Skip to main content

On Being a "Mystery Reader"

 So much happens during a "mystery reader" engagement; you're drowning in stimuli. Each child is at the center of a compelling, high-octane drama. The one with sensory issues has his hands over his ears, the little sibling with aching gums has bright red cheeks and occasional convulsions (from the sobbing).


A dreamy boy has a memory of playing outside, in the winter; the lesson screeches to a halt as this boy gets lost in his reverie. He is curiously detached from his audience; sentences begin, and meander, and trail off. His voice becomes inaudible. Listless peers stick their fingers in their noses.

Two little girls have their shit together (it's generally the girls). They have answers at the ready. They want the train to keep chugging, chugging, chugging along.

This year, I chose to read "A Home in the Barn," mainly because we could all sing "Old McDonald," at the end, and we could become various farm animals. The suspension of disbelief is thrilling; you just *are* a doggy, because you have announced that you're a doggy.

At the same time, I'm so happy not to be doing this on a daily basis.

My "career coach" wants me to "journal" about past "work experiences" that have "brought joy." It's not a great sign that I can't write about this person without deploying scare quotes--again and again and again. What I notice is that I feel deep ambivalence; my default mode is to be home, in front of a heater, reading and writing, but if I don't get out into the world, then I have nothing to write about.

Noting this is progress, I guess. I have a few more meetings on the horizon.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more