I always kill my own black snakes

Last year when I was doing my education course, I was lucky enough to experience the best teacher I’ve ever had. As with all teachers you look back fondly on with a mixture of nostalgia and lasting appreciation, it is hard to articulate why I liked her so much. Perhaps it was because she was a woman of about 70 who had a certain wisdom those younger teachers could never match, and to me, she knew everything. I had not felt that way about an adult for a very long time, the critical young thing I am. She is the type of grandparent I have always felt I should have had. When she started a story, you knew she wasn’t going to finish it in a hurry, but that only added to her allure. She has been the only lecturer I would happily attend an 8AM tute for 3.5 hours on a Monday morning for.

When it came time for my practicum program, Margaret was assigned as my “visitor”, which basically meant that if I was incompetent or mentally unstable at any point during the process, she was supposed to fix everything and, as she put it, “go in to bat for me”. On her second visit, I prepared the most awesome lesson in the world, but my supervising teacher was absent. Young, vulnerable and inexperienced, I cried. It didn’t help that the day before I had begun my prac, my slut of a girlfriend dumped me, probably for a physically abusive Bosnian male who engages in gang rape on the weekends. I guess it was a mixture of pressure, anxiety and anger that led to the waterworks, but it was a horrific day and one I cannot look back on without severe cringe. She talked me through everything, which is probably the reason I persevered and winded up completing the program with awesome reports that subsequently landed me the first job I was interviewed for.

Anyway. About two hours after I was interviewed for my current job, I got a phone call from this woman telling me they had already called her (as she was my first reference) and she was confident they would offer me the position. I remember her telling me that they had mentioned that I was, “a very intense girl”, and that it was very unprofessional for her to be telling me that my prospective employer had called her. But I have an affinity for you, Laura, she told me as I beamed with pride. She is the type of lady who has been around the QLD Secondary English block more than a few times, so I figured if she was telling me the job was mine, that she knew what she was talking about. She was right.

The other thing she told me during that phone conversation was that she had cancer. For the second time in the presence of this woman, I began to cry. What else could a 21-year-old do when their mentor tells them of an illness that will probably kill them? Before this, the only person I had ever known that had cancer was my grandfather, who died just a few months after his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. I was 11 at the time, and although we were never extremely close, witnessing a healthy person deteriorate and die – witnessing your father cry for the first time in your life for the death of his father – made my perception of cancer anything but optimistic. Every weekend for a couple of months we drove to Pindara Hospital and watched him get more frail and crazy from the Morphine, until my brother and I eventually weren’t allowed to go anymore, because it was all too fucked up.

When I received word that I had secured the job I applied for, I called her immediately. I asked how she was doing. She told me she had a fantastic doctor; a researcher who used his own methods to rid her of the bag-of-orange-sized tumors in her abdomen, and the golf-ball-sized ones in her head. I know she sensed my fear, and that her optimism was probably just a front. How could a person be optimistic with cancers growing inside of them? When we ended the conversation, I felt genuinely hopeful. She had, after all, always had all of the answers. If she told me this doctor was a miracle worker, what choice did I have but to believe her? She had never steered me in the wrong direction before. She told me to keep in touch.

First term flew by. I didn’t call. Perhaps I was scared, or unsure of what to say to such a sick person. I told myself I would call in the holidays. But a week at Easter seems like no time at all, so I never made the time. Second term dragged, but I kept telling myself I would do it the next day. My first priority when I stepped in the door of an afternoon was to get stoned, and how could I call a cancer-patient while I was high, and probably giving myself cancer? In the next lot of holidays I’ll do it, I told myself on the drive home each afternoon. Each time I thought this, I despised myself a little more. For all I knew, this woman I claimed was my mentor, the inspiration that kept me walking in a straight line, could be being buried in the ground. Yet still, I was not sprung to action. Writing down what were only fleeting thoughts between the afternoon radio programs on my drive home shame me more than the sense of duty I dismissed thoughtlessly at the time.

