Hard Times

I'm teaching Hard Times again... Dickens was quite a remarkable writer. I especially love this first section of the book:

The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school-room, and the speaker's square forefinger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmaster's sleeve. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, while his eyes found commodious cellarage in two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's mouth, which was wide,thin, and hard set. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's voice, which was inflexible, dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of firs to keep the wind from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, like the crust of a plumpie, as if the head had scarcely warehouse-room for the hard facts stored inside. The speaker's obstinate carriage, square coat,square legs, square shoulders, - nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by the throat with an unaccommodating grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was, - all helped the emphasis.

'In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!'

The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the inclined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until theywere full to the brim.

I rather enjoy juxtaposing this image and sentiment with that of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall"

Somedays I love my job so much that's its surprising that they pay me to do this..
other days I wish I had a bullet proof vest, some mace and ten measley squares of toilet paper so I can piss in peace.
I'm not sure what kind of day today is just yet, but that's what makes it so fun...

Rousing

It's all here on paper,
hidden in metaphors
and ambiguously indirect fragments,
the story of me.
But the unsightliness isn't
diminishing
or fading out of view
and I don't feel free.
Instead,
anxiety is breeding in my impediments
and a cloak of insecurity is
tightening around my frame-
even when I draw it in closer
I can't shake this agitated state-
these vertiginous thoughts,
spinning out of control-
from fear of you reading these words and knowing
me...
So I searched for a niche to crawl into
but nothing seemed to fit me
and my baggage.
It was then I knew I had to choose.
In that moment,
I let the cloak fall to the ground
and decided to stand
bare-skinned and leafless,
reveling in the repugnant pungency
of who I am-
my "F*** U" to the world.

Then, I was free...

interstitial space

She exists in the interstitial space
amidst unfiltered emotions and native notions-
controlling actions and pervading my reality with reverie.

When I'm tired of hiding
behind a facade
and white lines are calling
I'm confronted with her image,
a reflection-
the she that views the world
with scrutiny and asperity,
suppressing the transient parcels of the past,
almost carefree...

Meanwhile,
I'm hoping to make these effects last
seeking refuge from randomness
but reluctantly descending
into the impending depths of
relentless infernal regions,
ancient history confronted once again.

If I could just inhabit her for a moment...
Suddenly she emerges and merges into me,
a rush of confidence reverberating and radiating...

ode to deodorant

under the arm[our]
delicate seething souls roam free
pungent and ripe
from a hollow pit
shouldering the weight of
guilt,
fear,
responsibility
bearing down
covered up
and dispassionate
yet you glide in smooth
strong enough for a man
but made for a woman