I stopped caring about my community, my neighbors, and those I serve. I stopped caring today because a once noble profession has become despised, hated, distrusted, and mostly unwanted. I stopped caring today because parents refuse to teach their kids right from wrong and blame us when they are caught breaking the law. Moms hate us in their schools because we frighten them and remind them of the evil that lurks in the world.
All of these words apply but none of them really convey what I mean. I read a blog post over the weekend that reminded me about the idea of a continuum that connects all the different writing that I like.
Maybe a name exists in literary theory but outside academia there is not a mainstream accepted satisfying name for this tradition. But there are exemplars of it and I want to force the world to read their books, so I have to figure out what this tradition encompasses and what to call it.
It was green spray paint, and I remember thinking that almost any other color would have been more appropriate, more violent and emphatic. Like everything else about the gesture, it needs a lot of context to make any sense.
I had taken the paint from the Art Barn where I was failing a sculpture class that semester. It seems ridiculous that I was failing sculpture but I was.
I came to class and did the assignments but the professor, an Ohioan famous for his large cheery site-specific installations in Columbus office park atria, just really hated my work. My work was pretty bad. In a previous art class I had mostly gotten around the limitations imposed by my lack of technical skill by working with appropriation, pastiche and performance, ie I had put on a bikini and smeared myself all over with lipstick for the midterm and built a giant fake wedding cake topped with doll heads and surrounded by bowls of Karo syrup fake blood for the final.
But in this class we had to carve and weld, and I lacked both the patience and the innate knack that you need in order to be good with tools. I made two Easter Islandy heads out of wood and metal which were intended to be realistic but came out more impressionistic.
This was my masterpiece and I think it also got a D, or maybe a C. The professor circled my work like Tim Gunn and pointed out its flaws with one outstretched finger.
I guess I was still at the stage of life when I thought I could potentially be good at anything I liked doing. I only knew that I loved to get onstage and cry or scream or tremulously declare myself, to generally chew the scenery.
Part of it was just the pleasure of being allowed to say the lines. The class had a greatest-hits type curriculum so I had little bits of Shakespeare and Chekhov to memorize for it all the time.
I thought I was the best actress in this class for sure. The best actor in the class was Dave and we had a lot of scenes together, I began to look forward to our scenes, we sometimes had to meet outside of class to rehearse. I want to also step back from making fun of myself a little bit here and acknowledge that what was happening to me and around me at time was often terrible.
Many things were happening, some were great, others were terrible. I also met Val and she became my roommate. Basically things were looking up, with a few exceptions. This was my first experience with this relationship dynamic so I guess I can be forgiven for not recognizing it for what it was and shutting it down immediately.
Until the body was found, months after her disappearance, everyone thought she had committed suicide. Maybe the administration suppressed attempts to discuss what had happened or memorialize the murdered girl.
I was going to school in the middle of nowhere and it was now clear that a girl could die there and no one would really care. I had conflicted feelings. Part of me wanted to stay.
But another part, a self-preserving part, or at something that functioned as a self-preserving part in this context, set about making it impossible for me to stay. Maybe I indulged myself with the thought I was protecting other women with a warning this is a common form of self-indulgence.Oct 07, · (CNN)-- On New Year's Day, after months of suffering from debilitating headaches, I learned that I had brain cancer.
I was 29 years old. I'd been married for just over a year.
My husband . “I am mind-blown by my editor Carly’s work. My original essay is like an ill-fitting suit. She hemmed and adjusted it in all the right places and now it looks perfect.
I’m a very private person and not at all interested in public attention. But, given the incredibly inaccurate and misleading attacks on my father, Woody Allen, I feel that I can no longer stay silent as he continues to be condemned for a crime he did not commit. The Metropolitan Museum of Art is one of the world's largest and finest art museums.
Its collection includes more than two million works of art spanning five thousand years of world culture, from prehistory to the present and from every part of the globe.
Dec 09, · The misery began around a.m. with the sound of my 7-year-old thumping into the hallway. He had already been up once, complaining of a stomachache.
This time, I . I have long called myself a social conservative. I think it is very important to have standards for behaviour (etiquette) and defined roles.
The problems with this system is not that it exists, but the lack of flexibility and the value placed on them.