In the holidays after second term, I read Tuesdays With Morrie. “The subject was ‘The Meaning of Life’. It was taught from experience,” says Mitch Albom, the author. The blurb reads: Maybe it was a grandparent, a teacher or a colleague. Someone older, patient and wise, who understood you when you were young and impassioned, helped you to see the world as a more profound place, and gave you sound advice to guide your way through it. For Mitch Albom, it was Morrie Schwartz, the college professor who taught him nearly twenty years ago. Perhaps, like Mitch, you lost track of this mentor as the years passed, the insights faded, and the world seemed colder. Wouldn’t you like to see that person again, to ask the bigger questions that still haunt you, and receive wisdom for your busy life the way you once did when you were younger? Mitch Albom got that second chance, rediscovering Morrie in the last months of the older man’s life. Their rekindled relationship turned into one final ‘class’: lessons in how to live. Tuesday’s with Morrie is a magical chronicle of their time together.

Third term came along. This it is, I told myself. There are no more excuses. The year is nearly over, and the whole reason you’re here is because this woman vouched for you. Would you even be sitting in this shiny Mazda 2 if not for this alleged mentor of yours? Probably not. Call her, you selfish idiot. I couldn’t even convince myself that I was too busy, because I knew that was just an excuse. If you can’t make the time to call the woman you wish was your own grandmother, what kind of person does that make you? Fucking selfish. Disgusting. The reason I deserve to be, and am, alone.

It is currently week 9 of term 3. On my drives home this term, I have often thought about what might happen if I made that call. Perhaps that was what I was so scared of – no answer. What happens to a person’s phone number when they die? Is it simply disconnected; strewn into the abyss of once-used numbers, never to ring again? Or would it be re-distributed to a new family? Maybe a young child would answer the phone, and I would know. Or would there be an automated message played for a period of a year, regrettably informing callers that the number being dialed belonged to a citizen who was now deceased? The thought that I had let my uncertainty reach this level shamed me to my very core.

Today when I arrived home from school and poured myself my usual Southern Comfort with Pepsi Max, I made the split-second decision to call. It was a Monday, after all, and seemed an apt day. With hardly even a thought, I retrieved the number from my mobile and punched it into the home phone. The number was so familiar; I had almost forgotten that I had it memorised last year when I would call her every couple of nights during prac, begging for guidance and reassurance that I was plodding along the correct life path. She gave it to me every time. Not one to disappoint, after two rings, she answered the phone. Hello? she said, and I could hear the familiar smile in her voice. I have never felt such a sense of relief. All those drunken trips in Paul’s car with a full, drunken bladder pressing against my insides had nothing on that one word. Oh my God, I thought, what do I say? I didn’t rehearse this part.

“Hi Margaret, it’s…”
“Well that voice is a blast from the past,” she said immediately.
“I know,” I said, “I was just calling to say hello and see how you’re doing. I really… I don’t know why I haven’t called sooner. I feel like such an idiot.”
Straight away she said that last time we had spoken, she had told me of a serious illness she was hoping to beat. Again she sung the praises of her brilliant doctor, and told me she had beaten it. She said her hair was just starting to grow back, black and curly – she hardly recognised herself. I laughed, and without missing a beat she asked how I was going with teaching. It amazed me that somebody who had just beaten the most serious type of cancer imaginable could concern themselves with the petty happenings of a student who had not bothered to call for the past 7 or so months.

We spoke for about 20 minutes. She said she needed to go because she was minding some geriatric cats of her daughters’ that would meow continually with increasing volume at approximately 5pm each day, and she felt bad for the man next door who worked the night shift and used his afternoons to catch up on sleep. For some reason I laughed hysterically at this, thinking it sounded like something from a television show. Even after she said this, we continued chatting for a while. She told me about good schools to apply for next year, but I said I was happy where I am and want to stay on. She asked if I was making friends in the right places, and I told her that I was – that they seemed to love me. She sounded impressed, yet not surprised by this, which made me happy. She asked if I handled my classroom behaviour problems on my own, or whether I referred them to the office. I told her I didn’t like handing my problems over to somebody else, and she reminisced about a conversation she once had with Bruce Dawe.
“The Planning a Time Capsule guy?” I asked, remembering my favourite poem she had shown my class of three the previous year.
“Ah, you remember,” she said, “I must have done that poem to death. Well, when we were walking along together one day, we were speaking about this very issue, and he told me – ‘I always kill my own black snakes’, which I think was very good advice.”
“Wait a minute, you know him!?”
“Yes, I just said that! We’re both geriatrics, we know each other.”
I couldn’t believe my mentor was handing me down advice from Australia’s best poet. I told her I would remember that advice, and I could hear the smile again in her voice when she said that it was very me. Only adding to it’s beauty was the fact that the quote didn’t register on a google search. It’s an original. I will remember it for the rest of my teaching career, whatever its’ longevity.

