good

From my seat, next to the window, I would intermittently stare out across the street at the assembly of smokers grouped homogeneously in threes and fours, envying them their dissidence and Doc Martens.

As I absently picked at the soft denim frays exposing a bare, boney knee where I would rest my chin, I wrote.

She wore her hair in a blunt bob of steel gray, its severity only rivalling that of her calculating gaze as she regarded us over the wired rim of her glasses, that hung on a chain around her neck. The precarious position of those glasses, just above the tip of her narrow nose, was unsettling.

She had no patience for frivolity of word or character, both of which I was guilty, and doled out approval begrudgingly.

Our attempts at various assignments were often met with short, reprieval or curt interjection, guiding us through numerous revisions. It being an advanced creative writing class and her having extraordinary standards of excellence. Standards that were at once intimidating and exhilarating. Seemingly unobtainable.

And as I worked furiously over some writing assignment that's nature is lost to me now, I felt her presence hovering behind me.

"Good", she blandly declared before moving on leaving me, mouth agape, wondering if I had heard correctly.

In that singular statement she validated my writing, my words. And they have gotten me through, they have kept me company, they have made light where lightness was necessary.

A little over a year ago, I remembered that writing was better than not writing.

Because its good.

Happy Blogiversary just doesn't do it justice.

Dante probably never had to write report cards, or maybe he did and that was the whole point

I'm in the depths of hell, writing provincial report cards. Provincial report cards being about as useful as teats on a bull, which come to think of it would probably be very useful with the bull being able to take on a more active role with the calf raising. Maybe the mother could sneak off and have a bit of a nap or a glass of wine once in a while. I guess teats on a bull aren't like provincial report cards at all, because provincial report cards are low in usefulness. Mainly because all the things I want to say like...

"Your kid is pretty awesome. Everyday he creates a new outfit for me in the art centre using old Sears's catalogs, complete with labelling of accessories and speech bubbles declaring, 'Im prete Im stilish', which is super amazing. I wouldn't think of getting a new hair style without consulting with him first"

or

"Nowhere in my degree in education was I ever required to take a class on finding lost mittens or distinguishing your child's black snow pants from twenty other pairs of black snow pants, nor does it indicate anywhere in my professional standards of practice the necessity of taking parent phone calls during instructional time to discuss the aforementioned mittens and black snow pants as beneficiary to your child's academic skill development. Label your kid's shit!"

...aren't deemed appropriate by the Ministry of Education, instead I have to write rubbish like:

"Name, creates visual art pieces using appropriate strategies for design and colour. Name capably writes simple messages appropriate for his/her grade level that effectively communicates his/her ideas."

or

"Name will refer to visual cues and teacher prompts to responsibly take care of his/her personal belongings."

-les sigh-


Burn baby burn.