Stored in my Neck

Early today I signed my new lease and handed over my security deposit just a block from the apartment I'll be moving into on Sunday. As I sat there, anxious pen hovering, my grip on the heft of what I was about to sign up for evaporated. The gentleman at the desk was incredibly kind, cheerful, and funny. I was drawn in by his candor and stayed for a story about his college career.
Then, my spirit was lifted up, I felt comfortable as closure on the "is this the right move for me" question was given, and the reason became clear: a glut of receptive souls in a new neighborhood whom I would teach by either opening or not opening my mouth. I was refreshed. Confident. And then found that I had signed everything and it was done.

Untitiled

Roughly two months before I would have started fifth grade my parent's began enrolling me in a Catholic school some distance away. It was a change, a possible restart for me, but most importantly, it was to save me.


The irony behind having a name like Mrs. Joy wasn't that she made all the children happy and joyful (wouldn't be ironic that way), it was that she had, by the middle of my third grade year, already caused enough damage to see one of her student's, Justin, parents relocate to Seattle. This sounds like an exaggeration, a tale from a movie in the 90's where all the kids thought their teacher was a monster or an alien or an ax murderer but it wasn't. She made Justin feel worthless, alone, and like a bad kid. His behavior at home started to change, and his parent's took notice. It wasn't long after that they knew something was up and began asking questions. "What's wrong?" "NOTHING! LEAVE ME ALONG!" he shouted back as he stomped up the stairs in tears.

After a few of these outbursts, they started analyzing where this could have come from. This lead them to his third-grade teacher. They took their complaints to the principal, nothing; to Mrs. Joy herself, an irritating and consistent nothing; to the school board, nothing - she had tenure, and had taught at the school for over ten years, so there was no touching her. Justin's parents were forced to turn toward other avenues to resolve the problem. Now, this was the mid-90's, the thought of kids going to see a therapist to "talk out their problems" really hadn't hit the mainstream yet and left them with very few options, but his mother had been offered a job in Seattle. So, in order to save their son's emotional health, they moved their life to Seattle. To escape.

Directly before the move, Justin's mother spoke with mine. They knew each other, not well, from school functions and my birthday sleep over party or something, but she confided in my mother with the warning to watch out for David. That, with Justin gone, she could turn her attention on the other kid who talked in class, who might not fit in as well with the rest of the class. My mother accepted the advice but wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. She hadn't heard anything about their being a problem with Mrs. Joy before. Hadn't heard any chatter from any of the other mothers from school. So, she didn't put the utmost credence in her warning.

Months later I wasn't just talkative, a little disruptive, I was an shouting, violent, and volatile. My parents weren't sure what was going on. I certainly wasn't the best behaved kid, but things were never this bad. My mother began poking around about Mrs. Joy, asking questions of some of the other parents and found that this woman had a list of students whom she humiliated regularly. I'm not talking about molestation or violence but a very obvious emotional and mental attacking of a kid; which can really screw someone up. As time progressed my parents were sheepish. My mother, at one point, tried to speak with her about what was going on and was easily ignored by her intimidating demeanor. She would question what Mrs. Joy was doing and Mrs. Joy would dismiss her as she dismissed me and everyone else. My parents were at a loss. They contacted the principal and school board only to find that her case had come before them several times and had been shot down by Mrs. Joy's domineering attitude. She had tenure, she owed them nothing, she was untouchable. By the end of the year I bottled it all up. Thought about others more than I thought of myself. Their well-being, their whim always seemed far more important than my own. I lost my personality and become an enabler. She had destroyed me

Then came fifth grade. Right after the school year ended my parents got word that Mrs. Joy would, again, be my teacher. They dropped everything, and thought about alternatives. What other schools could I go to, were they any good, would it be a good environment for me? Their search lead them to St. James, a Catholic School a few miles away, where my sister and I would transition to for a year. After that, I would move to middle school and my sister could go back to our previous school. I had no say in the matter, there was no consultation on the strategy. Just like my disastrous time in the third grade.

A little frustrated

So, as of September 1st I'm homeless. Shane, understandably worried about money issues, has backed out, and we lost our lease. I'm not sure what to do at this. So I'm freaking out a bit.

Reviewerish

We entered through a side entrance that was hidden from the rest of the building, like the mystery doors on busy city streets that lead to shoddy apartment or equally, if not worse, shoddy injury attorney’s offices. “Did you want to walk or take the elevator?” Joan asks. The faux marble flooring was noisy under our work shoes; wooden heels echoing throughout the short hallway. Taking the stairs, “its only one floor up? That’s good. If it were further we should have taken the elevator,” Soheila chirped turning the corner to see a new-looking door with decorative, angled glass framed by a soft wood. It looked like the door to a home, only cheaper; so as to say, the door itself would probably be knocked down with a single, quick shoulder or kicked through with a steel-toed boot to the base. Walking in, I realized this would not be a normal restaurant experience.