Being that she is one of the few people who can make me well-up with tears, she told me that despite everything that had happened this year, she feels truly blessed. She said she realised what wonderful people her children were. She told me how they took turns flying in from interstate to be with her after her 8 horrible treatments, and that during that time she got to know each of them as individuals and came to realise the fantastic values each of them lived by. She sounded so truly grateful for the experience of near-death that I could not help but accept it. “I know you would do the same for your mother, Laura,” she told me when I sniffled away a tear, “Or your father. I know you would.”

“This has been like a good cup of coffee,” Margaret announced as she was wrapping up the conversation for the third or fourth time, “I have enjoyed it very much.” She also told me to keep in touch, and that is another piece of her advice I definitely plan on following.

Everybody Hates a Winner

I’ve been thinking about winning and losing lately. I think Tracey Grimshaw opened this can of brain candy for me when she was having her little on-air spat-back at Gordon Ramsay. She couldn’t stand being the one who was poked fun of. Her pride was hurt. So she did what she does best, and found a victim to fry – all the better if she has a vested interest, because it enables her to use them as a scratching post for her claws. For her, losing to some Pommie womaniser was simply not an option. Knowing that Ramsay had only “bullied” Grimmace to an individual group, she had the upper hand – up quite high, in fact, on a platform known as television. Channel 9. How can Ramsay really compete with the people who keep him on the air in Australia? The whole reason he’s here in the first place (publicity)? Of course she knew he had to lose. And I have discovered that that is the reason why I hate Tracey Grimshaw – everybody hates a winner, especially if they had an unfair advantage.

Today was the netball grand final. If I have any annonymous readers (my statistics seem to suggest that I do not), I coach a netball team who made it to the grand final, but lost today. I watched them from the sidelines for two months or so, and for the first four weeks we won, with ease. We all thought the series was in the bag – the girls were cheery on court, making small-talk with the competitors and just generally being good sports. Then suddenly we started playing the hard teams, and the girls started to get a bit catty. Well, cats seems too weak of an analogy – they were more like hungry dogs chasing after the netball like a steak after a week of starvation. If the second half had of lasted for another five minutes, there would have been a brawl for sure. The B team had to forfeit their game after 2 minutes due to one of ours beating the shit out of a member of the opposition, blood and all. My team’s was a really close game, but the girls just couldn’t match the skills of the opposition. But they were so desperate for it. The thought of failure at this didn’t fit the image they had of themselves, and when it happened, it was a tough reality to swallow. Most were too angry to shake the oppositions’ hands, a couple tried to start the “bitchy-comments-that-are-just-loud-enough-for-you-to-hear” shit, and one or two were actually good sports (the ones with the reddest faces, keeling in pain from over-exhertion – maybe there’s something in that).

But the thing that surprised me was that during the presentation ceremony for the winners, all the teams that won seemed to begrudge going up on stage. They had to wait until the archetypal butch, over-enthusiastic PE teacher coaxed them up, and the suggestion of a photo sent them into a groan-and-hide spin. I’m pretty sure that if that was my girls, they would have run up there and screamed and cheered and demanded multiple camera angles and written down their email addresses to have copies sent out by 3. Or am I wrong? Does losing cause more of a reaction than winning? If so, why? Are we so accustomed to “winning” in life that we begin to feel a sense of entitlement? That we are the best because we deserve to be, and anything else would be an injustice?

