Check out my friend Matt’s new album: Discontinued Perfume from The Caribbean on iTunes. Great lyrics, layering of sounds and melodies. They Might Be Giants meets Hunky Dory. This is Wilco challenging Sufjan to a thumb war. No it is not. This is totally cool and original.
It has been years since I heard this poem. Tonight, blasting it from the biggest speaker in the house. Mavis hearing it for the first time. A poem about anxiety, transfixed by things that could go wrong, listening to the mermaids singing each to each, measuring days in coffee spoons. And that fog making itself comfortable, while everything else is way too clear.
Intense Cindy who rules the reading and writing pages: I thought she was crazy to teach Dante’s Entire Trilogy but that stuff turns out to be damn interesting.
Three Latin teachers who fire her up in three entirely different ways: I think Doc Rosenquist would have been proud.
A Java instructor in South Dakota who communicated in three word sentences.
A drawing teacher in Shepherdstown who revels in anything Bigfoot.
A math teacher who is literally also a paid comedian.
Ron who sells produce and zen from his truck.
Ann at Subway who has raised a lot of children and sneaks in free ice-tea when no one is looking.
So many teachers.
Thinking of the end-of-summer-courage of teachers and coaches, prepping the new schedule, the bookshelves, the policies, pushing the chairs around, cleverly putting friendly reminders near the wall clock. All that readiness for a group of students who might be in a thousand different places, needing all kinds of everything.
The great Lyman Williams. Missing and missed two years. Father of my buddy, Rusty. Geology professor and Interlochen summer camp science museum curator. I can hear his bagpipes winding from the valleys to the high meadows of Sheepshead in the San Juan Mountains, his cheery, spindly, Dick Van Dyke laugh and hello.
We checked into a Wilkes-Barre, PA hotel last night that has a ballroom where very old people danced to big band music in full formal attire.
The ancient dancers slipped into their rooms and under the covers and slept like the dead.
A little woried for them.