Below are the 10 most recent journal entries recorded in hannahsb's LiveJournal:

Thursday, June 29th, 2006
8:31 pm	It started with a porn star, and ended when the train hit a car. Really. I recently took an "end of the school year" trip with some friends, the types of friends who are still employed as teachers and have money and the time off to take such trips. Not me, I'm just pretending. It was an adventure, really - a train ride to Seattle, a ferry to Victoria, BC, and back - an adventure full of wild and crazy stories that are only funny to me and the other people involved. So I will spare you the details of all stories, but one. (I will tease you with a direct quote from a 20 year old on the train, directed at me. "Wait, I know you! You're that girl in that car with us last night." It's so much better without explanation.) The one story: The LA-Seattle Amtrak is chronically 7 hours late, but when this takes place, I had just gotten on in San Jose, and we were only 1 hour late so far. This ride, as scheduled, takes about 24 hours. You get on at 8pm and arrive, if you're lucky, at 8pm the next evening. So you spend the night in a small enclosed space with a bunch of strangers, although the comfort level is somewhat above that of a greyhound or plane. A young girl, around 20, got on in Oakland and took the seat next to me. She was a bit waif-y, with short, bleached hair and multiple piercings. She was wearing typically torn jeans, a belt with lots of metal and a sweatshirt advertising some punk band I had never heard of. When she bent down to get her backpack, her pants rode so low that I could see straight through to her knees. She was leaving town because she just broke up with her boyfriend and needed to get away, because she always had a man in her life or else she just felt unlovable, although she didn't believe in monogamy and she hated it when the man wanted to be exclusive - she'd still sleep with other guys but then it was called cheating. I was kinda sorry I asked. She said she was a student, working as a pastry chef for the summer. She played in a punk band (of course), but they needed a new guitarist because the other one got addicted to heroin (of course). And she did a little modeling. We negotiated our way through the night, both pretending we were REALLY uncomfortable, and managed to be civil through the ride. Which by this time was the requisite 7 hours late. As we pulled into Portland, she got out her phone and started telling some fellow punk-brat about her newest modeling gig. For an adult website, where she will be on of the top models, and will have a sex advice column. SO, I spend the night with a porn star. And on the way back, the train hit a truck at a crossing in Oakland. (Comment on this)
Monday, March 6th, 2006
7:54 pm	Job Rant So, I have sold my teaching soul for rent, working for Huntington Learning Center. It is one of those private tutoring companies that fleece parents with the promise of getting Jr. into Harvard. However, this is the Bush Era of Privatization, so this company is now fleecing your local public school district with the promise of teaching Jr. to read. Now the public teacher in me, the rep for teacher's union, is morally opposed to this, but I needed the money, and it beats fleecing tourists with plastic souvenirs. (See poem rant on retail job) And today was the first day of the fleecing of the Santa Barbara school district. I spend all weekend predicting how terrible this was going to be, about how my bosses were in over their heads, about how totally unprepared they were for managing 80 hyperactive kids after a full day of school. And I was right. First of all, Huntington works because it offers individual attention to the students. There is nothing magic in their curriculum - it's just a bunch of photocopied worksheets. But because the students get one-on-one attention, they learn. Well at the school today, I was alone with 9 first graders. Not individual attention. Second, my task for the day: give them a reading assessment, so we can determine their "individual program". These were first graders. They're in the program because they CAN'T READ. Assessment finished. 45 minutes to entertain 9 first graders, one of who literally bounced up and done the whole time. And I had nothing. Not even extra paper. The only reason I didn't quit is that I've already given notice. Tomorrow is 5th grade. If this continues, I will quit. Okay, rant's over. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 25th, 2006
5:33 pm	I almost cried During lunch, I teach a small group in math, alternating boys and girls (yea! single-sex education). It is review for the kids who struggle a bit. They bring their lunch, and we work on fraction problems and such, and I bride them all with cookies and popcorn for showing up and answering questions. Today, one particularly smart-alec-y boy just busted out with "I like lunch math. It' fun." I stopped, waiting for the punchline, for the other sarcastic shoe to drop. But no, he was sincere. All that followed was, "No really, it is fun and we get to learn stuff." I almost cried. (Comment on this)
Saturday, January 21st, 2006