At the end of the day, I think we’re all just dogs trying to be the first one to get to that steak – whether that steak is an argument we simply must win, getting the best grade in the class, getting out of an unhappy relationship (the prize here is freedom), or Mr. Macho setting his eyes on the hottest little twink on Brunswick Street. If you want it hard enough, ‘want’ becomes ‘need’, and need becomes ‘have’ – because losing is not an option. Losing means we aren’t what we thought we were, or that we can’t do what we thought we could. Sometimes this failure tells us to stop trying. Why would you want to repeat such a feeling? But the thing is, if you stop trying, then that ‘want’ will never have the opportunity to grow into ‘need’. It will instead fester and probably go mouldy and fill your life with nothing but feelings of inadequacy. I think it’s chasing that feeling of winning that truly allows us to live – and even though victory rarely tastes as sweet as we had imagined, it helps us from getting lost in our failures. A failure who truly believes they are a failure has nothing left to give – their delusions disappear. If we’re chasing the win, then we get to keep our delusions – we get to think we’re great and intelligent and good at lots of different things, and we know this because we have the pride and the losers have nothing but the knowledge they’re inferior. There are two options for a loser: 1) Quit, or 2) Keep trying for the win.

And that is why I’m at the beat every weekend.

http://www.ncaachampionmagazine.org/Championship%20Magazine/ChampionMagazineStory/ArticleListings/tabid/61/articleType/ArticleView/articleId/45/Default.aspx

Today’s Parable

The Parable of the Ten Minas

¹¹While they were listening to this, he went on to tell them a parable, because he was near Jerusalem and the people thought that the kingdom of God was going to appear at once. ¹²He said: “A man of noble birth went to a distant country to have himself appointed king and then to return. ¹³So he called ten of his servants and gave them ten minas.^[a]‘Put this money to work,’ he said, ‘until I come back.’

¹⁴“But his subjects hated him and sent a delegation after him to say, ‘We don’t want this man to be our king.’

¹⁵“He was made king, however, and returned home. Then he sent for the servants to whom he had given the money, in order to find out what they had gained with it.

¹⁶“The first one came and said, ‘Sir, your mina has earned ten more.’

¹⁷” ‘Well done, my good servant!’ his master replied. ‘Because you have been trustworthy in a very small matter, take charge of ten cities.’

¹⁸“The second came and said, ‘Sir, your mina has earned five more.’

¹⁹“His master answered, ‘You take charge of five cities.’

²⁰“Then another servant came and said, ‘Sir, here is your mina; I have kept it laid away in a piece of cloth. ²¹I was afraid of you, because you are a hard man. You take out what you did not put in and reap what you did not sow.’

²²“His master replied, ‘I will judge you by your own words, you wicked servant! You knew, did you, that I am a hard man, taking out what I did not put in, and reaping what I did not sow? ²³Why then didn’t you put my money on deposit, so that when I came back, I could have collected it with interest?’

²⁴“Then he said to those standing by, ‘Take his mina away from him and give it to the one who has ten minas.’

²⁵” ‘Sir,’ they said, ‘he already has ten!’

²⁶“He replied, ‘I tell you that to everyone who has, more will be given, but as for the one who has nothing, even what he has will be taken away. ²⁷But those enemies of mine who did not want me to be king over them—bring them here and kill them in front of me.”

The reason for this parable is that I thought it reflected what this post has been about. If you replace the word “minas” in the story with “talents”, I think we can see that the message is that we must use the talents we have been given, and we shouldn’t fear losing. What happens to the servant who is afraid, and keeps to himself exactly what he has? He falls behind in business and in life.

So if everybody hates a winner, and everybody hates a loser, what do you have to do to be loved?

Lucky Day

Not really, it was pretty shitful, but I’m trying to be optimistic. I just opened a bag of Allen’s Retro Party Mix, and I got the most pineapples (my favourite) – 12. That was significantly higher than most of the others, which were:

Teeth – 1
Cars – 3
Raspberries – 6
Lips – 7
Coke Bottles – 9
Honey babies – 11

I’m sorry for such a terrible opening. I was stalling because I’m running out of things to talk about, and I haven’t talked about anything yet.

Making Days and Citing Scripture – Who Am I?

