Dog Children

It is obvious that in their eyes, I'm not someone who deserves to be respected. A temp, sitting at the front of the class, telling them to quiet down and to sit but this voice, without the slightest impact, dissolves into their cries of excitement-- as an adult, the situation is miserable, thoroughly so.

Quiet, sit down! But they say "stop treating me like a dog!" Of course, if they deserve to be treated otherwise, I wouldn't know how to either. Screaming, running around in a confined space, tumbling over, getting up on their feet only to chase after each other again-- if these aren't what dogs do? Ah, yes, human children are a special breed capable of causing more trouble than your average house dog because they are endowed with opposable thumbs.

Perhaps they can sense the powerless spirit underneath my heap of clothes, and skin. Much like how even puppies are able to exert their dominance over me once they smell my forgiving heart to all that is cute. Am I proud of myself for being children's pushover? I suppose it is insulting, but if I don't care about it because I'm only a temporary presence, then it won't affect me very much. However, if I were to be honest, it hurts. It hurts a lot and I want to cry.

Am I whining, complaining too much?

Silk Layered Barbed Wires

Have you ever had to sit in air-conditioned room with a damp bra underneath your shirt?

This is the second time I've had to bear with it, the soaked fabric cool against my sweat-stained chest. The first time was when I was 15 and stupid, standing near the doors of a subway train in Sydney, salt water dripping, as if I'd brought the ocean out on a train ride.

Did my perspiration reach the wires? Somehow, they're digging into my skin and I feel much more constricted than usual. If this goes on, they might just slice right through my ribs-- I wonder if it's what I wish would happen. Already, I hear the fat sizzling on the grilling plate, aromatic fumes rising up to meet the sooty ceiling where age-old grime spend their time idling away their intermittent existence. The end--or rather a new beginning-- for me is to become a blackened mass of grease.

As it bites into me, I am looking at the by-product of a failed relationship. Which is more irritable, skin being pinched by an inanimate man-made material, or frowns creasing into your skin by the force of a breathing organism? Though my inflexibility irks me more, along with the number of question marks present today.

I should go for a bathroom break.

70%

On some days, we have to tell ourselves that our grades are not reflective of our vast body of knowledge. Today happens to be one of those days for me.

Lacking in so many aspects, I now stand in front of uniformed children, holding a marker. Shouldn't teachers be... Amazing? Aren't they people who have answers to the universe, and score 101% on every test? My shoes are now the shoes of a teacher, and I find myself to be an utterly ordinary, half-witted plebeian who really shouldn't be teaching.

Perhaps the fault of a crumbling civilisation lies with its ambitious yet under-qualified (and also underpaid) force of teachers. What can I give them, as a teacher? With my empty brain the size of a pea, and a mere 70% on my Japanese exam, how dare I expect much more from those developing little children? I frown when they flunk, yet I'm not doing better myself.

A 70%, can you believe it? When I said I'd kill myself if I scored below 85%, I was stuffing my face with fried chicken, exuding confidence. Now that I've found out exactly how badly I did, I'm ashamed to even face my teacher when the semester starts.

Would my students be surprised at their teacher's academic results? I hope they never develop a curiosity towards my academic abilities. As far as I am concerned, I know nothing and can do nothing. Lying in bed after coming home from school, I wish I could close my eyes and melt into a pool of unwanted oils; Wipe me, wipe me!

Auf Wiedersehen.

Just a dream, dream, dream

This morning, the violence faced by the trees outside, even though fleeting, was enough to cause a ruckus that penetrated through the dimension of my on-going dream.

Only the heavy droplets remain to slide down the roof, and the tenacious leaves the storm failed to intimidate. It is quite rare that the birds should awake at this hour, so early in the morning. But perhaps these feathered creatures also have a reason to celebrate the end of a downpour on a Monday morning.

To all of those who were spared further tribulations in the sea of their unconscious mind, aren't we glad that we don't have to confront the truth anymore? What little revelations that might have come before the storm, already resonating with the chord coated in rust, sends the soft vibrations of feelings purposely unacknowledged to disturb the peaceful present that we have forged through a dozen lies and late nights stained with tears.

It wasn't all that unpleasant, to see you in an unbuttoned shirt leaning against the rocks. With the dark clouds overhead, you were the only being who still beamed with a warmth known once only to me. I think I was touched by your kindness, and sorry for my lack of it.

All has returned to the calm before the rain. The crickets have started to sing again. Basking in the ochre glow of my fairy lights, I will pull the lid over my eyes.

冷蔵庫に貼ってあるメモ

楽たんは仕事が始まった。私も同じだが、楽たんのほど忙しくないから帰ったら、ちょっと寂しくなる。誰と話せないし、メッセジももらわないし、話しがいっぱいレイチェルどうしたほうがいいなー

まあ、ここで何か書いてもいいが、書いたくないわ。

じゃ、今日のポストはここまで、かなー

鳥の歌声、夕方の陽射しに誰か、お花を潅水しているか？