3:58 pm	The Right Sea I was god. I created universes. Stars spun out of my hand. With a twist and slow pull of my paddle, I created the milky way. Right night, right sea, you could be god, too. Kayaking, off the east coast of Baja where a sparse, arid desert borders a lush, vibrant sea, there's this phenomenon. Microscopic plants and animals create their own light. Bioluminescence. The zooplankton, these tiny creatures, self-illuminate. They do it for defense, camouflage, communication. But there, I was god, and there, They do it for the same reasons the frigate birds soar on the thermals above the cliffs, Because it is fun. Because something in them says “Light up”. So I sat in my kayak in the Sea of Cortez, playing god. Creating constellations to match the endless stars overhead, and every one says they're endless but to a city girl like me... This was no smattering of stars, No hint of constellations. This night sky had depth. Reaching back past supernovas, nebula, galaxies, Unexplainable dark energy sucking all light into unknown universes. Back to the Big Bang itself. Looking into THAT sky, I saw Vastness. The Beginning. Endless space and Endless time. My own universes, spinning off my paddle, were not endless. My universes were ephemeral. I could create galaxies, but they were not mine. The light defies capture. The chemical reaction occurs. Light goes on. Light goes off. And that creature is again one of millions, Dark, silent, riding the currents past my hand, beyond the reach of my paddle, Out of the Sea of Cortez. (Comment on this)
Monday, December 26th, 2005
7:42 pm	Harrowed look, rough draft needing input With a firm handshake and a promise to return the next day, I re-enlisted into that army of low-wage, unskilled labor. I reentered the retail work force. Sales clerk, reporting for duty, sir! Because yesterday I wrote another rent check and I am hanging onto desperation. Desperation is lookin' pretty good from where I'm sliding to. So I am digging in to desperation, with fingernails chipped and broken. And if there is a haunted look in my eye, a giddy, wild look, well, I am just giddy at the prospect of $8.50 an hour. Sitting in that crowded office. That crowded crummy, scummy office. In that broken, slummy chair. My two degrees, years of experience, the accumulation of my life's work, plucked from the clean, white page. And crowded, crumbled into 2 words. “Probably over qualified” Probably? Probably overqualified? Hah! I am certainly overqualified, but there is desperation in my eyes. Desperation brought me to that crowded, crummy office, Brought me down aisles of trinkets and doo-dads. Desperation fucked the accumulation of my life's work, and brought me here. This morning, in the mirror, I discovered a harrowed look. Harrowed is overeducated and little valued. Harrowed is paying nearly a grand to live with strangers, with strange dust under the strange couch, strange dishes in the sink and strange smells emanating from the refrigerator. Paying nearly a grand to share a bathroom with 19 year old potheads. Now-I've got nothing against 19 year old potheads. I'm sure some of you are 19 year old potheads, and you are lovely people. But I just thought I was past the “19 year old pothead” phase of my life. Harrowed is the discovery that I have relocated to the one city in California where they are not hiring teachers – the position for which I am perfectly qualified. So I shine showcase windows until I'm high on Windex, Hallucinating to management approved soft-rock. Hootie and the Blowfish haunt my dreams. With a knowing smile and nod, I give compulsive shoppers emotional validation to spend tomorrow's grocery list on cheap turquoise knock-offs. I stand by and watch as my incompetent managers sets himself up for disaster, without enough change for the weekend sale and a broken credit card machine, because at 8.50 an hour, I am certainly not paid enough to care. And when another foreign tourist comes to the counter, arms ladened with 80 dollars worth of plastic crap, I want to grab him by the shoulders and pull him close, conspiratorially, and whisper, “Listen, you don't have to do this. Just walk away from this ugly ceramic spaniel statute and the mouse in the coattails. Nobody back home wants these dust-collecting doo-dads. They will bring no one happiness. You want a souvenir? Save your hard earned euros, walk to the beach, and find a god-damn seashell. Just put down the totchekes and walk away.” But I am sick of 19 year old potheads. So I hand him his bag, his bag of cheap plastic crap made by people with even less value then I, To purchase meaning for his pathetic materialistic life, I hand him that bag. And caught in the teeth of my forced smile, beneath my harrowed eyes, is what remains of my pride. (Comment on this)
12:46 pm	Driving home last night Empty parking lots and darkened store fronts of shopping centers on Chrismas night seem a little odd. Like all the other people got sucked up somewhere. Definitely Twilight-Zone. Post-Apocalypse. Like the Rapture has begun. That would be appropriate. Jesus returning on Christmas. He'd probably be pissed. What the fuck are you doing celebrating my birthday in the middle of December? Damn Pagan Holidays. (Comment on this)
Monday, November 28th, 2005
3:40 pm	A dream I dreamt I had multiple personalities. I was talking to a couple of shrinks. One asked, "Who are you when you are angry?" I answered, without pause, "Tom". This line of questioning continued, and it was clear that there were several people inside my head. However, my diagnosis was not complete. Apparently, the ultimate test for split personalities is a measurement of stride. I took 3 steps; it measured 3 feet. My small step was a result of the weight of all the other people I was caring around in my head. With this new self-awareness of my psychosis, I spend the rest of the dream walking around making "Sybil" jokes. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, November 27th, 2005
