isn't the idea of blog an oddthing? something i keep trying to get my students to tap into, you know, when i have students. which is not now, or next semester, when i will not be teaching via obstancy and irritation and the idea that maybe i might actually accomplish something if i'm not off-and-on paying attention to x-amount of other folk's shit. not shit as in shit, but shit as in woah, lots of stuff to deal with and try to face headon.

i am allowing myself a moment of contemplation for what the next chapter ensues, because really, when i'm done with school here, that's it. that's the big sheebang of being an artschool dweeb. and i guess by standards of everyone else and myself included, that's when i should start that thing called 'career'.

is teaching my career? and if it is, what am i teaching?

it's hard to teach when you think the product should be the most intricate world-we've-created-outside, every time, with each person you interact with, all of their own life considered. (because the rest of the world, with its war, and bills, and infights, and religion, and boring repetition, and cynical walks... asks for so much of us, god it would almost be better to be a fisherman)... and that takes time, time one should know has a direction one believes in at least in form. not to say i don't believe in support, in being the person a kid might lean into because you see the fight she is fighting... but truthfully.

somedays, i don't know why in the world they are fighting in the first place. what exactly do they need to express?

so, i won't be teaching this next semester. i will be writing supposedly and 'supporting myself' somehow. i will have to train myself to find nourishment, heh, beyond education. (holycrap)

and... basically, i should be writing a million bestsellers that involve intricate narratives that give intricate understandings of intricate psyches, but the problem is, what i really want to do is,

um.

all i can say is, for the first time in a very long time, i want every second of it.

and i want to learn something new so badly, and i want the history and baggage, history development linear detail; i want the patience, i want to be aware, i want to be superconscience of not making choices based on what's (n-t) there, but on what i want and what is wanted from me, and not to discard everything i've come by the hard way, but not to lose because i'm too scared (of producing, of opening, of disappointment, of toofasttooslow, of my own body, of being wrong), or too bold (that it is what is wanted). but every second of it.

there haven't even been kisses, just the space between letters faint, unformed, soft with i . c o u l d .

a public private space, this blog thing. that's what i'd really like my students, um no-students, maybe myself, to notice when i force them, arm-held, towards the zappy what-the-fuck-is-this. not a journal tucked away under the bed, but something revealed. a filtered straining outward under the original content. and what is the filter made of, anyway? sand, wire, mesh?

she makes me a composite of flowers every day, brings them over, slipping the pigments in under transparent guise of... of...

here is my cresciendo thought, the part told, because it makes me think and not know: a pot given (but not yet physically, not yet with the word, but ready, made for -- someone else, composed with the corporideality of mn, specifically, chosen, planted, held that way and sitting there complete in the knowledge of full interum no matter what, simply because, yellow, planted with shade. i never knew it was a shade plant, that one i kept seeing and wanting. i didn't know what to put with it. i just knew it should fall over the shoulders of the yellow given and broken pot, so i took the idea in and asked for that opinion, her opinion; and when it came to it, three plants, the cascade, blue like before; the other down-leak full of nostalgia because i pressed its blossoms between my fingers as a child and thought about what might come out; and the one suggested... presented as a body sensual, an open yellow below. and there were others discarded, and i went with what i thought matched, but the idea.)

that i actually made an overflow for someone i could really care for. water every day, and make coffee for, and not to mention, you know... let myself accept from. pause in breath for. smile for/with/to.

and how long that takes. and what that means. and whether. and why. and if. and because every second feels enjoyable nomatter. yeah, i'm saying that now, as a kid kicking back to visit the family and go fishing with no idea of what will still be there at the end of it, i'm wanting this energy expended and exchanged and held soft between my dirty fingernails as something to really feel good about.

that's all. just to feel good about.

ah blog. publicspace. life changes just when you think it won't.