February 6: Shriller Than a Dog Whistle, Class Prep, Tentacled Hand

I don't have a whole lot of time this evening, so let's return to Zaphod Beeblebrox, sailing across the ocean on the planet Damogran . . .

What they completely failed to understand was why Zaphod was doing it.

He banked sharply, shooting a wild wall of water at the sun.  

Today was the day, today was the day when they would realize what Zaphod had been up to.  Today was what Zaphod Beeblebrox's presidency was all about.  Today was also his two-hundredth birthday, but that was just another meaningless coincidence.

As he skipped his boat across the seas of Damogran he smiled quietly to himself about what a wonderful, exciting day it was going to be.  He relaxed and spread his two arms lazily along the seat back.  He steered with an extra arm he'd recently had fitted just beneath his right one to help improve his ski-boxing.

"Hey," he cooed to himself, "you're a real cool boy, you."  But his nerves sang a song shriller than a dog whistle.

I know how Zaphod feels here.  On the outside, he looks completely relaxed, enjoying his little boat ride across the Damogran seas.  On the inside, his nerves are humming like a power line in a blizzard.  That's the way most of my days go.

For example, this afternoon, I taught my mythology class for the first time in a week and a half.  Weather has interfered the last two times the class was supposed to meet.  I prepared my lesson.  Went over my lecture notes.  Printed out the quiz.  Walked into the classroom, joking and looking completely calm.  Inside, I was a bundle of firing anxieties.

Every time I get ready to teach, this happens.  I worry.  Fret.  Recheck my notes.  Reevaluate my lesson.  It's all part of the process for me.  I've done this ever since the first composition class I taught over 25 years ago.  I think of it now as part of my class prep.  If I were to make up a checklist for getting ready for class, one of the last items on that list would go something like "Have a nervous breakdown."

Today was no different.  The class went great.  We were talking about the hero myth, and so we got into the Jesus narrative, Luke Skywalker, and Harry Potter.  I could tell most of the students were really into it.  They were talking, responding to questions, laughing.  It was so much fun.  However, fifteen minutes before I entered that room and started talking, my mind was running at full speed, filling me with all kinds of self doubt and hatred.

In a few minutes, I'm heading to a basketball game with my daughter.  She's playing in the pep band.  I will sit in the bleachers, read a book, and enjoy some popcorn and the music.  The stress has disappeared.  Don't worry.  When I wake up tomorrow morning, it will wave its tentacled hand at me in the dark, and I will start another day of anxious self-recrimination.

Saint Marty is kinda used to it.  It sorta feels like the tree outside his window, weighted down with a jacket of beautiful, heavy ice.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below:

Vote for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the U. P.