November 20: It Committed Suicide, "Brokeback Mountain," Class Observation

"Simple.  I got very bored and depressed, so I went and plugged myself in to its external computer feed.  I talked to the computer at great length and explained my view of the Universe to it," said Marvin.

"And what happened?" pressed Ford.

"It committed suicide," said Marvin, and stalked off back to the Heart of Gold.

You will have to forgive me if this post sounds a little like Marvin the depressed robot blogging.  You see, I just finished watching Brokeback Mountain with my film class.  Whenever I reach my Brokeback week in this course, I have to brace myself. 

It's a great film.  One of my favorites.  Beautiful cinematography and music.  A stunning performance by Heath Ledger.  (His best, as far as I'm concerned.)  But . . . it's really depressing.  And, when I'm already in a somewhat down frame of mind, Brokeback Mountain pushes me over the edge.  This afternoon, I noticed a few people in class actually crying.

I apologize for my absence yesterday.  I spent most of last night preparing for my evening class tonight.  You see, I am being observed by another professor for my annual performance evaluation.  While I've been teaching at this university for close to 25 years, I still find peer observation very unsettling.  Perhaps it's the little Catholic boy in me, always expecting to be punished and told I'm not worthy.  Or it just may be my low self esteem.  Anyway, I'm kind of a nervous wreck this evening.

So, to sum things up--I am depressed and anxious tonight.  A little while ago, I was depressed and anxious and tired.  However, I drank a 5-hour energy drink, so I will be fully awake for whatever is going to happen in the next couple hours.  (No lectures on how bad those energy drinks are.  I know.  I work in a cardiology office.) 

The professor coming to visit me will only be staying for about the first hour of my class, long enough to witness me lead a class discussion about Brokeback Mountain and a chapter in our textbook.  Then, my students will take a quiz, and my colleague will go home and watch TV or read or book or type up his observation notes, excoriating me for my lack of effectiveness as an instructor.

If I sound paranoid, I am.  Although I think that I'm a good teacher, I always feel a little bit like a fraud when I'm standing in front of the classroom, like a student will stand up in the middle of my lecture on depictions of masculinity in Brokeback Mountain, point a finger at me, and shout, "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"  Then they will condemn me as a witch and burn me at the stake, or something like that.

I have about a half hour before this observation begins now.  I need to do some deep breathing, review my notes for class, and make sure there are no sharp objects on my person (in case things really don't go well).

Saint Marty is now depressed and anxious and a little panicked.  Maybe he should just jump on a horse and go hide on Brokeback Mountain for a couple days.

November 7: Happy Moments, Annual Evaluation, Observation

Billy stayed in the wagon when it reached the slaughterhouse, sunning himself.  The others were looking for souvenirs.  Later on in life, the Tralfamadorians would advise Billy to concentrate on the happy moments of his life, and to ignore the unhappy ones--to stare only at pretty things as eternity failed to go by.  If this sort of selectivity had been possible for Billy, he might have chosen as his happiest moment his sundrenched snooze in the back of the wagon. 

It's a good concept--focusing only on the happy moments of your life.  Nice advice from the Tralfamadorians.  It would help me get through the rest of this week, or at least tomorrow night. 

What is happening tomorrow night, you ask?  Well, it is time for my annual evaluation at the university.  That means a full-time faculty member sits in my classroom, watches the circus I put on for my students, and then leaves with his notes on my abilities (or lack of abilities) to teach.  It's a nerve racking experience, every year.

Now, I have never really received a bad evaluation, and the gentleman who is coming tomorrow night is very friendly and pleasant.  He wants to go out for beers with me to talk about writing Catholic poetry.  That doesn't help me get through the actual Big Brother experience of being observed. 

If you haven't noticed before--if you are new to this blog--I tend to be a little neurotic about things like this.  I will over plan, create a startling lesson this evening, so that I can feel calm and at ease tomorrow night.  I will have PowerPoint, maybe a video.  I might read poetry or stand on my head.  If it were the right kind of class, I would do a pole dance, too.  All for the hour or so of that observation.

And then tomorrow night, I will come home and have a very strong special hot chocolate.

In the mean time, Saint Marty is going to think of the happy moments of his life, as the Tralfamadorians advise.  Pizza.  Thanksgiving turkey.  Filet mignon.  Buttered movie popcorn.  A nap . . .

November 9: Class Observation, Jennifer Reeser, "Souvenir"

Okay, on top of the trauma of last night's election results, I have another thing that is causing much anxiety.  In a little over an hour, I have to go teach my Intro to Film class.  That isn't causing me anxiety.  We're finishing up Brokeback Mountain and starting into our last film of the semester, It's a Wonderful Life.  That isn't what is causing me anxiety, either.

