Wednesday, January 11, 2012

teaching kills my brain

I was going to write this long post about sexism and women's clothing and men's thoughts on women's clothing, but then it became 10 o'clock out of nowhere and my brain is officially fried. I love my job, don't get me wrong, but I am exhausted by it. Tuesdays are particularly rough, as I have an evening class for my credential that goes from right after I get out of school until 8 o'clock. By the time I get home, eat the food Henrik has graciously cooked for me, and shower, my night is gone and I am brain-dead. If you were to crack my head open like an egg, all you would see is mush; I am sure of it.

So, instead of my semi-rant post filled with quotes I like from feminist authors and quotes I dislike from some particularly icky men, I thought I would share a poem that I really enjoy. Who doesn't like nice poems? Here you are. :)

By Lisel Mueller 

There is less difficulty—indeed, no logical difficulty at all—in
imagining two portions of the universe, say two galaxies, in which
time goes one way in one galaxy and the opposite way in the
other. . . . Intelligent beings in each galaxy would regard their own
time as “forward” and time in the other galaxy as “backward.”                                   
                                     —Martin Gardner, in Scientific American 

Somewhere now she takes off the dress I am
putting on. It is evening in the antiworld
where she lives. She is forty-five years away
from her death, the hole which spit her out
into pain, impossible at first, later easing,
going, gone. She has unlearned much by now.
Her skin is firming, her memory sharpens,
her hair has grown glossy. She sees without glasses,
she falls in love easily. Her husband has lost his
shuffle, they laugh together. Their money shrinks,
but their ardor increases. Soon her second child
will be young enough to fight its way into her
body and change its life to monkey to frog to
tadpole to cluster of cells to tiny island to
nothing. She is making a list:
            Things I will need in the past
                        transistor radio
                        Sergeant Pepper
                        acne cream
                        five-year diary with a lock
She is eager, having heard about adolescent love
and the freedom of children. She wants to read
Crime and Punishment and ride on a roller coaster
without getting sick. I think of her as she will
be at fifteen, awkward, too serious. In the
mirror I see she uses her left hand to write,
her other to open a jar. By now our lives should
have crossed. Somewhere sometime we must have
passed one another like going and coming trains,
with both of us looking the other way.

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