The door entered to a waiting room with knick-knacks hanging from clear, plastic hooks and signs about “wellness” and the “realignment of the spirit”, leading to a receptionist behind a table with expensive, polished rock jewelry. Just behind the receptionist, beyond the load baring wall and Chinese screen was our party, seated around a table, in a room with very little depth. Itself, the room was large enough for three small, circular tables that had been pushed together to accommodate our size, and to ensure that anyone else who wanted to eat would be forced to sit on the couch in the “waiting room”.

Turns out, the “café” was actually affiliated with a spa that surrounded it like a nest. It became clear that the kitchen was no larger than that of an inexpensive one-bedroom or studio apartment in Chicago; which would explain why we were required to phone in our order the day before to make sure our food was there, and wouldn’t take a substantial amount of time to prepare. Displayed above us was a variety, meaning five or six, pieces of art either created by the people who worked there or replicates of more well-known pieces. This information was pridefully advertised as you walk in the door as their “gallery”

After our meal, we were given a tour of the “spa”, which was buzzing like a dead air conditioning unit as the manicure and pedicure specialists sat about talking about their families and slothfully grunted and nodded their heads when we came past.

All in all, it was a very weird experience. The food was great, but the actual environment was less of a café or restaurant and more of a…private kitchen catering to clients of a spa.

Dragonflies and softballs

Last night the humidity drowned our lungs. As my teammates fielded grounders and pop ups and, later, I followed the bike path from Northwestern down to the lake and beyond gnats and other bunched together bugs got stuck to beads of sweat and facial hair. They would become attached and picked or brushed off with irritated sounds; like the sounds I'm sure they made, only inaudibly, when they got stuck. We would all just continue on, thinking very little of it afterwards.
I stood behind, as a catcher, offering advice to pitcher and hitter alike. As they swung and missed, swung and missed, then connected on the only good pitch to them so far. Some got discouraged as they dropped their bats and headed out into the field to swing at the dragonflies who gathered to feast. Scores zip, hovered, and dove through the encroaching swarms of bugs.
At several moments I became concerned about not wearing glasses. I thought the gnats and friends would meet my path, and become glued to my corneas; I would lose control, and hit the ground like being splashed by scalding oil. Soon there after I thought about other orifices, and decided to go home, stopping for a while to admire the hunting bi-planes as they maneuvered the air, perfect examples of how to use a three-dimensional space. And being smart enough to know when to dive in, right in front of us, and when to lay back and let them come to them.

Quick write about the things that occured earlier in the day

A friend of mine has asked the question: how does one rib shift over top of another?  This came up after I returned from a chiropractic adjustment to repair such a situation.  If anyone knows, by all means.

In the mean time, to explain what all has occurred, I was playing softball, made a play from the outfield and chucked the ball in to second.  Upon the third throw, sometimes to home, I felt a pull in my lower back.  So, I asked to move in to play second, afraid that I might have ended up damaging something.  Fast forward to two weeks later, after I sat out playing to "heal up" and get my health back in line.  I was playing second, before that I threw and warmed up my arm and felt pretty great.  After the forth or fifth play, I felt a pop in my back.  It was worse than before.  I tested the arm, just to make sure, and it was like an instant collapse.  I would feel a painful, extreme pull from my lower back to my rotator cuff.  So, I sat out again.

Fast forward, again, a week, my back wakes me up in the middle of the night, it hurts to sit at my desk and do work, so I set up an appointment with my friend and massage therapist, Ben Brown.  At that appointment, he told me there wasn't much he could do.  Pressed on some things, stretched somethings, but nothing felt better; it felt worse even.  So, I biked home.  Pain got worse.  Woke up in the middle of the night, downed four ibuprofens, passed out in a pool of sweat.  Woke up, biked to our retreat (feeling every turn of my body and bump of the road), and sat there unable to keep myself from wincing.  Soon there after, I couldn't take it anymore, called the chiropractor I heard about, and set up an "emergency appointment" (its called that because the doctor wasn't supposed to be in the office today, and made the appointment out of the kindness of his heart).  Cut to his office, his large, brown, spotted tongued dog scratching on the door to the office he/she was locked up in while the doctor took care of me.  The doctor looked down at me, standing at about 6'6" or so, asking questions about my back, about the injury, and told me that he was going to Lalapoloosa this weekend and only knew of two of the bands playing, "That's when you know you're old".