What is causing me anxiety is the fact that a colleague of mine is coming to observe my class for about the first hour.  It's my annual evaluation.  Now, I've taught this class many times before.  I've taught these films many times, as well.  It's not a big deal.  But, there is this impulse to really do something pedagogically impressive.  I want to "wow" this guy.  However, I will settle for not sounding like an idiot.

I didn't sleep well last night, because of the election results and my observation this evening.  As the time gets closer and closer, I'm getting more and more anxious.  The funny thing is that it will be over very quickly.  I will do the lesson that I've prepared, and then I will start the movie.  Period.  My colleague will leave with his notes and write up his evaluation.  It will either be good or bad.

The only thing I have control over this evening is my teaching.  I will do my best, and, hopefully, that will be enough.

Saint Marty may drink when he gets home tonight.

Souvenir

by:  Jennifer Reeser

So many mornings I awoke in tears
from one more dream of crying at her grave,
but she was always there, secure and strong,
perfumed with talc, or Oriental spice,
with perfect words and comfort cold as ice—
the only love I ever held too long.

January 31: Worry Worries, Another Evaluation, Classic Saint Marty

Welcome to the start of my morning.  Yes, it is quite early (a little past eight o'clock).  I find myself with some unexpected time on my hands this a.m., which almost NEVER happens.  So, I decided to make constructive use of these first minutes of my day by doing my daily blog post.

It's going to be a busy day.  I have much to accomplish--grading and reading and lesson planning.  Above, I have to complete my annual evaluation document for the university.  I worked several hours on it last night, and I will complete and submit it this afternoon.  This year, I am asking for a promotion, so there's quite a bit of extra pressure to make this little 40-page book as good as I can.  After 23 years of teaching at this institution, I am hoping that I won't be turned down.

In a few minutes, I have to go pick up my kids from grandma's house to take them to church.  They will be grumpy.  My daughter will be sighing and rolling her eyes, probably.  My son will whine and stomp his feet.  That pretty much describes the whole process.  It's fairly predictable.  I'm not complaining.  I'm an adult who understands the importance of a spiritual component in a person's life.  My kids are 14 and 7.  They understand the importance of sleeping in and playing computer games.

Two years ago, I was pretty much doing the same thing that I'm doing today:  working on my annual evaluation.  Strange how things change and yet stay the same, year after year.  Evaluation worries.  Kid worries.  Money worries.  Car worries.  Worry worries. 

January 31, 2014:  Surprise Work, End of a Long Day, Fairy Tale Work

It's going to be a busy weekend.  My daughter's ballet recital is tomorrow night.  That means she has a two hour rehearsal this evening and a two hour rehearsal tomorrow afternoon.  Then the show in the evening.  I am basically going to be a shuttle service Friday and Saturday.  And I still have to do some house cleaning to make some money.

On top of all that, I received an e-mail this morning from the English Department.  I have to write a document for my annual evaluation, and it's due by 5 p.m. on Monday.  I'm going to have to get that done this evening.  It's my only free time in the next few days.  Surprise work.  I have a feeling that, by Sunday afternoon, I'm going to be one tired little saint.

When Charlotte gets to the Fair Grounds with Wilbur, she's tired.  The end is very near for her, and she knows it.  Wilbur has no idea his friend is nearing the final days of her life:

"I'm awfully sorry to hear that you're feeling poorly, Charlotte," he said.  "Perhaps if you spin a web and catch a couple of flies you'll feel better."

"Perhaps," she said, wearily.  "But I feel like the end of a long day."  Clinging upside down to the ceiling, she settled down for a nap, leaving Wilbur very much worried.

Charlotte goes with Wilbur to the Fair because she knows her work is not finished.  Even when she feels like the end of a long day, she still has to save her friend's life.  At the end of my life, I know I'm going to be exactly like Charlotte.  There's still going to be some task I need to complete.  One last thing to do.  Work never goes away.  It just goes undone.

Once upon a time, there lived an old farmhand named Lotta.  Lotta rose every day before the sun, labored all day in the barn and fields, and fell into bed long after the sun was on the other side of the world.  Lotta never took vacations, and the milk from her cows was known to be the best in the kingdom.

One day, Lotta died, and nobody was there to take over her chores.  The cows went unmilked.  The corn rotted on the stalks.  And the pigs died of starvation.

Moral of the story:  Farms are a whole Lotta work.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Who does give a damn?

