V e r i t a s . S o p h i a . I u s t i t i a

i make no impression
sometimes i enjoy this sometimes i think the enjoyment is nothing but self-deception
this invisibility as if i could walk past every shelf pause
if i stand completely still or even if i moved
people make way i am surprised by this
once upon a time i would couldve never felt like this
like i could not be seen but
it feels these days these years like
a second skin a box over my head would no no difference
was i expecting anything more
how gullible no wrong word there was no trickery involved
how naive how stupidly naive
to think things have changed from when things changed before
do i not charm you anymore
does not the laughter i draw mean anything
it doesn't does it good chap never knew he had a funny bone
wouldn't have thought it t'was a good laugh
and then forgotten
i miss being here did i forsake you run away in some stupid fit of arrogance
now i find a shallow grave boxed in
purchase all i can pack into it
won't you look at that he went out
and filled his tomb as slaves would an ancient king's
to help him on his way.
i sleep my days away
no that was heaven i was describing

I feel like I should just take my book and read it at the library. I haven’t much to do today beyond setting up a small art display for an environmental science conference to be held at the school auditorium tomorrow. Just recycling some of the artworks from the exhibition from earlier in the year. If I could do it now, I’d be able to get out of school at half past two, but it seems I’m the only teacher who’s got time to twiddle his thumbs today. My specialty- it is called efficiency. Remnants from a childhood plagued by OCD- a lifestyle ruled by routine and order. Everything must be done, finished, perfected, well ahead of schedule. Anything less is a minor failure, and failures for people like us, are obviously never minor. I never appear busy. I always appear stressed. How odd. Nobody makes easy look more difficult than I do. I’m less than a hundred pages into The Blind Assassin and I really want to sink my teeth into it before I take off for Beijing in less than a week. I want more of the book within the book, she is Laura Chase, she must be. But who is her suave suitor, the enigmatic story-teller and why must they meet in secret? I really haven’t much to do today. I suppose I could make work up to do. Design the cover for next year’s staff handbook… prepare a scheme-of-work for next year, but next year, next year is just too far away right now. Another black coffee. That sounds better and worse. Surf the net. But I don’t surf much beyond ESPN, the New York Times and BBC Sports… there’s only so many times one can read the same news over and over and over… I’m bringing The Blind Assassin with me to China. Hopefully I’ll be halfway through by the 21st. And just in case I finish it there, which I hope I can, in the midst of visiting schools, scaling the Great Wall, pretending to be the last emperor in the Forbidden City… I will bring The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie or Things Fall Apart with me. Heavy-weights slim enough not to take up too much space in a travel bag.

On days like this, when all is quiet for the most part and then unravels like a golden thread on a chinese tassle, everything falls apart, so to speak. Unspooling even further with every attempt at damage control. I want a safe place to hide away, or to be struck unconscious, which is an even more cowardly way to hide, I suppose. 'Till the dawn. I am called to a dinner I am not hungry for but I. I only hope I can stay here for a while longer; though getting through dinner quickly, I might sooner be able to lose consciousness. What do they want of me, is it never enough, never, that I do, and mercilessly they crowd around, inspecting everything, checking, re-checking, is it all clean? Even. I don't know. I hit a hard ball, take no prisoners, that's how it's done, the only way I know how to play. And I can't tell him to wipe that smarmy smirk off his well-intentioned face, a face that has never seen the back side of fortune. Complacency. Perhaps he chooses not to notice the velocity of the shots I can manage on average. Mid-way. Not at my best, as I have not been in what seems an age. But still sharp enough for them to have to check, re-check, keep on checking. I set the bar high. But who made you the authority on what a fifteen year old can and cannot achieve? Don't answer that because I may hit you.

A couple of days have passed and half a bottle of wine. I am at one with myself. Since, what was I expecting? That I should be as everyone else is, that I should be what I've always feared I was and known I wasn't? I may have placed a picture of myself when I began to write. Now it really begins. The juggernaut rises up the rankings with such ease, though they say the transition from the juniors is never easy. I pretend to quote Cat Power in order to say this: I am the greatest.

Maybe 27 is a prime number. Cobain, Federer, Hernandez, Coppola's Marie Antoinette.

Converse shoes. Year Twos.

I really should start showing some of my own works... only, of course, I haven't begun to begin working on them yet. It's been a short but hectic term, exams and all, and a window through which to take a quick sharp breath tomorrow (marking day, and I've finished all my marking). Anyway, below are my Year 3s' work (drawing and painting) from this term. I let 'em work with a medium of their preference (their weapon of choice, so to speak), and made 'em do a couple with media they'd never tried before. These are their more interesting works, done on A3 drawing block.

Some went back to basics, the humble pencil...

... others used pen and markers...

... color pencils and pastels...

... oils, acrylic and watercolors.