Hello again. I’m sticking with it, but am becoming increasingly bored by the sound of my own keyboard. I’ve realised I don’t have as much to say as I thought I did, and anything that seemed important in my head usually doesn’t by the time I get it on paper/a screen. And I would so hate to be the person who can’t talk about anything but their job (because they don’t have anything else), even though I fear I already am that person. I wish my friends were all teachers so I didn’t have to be as conscious of it. But then again, I wish all (ha, ‘all’ makes it sound like so many) of my friends owned Bermuda Beach Cruisers as well. Speaking of…

Thismorning I left a note on the bench saying, “Dad, bet you $25 that the $25 minute promise is a lie”. I thought I was creating work for the old man, that he might decline my generous offer for fear of re-injuring his back or something… But when I got home, there is was on the patio, shiny and ready to go. Apparently I was completely wrong about Dad’s attitude to building it – Mum reported that it reminded him of his childhood, when he and his brothers would find shitty bikes, rip them apart and re-build them. Just remember, this was a time when marbles were the closest thing to a gameboy you could get, so it was the simple pleasures that did it… He even took it for a “blockie” (mum’s words) and to the mechanic next door, who got out a toolbox and everything (dad’s report to mum). Apparently it made his day. He should give me $25 as thanks for the nostalgia…

Meanwhile, the dude from the bike shop tried to swindle me out of my helmet-pads. It’s this really awesome, shiny, white helmet worth $49.99 (1/3 of my bike’s price!!!), and the dude asks me if I want the box. I figure, if he’s asking, then it’s obviously not something people usually want. I tell him no. It felt weird to walk out of a store with only a helmet, no bag or anything, but I did it. As I was walking to the car I was reading the tag, and it was talking about “multiple head pads” and a couple of other things… I was like, wtf, and walked back to the bike store. Both attendants were out the back, and I waited about 60 seconds before the guy who served me came back out. I’m like “Sorry to be a pain, but it says there’s meant to be helmet pads and stuff. Could I grab those?” I cursed myself as SOON as I said sorry. Why would I apologise? He knew exactly what was in the box! So he grabs this box, pulls out the pads, and hands them to me. I looked inside the box and saw some other stuff, like stickers and crap like that, so I’m like “yeah I’ll just grab the lot” and he didn’t extend out the box. I stared at him and said “YEP I changed my mind, THANKS!”, removed the box from him, and left the store, never to return again. The little weasel fucking knew. Their stupid bikes were overpriced anyway. I saw one that looked exactly like mine for $499.

Today I am going to do something you might think is bizarre and leave you with a parable that I really like. I just think it’s cool that Jesus was all about the sinners, and it’s one of those metaphors/allegories/analogies that works on about 1000 different levels. If you take out the rejoycing in heaven part, you really don’t have to look at it as a religious story at all – I don’t.

The Parable of the Lost Sheep

¹Now the tax collectors and “sinners” were all gathering around to hear him. ²But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

³Then Jesus told them this parable: ⁴“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? ⁵And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders ⁶and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbours together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ ⁷I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.

Anything that seems too good to be true, probably is.

Example 1.

Yes, that’s right, reader, today was the day I bought RetroDreamBike09 AKA the Bermuda Beach Cruiser. After approx. 80 minutes, this is what I managed to come up with:

At the 85th minute, I had a breakthrough.

But look closely at the front wheel…

See that stupid piece of metal? What’s it doing there? The wheel can’t complete a revolution! Gahhhh. I left it outside in the hope Dad will find it, fix it and have it waiting for me tomorrow when I get home from school. It’s my own fault for not paying the measly$16.50 assembly fee. I think it’s fair to say I prefer to waste my money on goods rather than services (So I suppose that means the hookers of Brisbane won’t be hearing from me until they start giving out gift bags).

So, another Monday gone. Only one more this semester   There is a really specific feeling to Sunday nights, isn’t there? All Sunday nights feel pretty much the same. Completely relaxed, but in direct opposition you have that familiar sense of dread. Last night, as I was watching my millionth episode of Oz for the day, I realised, shockingly, that I must actually be happy where I’m working, because that dread wasn’t there. I wasn’t like please God let the weekend be over because I am boring and hate my life so much, but I felt good. Content. I mean, you know, so lonely I could die in the Love Game, but that’s another story. Right now, my life seems analogous with this:

Except in my life, I don’t have all the pieces of the pie just yet. I’m hungry for it though. And the fact that I don’t want to kill myself on a Sunday night is probably a sign that my life isn’t a complete toilet.

