back on the horse

I peeked into my past today and found that what I thought was, wasn’t. I suspect there is a small chance that what I saw had been altered in some way, and I felt somewhat slighted. I saw elements of my presence as though my ghost had been haunting, however, and I felt vindicated. Or honored? Last night I peeked somewhere else and found that what I thought was, most certainly was, and I felt validated.

Moving forward is difficult when you want to live up to your past.

But I’m out of practice. I need to cut myself some slack.

. . .

When you fall off the horse, you screw something up, though not terribly. When you fall off the wagon, the consequences are harsh. But you can get back on both.

I stay clear of wagons, so I have none to fall off of. I rode a Clydesdale for a while, though.

Ugh.

. .

I miss the challenge more than anything.

Breakfast in America

You dreamed you were in a submarine with Adam Sandler. He was sitting at the helm with a blanket in his lap like an old man navigating darkness in solitude. You asked him how he knew when to turn and which way to go to avoid hitting underwater things, and he pointed to a button on the dash and told you to push it. You pushed the button and heard a ping, but you didn’t see any screens with blips and circles to see where the underwater things were. Adam wasn’t concerned, and you quietly shrugged off his indifference. What choice did you have? He seemed confident enough, though in truth his confidence appeared to be a solemn familiarity with the waters. He appeared to be a sad prisoner of a dark fate, wandering the sands of Davy Jones’ locker. You found a window that looked out onto an underwater forest where people had taken up residence. They had escaped to that haven from the law of the land above, and you envied their freedom for a moment. You watched them become miserable before your eyes as they bickered with no way to break free from each other. They had no new place to flee to. You, on the other hand were free to roam, albeit in the confines of a dark submarine with an old man. That’s when you noticed the song that had been playing over and over in a loop. You asked Adam to turn the music off because it was driving you mad. He reached up to click the knob, and you woke up.

I’m leaving this reminder of your dream here so that you can revisit it later and ponder its meaning. Take your time. It’s likely the result of something you ate before bed, anyway. Everyone likes Supertramp.

Was it all just a dream?

I once had a small room with dark drapes, an overstuffed chair, and bookshelves filled with classics. I spent most of my time in that room typing on a keyboard that had most of the caps missing from its keys. I wrote everyday, often until the wee hours of the morning. I filled my screen with words that spoke to a world of writers. The rest of my time was spent taking walks. I squeezed in a few hours of work five days a week, but I was always thinking about that blank screen that waited for me on that old computer in that dark room.

Then suddenly it all came to an end. I deleted everything.

I deleted myself in one keystroke. In an instant, I lost connections I cherished. I needed to reconnect to the world around me. I needed to wake up from the dream, so I closed my eyes and … click.

It’s taken me years to regain the ability to write.

I don’t have that dark, little room anymore, nor the chair. Not even the bookshelf survived. The computer sure didn’t.

But here I am now, typing on a new keyboard in a big, well-lit room, filled with anxiety for no reason other than the fear that the real writer in me is dead. New books are mixed with the old ones, all of which fill new bookshelves. Some books are still unread because the word junkie in me can’t help but purchase books I don’t ~~have~~ make time to read. How many books have I downloaded to my Kindle in the last two weeks? Four maybe. I’ve started reading all of them, and I’ll probably never finish them.

One day I’ll regret not having chased down an expertise. I’d settle for just one at this point, but I yearn for mastery in everything. A master of nothing is what I am, and only a shadow of a dream remains for one thing that I was once good at.

This keyboard has no memory of how my fingers once danced. I have nothing to show for that time in my life but worn pages in a few old books. The new books have witnessed nothing, not even a gleam in my eye.

I feel ill.

Fraud

Today is the last day of the year and the thousandth of previous ones just like it. Ah but this one is different! Today I don’t feel the slow release of poison from my pores. Pent-up stress does not have its grip on me today, which is odd considering I just finished what should have been the most stressful year thus far. This year was certainly the scariest.

I told a student today to stop running from what he is scared of. To be better. Hours later, I realized that I was talking to myself. Not literally, of course. The boy had been there, and I had told him those words. I asked him before he walked out what he is going to do. He replied, “Don’t run from things that scare me.” I added, “And be better.” He left, and I heard those words again hours later when I thought of how I absolutely did not want to continue on this path I’m on. “Don’t run from things that scare you. Be better.”

I don’t have the confidence to realize my potential. I don’t have all the answers and often don’t have the background knowledge necessary to come up with them. I’m afraid of revealing my incompetence. I want to press forward but not at the expense of my dignity.

Don’t run from things that scare you. Be better.

Don’t run from things that scare you. Be better.

I am my own terrified student. If my students knew this about me, they wouldn’t chase after the scary things that I convince them they can achieve. If I have not conquered the scary stuff, myself, how can I lead those who are afraid?

Maximus Meridius, you were scared, too, weren’t you?

Atticus Finch, you aren’t as smart as you seem, are you?

Atticus Meridius is my name. But not really. Not really.

“Reality is the construct of others who can’t function in the absence of boundaries.” I just heard a character on TV say that, written no doubt by someone who lives in fear.

My name is Atticus Meridius, and I am gripped by my incompetence.

Her name is Atticus Meridius, and she is fearless.

locura

I’ve been listening to a Spanish radio station and trying to not translate anything in my head. The longer I listen, the easier it is to distinguish one word from the next even when I don’t know what the words mean. I’m discovering that I understand what the radio people are saying better when I don’t try to understand.

I asked a student from Mexico recently to say a sentence in Spanish so that I could see if I knew what he was saying.

“El edificio se calló.”

I knew neither of those words.

Then I remembered edifice from The Fountain Head, and the rest fell into place.

“That’s dark,” I said.

“My brain is going to explode soon,” he said back with his hands grasping his head and his eyes locked on mine. I immediately understood the edifice metaphor.

“You’re going to do great, Rodrigo. The mortar this class used to build your brain is stronger than whatever they used to hold these bricks up.”

It’s AP Physics, and the students are taking their big test soon. And the mad instructor grins with sadistic joy and pride, knowing that they are going to blow the fucking test out of the water.

This is my favorite part of the school year.