9:05 pm	bargain Beware! Beware, you are being watched. Watched by ethnographers, taking notes, scribbling frantically how you wear your jeans, your brand of cereal, and how much nagging is needed before your parents just give in and buy you the darn toy. Don't worry, this army of observers is professionally trained to distill your accumulated life experience into a series of ones and zeros so as to calculate, with ease, your net worth to Philip Morris and Kraft. We are being sold. Every minute of everyday to Microsoft and Starbucks. We've struck a deal with the devil. Personal fulfillment and meaning in exchange for our sensory space. Access to every neuron, Logos on every surface. Corporate sponsorship of elementary schools, punk rock concerts, and political press conferences. Not content with product placement in movies, all the cokes facing forward, out of the fridge, this government snack break has been brought to you by Cheetos, every Pepsi facing forward on the governor's desk. Your preference has already been noted. I watch Sports Illustrated swimsuit models prance around Coors Field for a McDonalds Major League Baseball Promotion. Are you aware of how many levels of ironic that is? Stick arms straining under the weight of an aluminum bat to sell a hamburger they can't fit in their stabled stomachs. Professional atheletes hawking food and booze they can't fit into their nutritionally restricted super-diets. We have sold our very appetite. Marketed it to improve our profit margins of love and acceptance. Opened our cupboards and kitchens to these observers, So they may tailor the marketing directly to you. So you may know the exact combination of brands to buy, trends to follow To obtain eternal happiness. But you've been had. Robbed. The meaning in this life is counterfeit. Underneath this blanket of logos, this din of jingles, we are hungry lonely, confused. So we yell at each other on street corners, Avoid eye contact in the hallway. Starve ourselves into wisps of wind. Drink ourselves into social ease, cruelty, excusable oblivion. Thinking that perhaps we don't have enough credit, That perhaps with the right car, right jeans, right shoes, right purse, We buy more, bigger, brighter, louder. Hoping that this credit slip will at last be enough to ensure compassionate wisdom, inner peace, nirvana. The watchers nod knowingly, notebooks ready. And kids with nothing, the wrong jeans, wrong shoes, no car, shut out of this promise of incorporation, They scratch their souls into the back of bus seats, carved into plywood desks. Every other surface, frequency claimed, named, copyrighted, Nowhere else they can leave their mark on the world. “I was here.” So here's my graffiti. Turn down the television, for fingers stuffed in my ears, I am shouting to be heard. Hungry, lonely, confused, I make eye contact with you, hoping to strike a different bargain. For my sensory neurons are not for sale. But I'm willing to loan them to you, if you are willing to listen to me. And maybe we can go to a beach, and watch a sunset over an ocean that won't fit in the widest high definition TV. (Comment on this)
Saturday, November 19th, 2005
9:47 pm	last post from sb, for now Tomorrow I get up at some unforgivable hour, pack up my crazy-ass dog, and drive to hmb for Thanksgiving. I have to live in poetry for a bit. When I return, I am teaching a 3-session poetry workshop for all the 4th, 5th and 6th graders at school. I'm beginning to wish my poems were a little less, well, serious and self-important and a little more funny. Becky's fart poem would be good for this audience. Ideas from the ether? I'm working on an ode to my return to the retail workforce and stories of crazy, uptight, LA yoga patrons. Now to pack. (Comment on this)
Monday, November 14th, 2005
10:09 pm	Marching A hundred people walking across a bridge. A hundred people marching Marching A hundred people Marching Marching on Washington Marching A hundred people Marching A million man, moms, marching Moses marching Marching For a promised land. Marching for a promise. A hundred people marching for a promise of buses. Food. Water. A hundred people on a bridge. Over a river that defied an Army Corp. A river deviant. A river swollen. Pregnant. A river birthing bodies. Bloated bodies. A river hungry. Hungry with a hurricane-driven appetite. Swallowing houses. And gardens. And jazz joints. And streets of Bourbon. A swollen river giving birth. Driving people across a river. A hundred people on a bridge over a river. Facing a man with a gun and a badge. A man with a gun. Promises, but no bus. Just the man with the gun. Saying Not here. Just go back. Not my town. Not here. The gun fears the people. And their hunger. And their need. People are marching, and the badge has a gun. And the people have nothing. But each other on a bridge. The people With each other, the build shelter: Homes, castles of cardboards, Condos, Makeshift manors, tents, forts, homes. The people With each other, they find food, people. People with arms open. People with no guns. They find a way over the river. The river that ate a city. But people are angry. And people want to know. What happened on the bridge Over a river. Why people Fleeing a river Were held a gun point On a bridge. And the man with the gun, Won't be blamed. He has the badge, It was his job. The man with the gun can't be blamed. Paid By the people behind the gun. Paid, for the gun. Money had the gun. As long as money has the guns, We are marching. Always marching. Against the badge and the gun. Our feet are tired. But we are marching. For all time. We are marching. For work, we are marching. For freedom, we are marching. For salt, we are marching. For schools, we are marching. For peace, we are marching. A hundred people on a bridge. Marching for buses. A river of people. A dark river. Of water. A river of history Of people Who are marching. (2 Comments |Comment on this)