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11:05 p.m. - June 18, 2004
Lights off, cool breeze, a candle flickering, music. I'm signing to myself and my hands feel light even though I'm signing sad songs.

I am not glad to be home where I can ignore phone calls and the doorbell, where I can sit hour after hour staring out the window at the brown lawn and brown hills beyond and fall again into habit and routine. Were I to stand still I could be like a Mayan jungle temple discovered covered in vines, there but not there. I am paid well to tell teachers it's never too late, to suggest ways of getting into the adolescent mind and harnessing interest in learning and I can tell you many anecdotes about my own teaching experience of seeing those wonderful aha moments, and yet I think of myself in the past tense. The surety of insecurity is the instrument I play in a one-man band.

Absurd. Divest self-pitying tropes in favor of klaxon calls and handwriting on the sidewalk pavement before it's washed off by the neighbor's hose.


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