Ode to Nandizzle and Alizarin

When all is blazin
and your mind is racin
and depression reigns
IM with Alizarin
And she'll chink your cynicism
Until you are in stitches
Breakin your britches

When life is all frizzled
Just call Nandizzle
Who will get out her chisle
to honestly chip away at the sadness
but accept all your madness
until the murkiness fizzles
and you feel a bit better

The half-full glass

For once, some good news.

I've been holding out, actually, sitting on this for about a week,
maybe a bit more.

I was accepted into the UCLA Writing Project -- a seminar for
teachers focusing on strategies for teaching writing, on developing
our own writing, and on studying research about writing/teaching
writing. It is quite a reputable program as far as professional
development for teachers. Session one begins tomorrow, which means
a day off from my regular work and a visiting the lovely UCLA campus.

Why should you care? Well . . .it's all in the blog . . .

In others' eyes

To see myself from others' eyes -- an eye-opening experience, good or
bad, long to have.

Rather than finishing writing my final exams, I am writing this.
Tomorrow, as each bell rings, the realization that I should have done
something else than what I am about to do will dawn on me. Too
late. At least three times a class I will walk back to my desk to
find a file or paper or marker I forgot to have prepared. Like
papers in the wind, I scatter myself through my life.

As I feel least capable of anything beyond breathing, and even not
for that at times, everyone else sees me as the go-to-girl for all
needs organizing. I have been volunteered to organize presentations,
to be the junior class sponsor, to head up a human rights club (which
I might do) -- just to name a few. At church, there is always
something I am volunteered to do . . . as might be expected . . . one
of the leaders of the church. And, on a more outrageous note,
walking down Melrose, some wannabe fashion diva decided he wanted to
dress me up in rock star style. However, as in all these situations,
the pants just did not fit. True, he probably was just hoping to
sell some overpriced clothes, but I chose to go with the flattering
myself mode that he thought I could fit into the pants.

Likewise, I am flattered so many people have such faith in my
abilities to be together, to lead, and to care. I wish I could see
and be what it is they see.

Then again, maybe they just see a sucker who has nothing better to
do. . .

Why I don't have anything to say . . .

Trudging through a desert, too tired to go forward, not yet ready to
give up. Parched and tired. The warmth melts my muscles; the dusts
makes me cry. There is a puddle where I sip just enough water to
keep me alive. It cools me enough to sleep. It washes the sand from
my eyes. it is not enough. It is not mine. But I look in every
direction and there is nothing to tempt me away, to give me hope that
a better puddle, an ocean, a river, a lake is within my lifetime I
have left in this desert. So I take what my puddle will give and try
to be satisfied. As I do that, I know the puddle is keeping me from
possible finding something sustainable, something that is there for
me fully, not just in drips and sips. But I don't. I've grown to
love my puddle and so I sit and wait.