick and Barry
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You're Perverted, Twisted, and Sick. I like that in a person.

Two great links from Wacky Neighbor:

Digital Doofus

I created a myspace page. Ten years of creating web pages (since my first medieval Geocities Athens/Acropolis cobweb), and I try to setup something in myspace that, well, sucks. No glitter text. No twinkling star backgrounds. No screen after screen of kitchy images and funny toon grafx. Sniff. I only have 6 friends. And one those is TOM.

Just listened to Velvet Underground after several years' distance. I think that Kristen Johnston used Nico's voice (RIP) as a model for Ivana Humpalot.

Last night, one of my students told me that he was late for class because he couldn't find his pants.

There's really nothing more I can add.

Apothanein Thelo

I haven't been blogging anything substantial for quite a while. Part of it may be that I have nothing to write about, but the truth is that at times writing is too difficult. Giving language to emotions gives those emotions a new power.
...garage sale moment...

'Captain, she can't take much more. She doesn't have the power.' -- typical Scotty attribution

"We're gonna turn it on
We're gonna bring you the power
We're gonna light up the dark of night like the
brightest day in a whole new way" -- Electric Company lyrics

I visited my cousin Saturday, the final day of March. The Courant had run an op-ed about the use of the morning after pill in Catholic hospitals. Forget when life begins. When does it end? If it weren't for technology, we would have no question of God's will. There would be no respirator, no feeding tube, no drains and catheters and beeps and glitches. God's will? What is her will? I watched her pulse rate change with our conversation, the conversation that she, in her sedated state, should be totally oblivious to. The irony; drowning sorrows to drowning from within. The toxins that drove actions win, manifesting their life-suffocation more insidiously.

"Ring out, wild bells, and let [her] die." -- Paraphrasing Tennyson

Am I being selfish hoping for death? I tell myself that I want an end to her suffering, but I want an end to my suffering (nowhere near as severe as hers, her children's, her mother's). I cannot deal with this limbo, though every day of every life is that same hovering between existence and cessation.

It's April, the cruellest month. That Aprille with his shoures soote.

If only she could speak.

"This is the way the world ends..."

I can connect nothing with nothing.