I’ve been super duper quiet this week because I’ve been mad busy fitting work around time spent with brilliant people. From taking @conversationinthehallway on an accidental tour of LSE Student Services with @dangerscully, to cobblestone beer adventures in Bruges with @kateyes224 to drinks tonight with Kristin and my British trashcrew, @chileananderson @mulderswaterbed @your-perfect-opposite - it has been all kinds of wonderful.
There are moments that deleting tumblr seems appealing, when the stupid gets loud, but what would I have missed? These ladies are worth it, and there are so many more of you that I am so excited to keep getting to know.
Bellatrix:A woman with thick, shining dark hair, long eyelashes and heavily hooded eyes… was sitting in the chained chair as though it were a throne. Andromeda:As she moved forward into the room, her resemblance to her sister Bellatrix became much less pronounced:Her hair was a light, soft brown and her eyes were much wider, and kinder. Narcissa: She was so pale that she seemed to shine in the darkness; the long blonde hair streaming down her back gave her the look of a drowned person.
A blog post by Paula Reed, who was a Forensics Science teacher at Columbine at the time of the massacre.
“I’ve decided to tell about a dream I had a number of years ago. I never told anyone about it, I guess because I always felt it was a rather unflattering dream. I felt guilty about it.
In my dream, I head into the English office in the morning, but I end up in the wrong room. It’s the publications room, fondly known as “The Pub.” Years ago, we switched out the English office and The Pub so the teachers could have a bigger space for meetings and collaborative work. Anyway, I go back into the old English office, and it’s set up the way it was originally. I look down, and I’m wearing a dress I can’t possibly be wearing because I gave it away. I know exactly the last day I wore it, and I feel a little sick. Then George, a retired Columbine science teacher turned substitute walks in with a box of miniature éclairs the kids baked the day before when he was subbing in foods class, and I know what day it is: April 20, 1999. And it’s early morning, so nothing’s happened yet.
I bolt from the English office and run to Frank, and I tell him he has to find Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, search their cars and the kids themselves. He has to call their parents and have them search the kids’ rooms. He thinks I’m nuts, but I’m shaking and as white as a ghost (Frank says), and I beg him. Then I run down the hall, and kids are flooding to first hour, and I find Dan and make him swear to God he will not go to the library for lunch. I’m searching the halls for Rachel when our school resource officer walks up and asks me how I knew.
They searched the cars and found everything, the guns, the pipe bombs, the propane tanks. “How did you know?” he keeps asking. And I try to tell him, but all that comes out is gibberish. He tells me I have to go to Frank’s office. I go, but Frank’s not there, so I sit down by myself.
There, alone, I think about what I’ve just done. I feel like I should be elated to have stopped it, but I what I’m thinking about is how many schools it didn’t happen to because after us, kids started to tell on each other. What other school have I consigned to the experience we just avoided? I realize that, even though it won’t happen to anyone else at school, it still happened to me. I can’t undo that, and now, everyone I knew who had been through it with me is the old them. They won’t understand how the event changed me. They’ll think I’m crazy. Feeling deeply ashamed, I can’t help but think of the (3 at the time of the dream) published books I’ve unwritten by changing history. I know I can’t write them again, and don’t even know whether I’ll feel any desire to write another book. My agent, Kristin, won’t know who I am.
I wonder how my own two kids will change, because this will change how my husband and I raise them. I do not regret preventing the shootings, but I feel very sad and alone.
I woke up before Frank came back to his office, so I don’t know where it all goes from there. Anyway, John’s blog entry is about a man who killed a child in an accident. He says of course he would undo that if he could, but he acknowledges that even such awful experiences can change us for the better. I totally get that.”
the lightning thief tour opening night. they said they’ve changed a few things. you do not worry. kristin is still annabeth. the show is still the same so far. you start to forgot that they said they’ve changed some stuff. my grand plan is next. kristin opens her mouth.
all the days are dead too soon. today i wore a sign around my neck: KILL WHAT YOU CANNOT SAVE. today my brother renamed every bone in his body: bestiary, wire doll, soldier’s boot. my skin in the sun will always sour, a fact i try to keep to myself. what’s that smell? my sister asks, but we ignore her. i tell her it’s today, dying too soon. my favorite book when i was little was Black Beauty. i cried over that horse, then wrote my first poem. people always ask me why all my poems are about captivity and i say i have dreams where all my bones are jarred out of their mouths. i tell them the first Chinese woman in america was kept inside a box. what a dream, they say. some of my friends own horses named after their fathers: washington, irving, samuel. in another dream i am riding their horse inside a box and the horse is sweating blood like in a Chinese myth, myths where i am tall as a tree and i have a flower instead of a tongue. i am riding the horse to a planet we named from a distance, a planet rising like a belly sincere with breath. but then the horse gets tired and falls. i am so tired. i am so tired. i am so tired, it is saying. the horse tells me to KILL WHAT YOU CANNOT SAVE, then lies down at my feet. i know what my friends choose to save. i know what kind of flesh can be loved and what kind of flesh can be weighed. it is so easy to cry over horses, gentle beasts. my hunger is a scream in a stranger’s mouth. my name is roadkill on tar, burning like an omen. every day my aunt asks, don’t you want to be a mother? i tell her i’m just trying not to be a moth, attracted to the things that burn me. i tell her i just want a fake lawn, something too beautiful to be real.
i am so tired, kristin chang
(aka this poem is too long…….also i thought i was clever bc of the mother/moth wordplay and wow i need to sleep)