Sigh, me and my stupid analogies – now all I can think about is hot apple pie with ice cream.

Today was a pretty boring day at school. My three highlights were:
1) Discovering that the 30 pack of pencil topper erasers I bought for $1.99 were also scented in 7 delicious flavours
2) Taking movie popcorn and eating it constantly throughout the day
3) Telling my fave female Pacific Islander to stop beating the shit out of 2 boys (at once)

What’s Been Eating Gilbert Grape
The tuckshop lady doesn’t serve teachers. I don’t know why. It’s disappointing to learn that half the reason you became a teacher has been torn from you.

I feel a bit overstimulated atm to tell you the truth. There’s just so much fun stuff I could be doing (although my idea of fun is probably kinda loserish). When I was a kid all I wanted to do was read books, invent shit and do schoolwork – now all I want to do is play games, watch dvds and avoid schoolwork (I like the place, but marking senseless assignments isn’t my fave thing to do).

This was a work-heavy post and I apologise. I generally hate it when people talk about their jobs (unless I ask). I’ll try for something a little more exciting tomorrow. The truth is, I’m tired and didn’t want to post at all, but I felt like a complete sham pulling out after just one day, so I persevered.

Later

PS. Yesterday I bought 30 ghost drops – best decision ever!

Relax, I’m Here

Hello friends and stalkers, welcome to my new blog. I actually posted a lengthy piece about some pokemon cards I purchased in 1999 that have skyrocketed in value, but I deleted it because nobody read it (I checked the stats). I guess that’s my fault for not telling anybody I actually had a blog…

Anyway, I’ve made a pledge to myself to write at least 500 words per day and publish it here. 500 words isn’t a huuuge amount of writing, but I think after about half a day I’ll run out of things to say and quit my program. I figure making the pledge and then failing is better than having no intention to even try (my attitudes towards things like ‘putting in 100%’ and ‘giving everything a go’ have changed a lot over the last 6 months).

Let me tell you about my most recent love. Anybody who knows me will probably realise that when I want something, my willpower diminishes to a level roughly eqivalent to that of a 5 year old. Especially in the areas of food and games. For example, I am often the one who will demand a group outing to the local buffet trough despite having no appetite or money. I am the one who spends $15 at The Sweet Corner on Ghost Drops and Pineapples (2 hours ago) because, in that moment, I believe that if I don’t have it, I will regret my decision forever and die unhappy. Somebody like Paul would say he would be happier with the $15, because it would still be there long after the blue dye has faded from my tongue and the crevices between my teeth. I understand his point and wish I could share that perspective, but I just… can’t. Like I said, no willpower. Argh, I digress. The point is, my latest obsession is a bike. Not just any bike, but the Repco Bermuda Beach Cruiser for $148 at Big W. The store closes in 70 minutes and I’m still unsure. Here, take a look:

I don’t know where I would ride it or how frequently, but surely this yearning inside of me means something, right? What is the point of keeping something from myself if it will lead to nothing but longing and regret? Sigh. I think I’ve got some problems.

Yesterday was Pride. We marched behind the banner of ‘Soft Shame’, and I think we really found our niche in the GLBT community. I’m obviously being facetious. A lot of the day involved being caged in a pen with either the drinkers or the smokers, and I’ve gotta say, walking from cage-to-cage all day made it feel a little bit like Rec Time in Oz. Okay not really, I’m exaggerating. I actually had a really fun day. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been out from 8:30am-12:30am on a Saturday, if ever. Stupid target ruined my life for 6 years, it’s really cool to actually be able to have weekends now. It’s so adult… (George quote?) The highest point of the day for me was probably our time at the Plough Inn, because I was at my drunkest and had a comfortable leather couch to sloth on while I raided my ‘’showbag”.

It’s now just under an hour until the shops close, and I am no closer to making a decision regarding the bike. Okay, here’s what I’ll do – tomorrow on my way home from school, I’ll swing into Medicare and get money back for all of my doctors appointments lately. I will then toddle over the road and use that money for the bike. That way everybody wins, and by everybody, I mean me.

There you go, there’s 600+ words for you to feast on. I demand that you all add me to your Bookmarks immediately.

THE END