July 29: Abideth Forever, Annual Evaluation, Sharon Olds, "His Stillness"

And now, he [Ives] thought, his boy was dead, and even if he were to rise, to be reincarnated in some other form, their lives would not be the same.  What was that little quotation from the New Testament that had once impressed him when he was a boy?  A quotation he'd at one time always taken to heart, from 1 John 2:17:  ". . . The world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever."  Was that so?  Or was it that the world, their life, the familiar, the comfortable would not ever occur again?

A tough passage.  Ives coming to terms with the death of his son.  Ives has no idea how to return to his life.  Everything has changed, and he starts questioning if he'll ever know a "normal" day.  He walks down the street and can't look people in the face.  He wears sunglasses all the time, so nobody can see the caverns of loss in his eyes.  Always a gentle and caring soul by nature, Ives now has to work to be gentle, to scrape up compassion from the wounded chambers of his heart.

Today, I had my annual evaluation at work.  It was good.  The one comment my supervisor made that stuck in my head was, "You're always so positive, no matter what."  I try not to bring my problems to work.  I don't talk about the hole in my kitchen ceiling or the shingles falling off my roof.  My car was out of commission for three weeks in June, and hardly anybody in the office knew that I was begging for rides from friends and family.

And, of course, there's my sister's illness.  I'm sure most of my coworkers know about her condition.  However, I don't speak about it much.  Part of being a professional is not letting problems affect job performance.  For the eight hours I'm at the medical office, I'm positive.  All the time.  At 4:30 in the afternoon, I'm exhausted.

I think it's because, like Ives, I have to work at being normal, and normal for me is happy, joking, compassionate, and kind, according to my supervisor.  It used to be easy, because, in general, I like almost everybody I meet.  It isn't easy any more.  It's a performance.  A part in a play.  A long and unending play.  And it's incredibly taxing.

I don't smile much at home right now.  In fact, I'm sort of cranky.  By the time I walk through my front door in the evening, I'm tired of being happy and positive.  I just want to be myself, and myself is sad and angry and tired and a little confused. 

My sister is going to have a third round of chemo this week.  Then the doctor is going to order an MRI.  Depending on the results of that test, my sister will either continue with the treatment, or she will come home to be kept comfortable.  That's the reality of my life at the moment.  My normal.

Saint Marty is positive tonight.  Positive he's going to go home and have some of his son's chocolate milk mixed with Bailey's Irish Cream.

His Stillness

by:  Sharon Olds

The doctor said to my father, "You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now."  My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes.  I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out.  He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man.  The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you."  My father said,
"Thank you."  And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him.  This was my father.
He had known he was mortal.  I had feared they would have
to tie him down.  I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept silent to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still.  I had not
known him.  My father had dignity.  At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.

Which fish are you?

January 31: Surprise Work, End of a Long Day, Fairy Tale Work

It's going to be a busy weekend.  My daughter's ballet recital is tomorrow night.  That means she has a two hour rehearsal this evening and a two hour rehearsal tomorrow afternoon.  Then the show in the evening.  I am basically going to be a shuttle service Friday and Saturday.  And I still have to do some house cleaning to make some money.

On top of all that, I received an e-mail this morning from the English Department.  I have to write a document for my annual evaluation, and it's due by 5 p.m. on Monday.  I'm going to have to get that done this evening.  It's my only free time in the next few days.  Surprise work.  I have a feeling that, by Sunday afternoon, I'm going to be one tired little saint.

When Charlotte gets to the Fair Grounds with Wilbur, she's tired.  The end is very near for her, and she knows it.  Wilbur has no idea his friend is nearing the final days of her life:

"I'm awfully sorry to hear that you're feeling poorly, Charlotte," he said.  "Perhaps if you spin a web and catch a couple of flies you'll feel better."

"Perhaps," she said, wearily.  "But I feel like the end of a long day."  Clinging upside down to the ceiling, she settled down for a nap, leaving Wilbur very much worried.

Charlotte goes with Wilbur to the Fair because she knows her work is not finished.  Even when she feels like the end of a long day, she still has to save her friend's life.  At the end of my life, I know I'm going to be exactly like Charlotte.  There's still going to be some task I need to complete.  One last thing to do.  Work never goes away.  It just goes undone.

Once upon a time, there lived an old farmhand named Lotta.  Lotta rose every day before the sun, labored all day in the barn and fields, and fell into bed long after the sun was on the other side of the world.  Lotta never took vacations, and the milk from her cows was known to be the best in the kingdom.

One day, Lotta died, and nobody was there to take over her chores.  The cows went unmilked.  The corn rotted on the stalks.  And the pigs died of starvation.

Moral of the story:  Farms are a whole Lotta work.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Who does give a damn?