That it? You proud.

Melissa Bridgette Etheridge knew nothing of the sallow mass writhing before her, or how she had come to share a name with a singer whom she also knew relatively little about.  It was clear from the cries that not only do cartoons feel pain, they can die.  But with a relatively swift kick, Burt Lancaster, yes- the actor, rode a horse into the scene I'm describing.  "Huzzah," he said, but it was so muffled by the gas mask I didn't tell you about that there was only an indistinct release of valves and the clink of ice cubes in a glass.  "Scotch's ready," said the bartender from Love Boat, a show I never watched.  He wasn't there, but a TV was on, somewhere, silently muted, something only dogs could hear.  There were no dogs, here.  This is a mall, and dogs aren't allowed in the mall, goddammit.  I've been a security guard here too goddamn long, and I don't need no dogs, with all the other shit I've got to deal with.  Rogue Santa flash mobs.  Pervert Easter Bunnies.  The Gap, that is, the gap in our balcony, in front of the Gap store.  People have fallen.  It's really pretty dangerous.

Letter of Disappointment 2

To all Uninterested Parties,

I am writing this letter to express my disappointment.  Some of you may have received my previous Letter of Disappointment,  and I appreciate your not reading it, a skill I'm sure you honed not reading my references, resume, previous work experience, degrees and licenses, and any other pertinent information contained on my curriculum vitae, a document and term I learned about at Graduate School, a place where I earned not only a MA of Education and $30,000 plus in debt, as well as a deep, brooding, not-affected disposition that often accompanies problematic situations, like my own. 

But, I want you to know that although I am very disappointed, I hope I am not disappointing.  Although this comes off as a sort of easy juxtaposition of similar terms, it's mostly florid so I avoid using those nasty and unpleasant terms, that I am disappointed I know.

Moving on with business, I'd like to outline a few disappointing aspects of our latest interactions.  Now, let's be clear:  Some of your have very difficult application processes, and some of you aren't hiring at all, and some of you are just untalented, middle of the road professionals who don't really make those deep changes needed to strengthen their skills, and improve the performance of their students.  This is addressed to all of you, but specifically those whose automated application processes don't even included automated rejections.  I'm disappointed that I'm excited to receive one of these auto-rejections. 

Ye gods man, it's almost as if a person interacted with me.  At least I know this one didn't just go out into the ether.  I want to thank you for the personal disappointment that an in personal interview and subsequent personal phone call means to a young professional.  This best of the worst situation, really cements a definite bell curve of anticipation, excitement, and dashed-hopes, or if you pardon my repetition, crushing disappointment. 

But, and this isn't about you, I haven't met most of you.  You'd know that if you consulted your files where you keep your resumes, a place I imagine that is only rivaled in scale by the fictional warehouse where the Ark of the Covenant resides in the last of the Indiana Jones films.  I'm really good at film, which I've actually developed some curriculum based around perspective and narrative; it's fairly adaptable and can really teach to the standards, show learning gains, and be extremely engaging especially when coupled with relevant history, cross-curricular teaching, and secondary sources, and I'm disappointed I'm not doing that right now.  Planning that lesson. 

I could tell you that I'm disappointed to be doing what I'm going to do tomorrow, to make a meager living, and be uninsured, but I'm actually disappointed that I'm not, that I'm grateful to have any sort of job.  I'm disappointed we won't have the opportunity to discuss this in person.

Professionally unfulfillingly yours,

D M K

Uhg.

I never believed in the soul until mine started to hurt.
I feel terrible and I feel fine.
I think my heart might literally split, from the hypertension caused by my disappointment. 

Thanks.

I should work in HR.
Which is surprising, and
I never would have though that I'd be softened
By constant professional rejection,
Not that I was particular hard to begin with, But
I think naturally,
As we get older,
There's a hardening.
But I'm getting softer,
Or smaller.
Diminished, for sure.
Less confident.
And it feels really terrible, to get no response
From a job application
From people who are supposed to be your colleagues,
But I worked in HR
I'd personally call every person back.
I'm sorry sir, but the administration has made the wrong choice,
You didn't get the job.
Good luck,
And I know there aren't any jobs left.
So really, good bye.
Have fun doing things you don't want to do,
While people who are worse at what you do want to do,
Fumble.
But god damn,
You can clean a floor.

How to take a fucking picture.

It always bothers me when people look unhappy in photos,
I'm not particularly happy
And I look a fuck of a lot cooler when I'm not smiling,
But I'll pick up a grin
That'll put your teeth in disorder,
Because this isn't about me,
And I want you to think that everything
Is going to be ok.

The male gaze.

Nobody takes photos of me, or particularly often.  It's just that you see some people, and their glamorous lives still shot, in places you'd like to be, good company.  Not me.  The camera adds ten pounds of beauty to already beautiful people.  But us men of statue prone to jerky elasticity and gaunt resignation freeze frame like, well, our jerky gaunt selves.  It's just that, I've always hated beautiful people.  Hate is a strong word.  But so is love, and beautiful people seem to find it falling over themselves regularly.  With regularity.  It's a burden, it's a whip, it's an ungazing eye.  But that eye is a camera sometimes burning indelibly those standards which we value onto paper.  It's like seeing the host of NPR for the first time, for me, for me.  It's like, I'm not how you'd think I look and I often get confused for other people.  Someone asked me if I hate my job today, and I said yes, but what I really meant was, I think you're terrible, this job is fine.

Captain

Sometimes I see people, they profess their adoration for artists, and writers, and musicians.  But, god, I hate it.  It's not jealousy.  You're missing the point, if you went there.  It's something about the way the worship is focused on the individual.  How the artist is the intrigue, not the creation.  And if the piece is were the worship is wielded, then why?  And when did this start and how will it end, and what will be next?  It always seemed like the point of it was that it's excessive.  That it's grotesque to express ourselves this way and look, look now, don't look away, it's happening, you can see it burning or blossoming or expressing itself in a way both noble and relatable.  Didn't sea captains, unknown intellectuals, have locks on their doors and the desk drawers, and when they shouldn't have been writing secret poetry at late hours by candlelight as the waves rocked and the seas rolled, and should have been charting the skies and checking the maps and quelling crew insurrection instead of sitting quietly with their pining and their pawing for women they have or want, or maybe it's not women at all, but something else, something more taboo or less taboo, and years later their children find what was written and it's either embarrassing for everyone involved or it's vaulted to great acclaim, but it was secret for a reason.

Lightfoot.

There is something sacred in the solitary lamp lit.
Ideally the distance between yourself and the object in question,
is two to four feet.
Any further, and you begin to separate what matters from the world.
And you know what?
A light on in the day,
is obscene.

Must.

Being bound by three laws is simple:  Don't Kill People, Improvise, Always Leave Some Space.  I parked my car between two other cars today, in an area where you can back in.  My car is small, and I have terrific spacial awareness.  You wouldn't know it, but I can catch a football in a dead run.  Not that my build suits itself to sport.

A time.

I think, part of my problem is that I have a romantic expectation, in the classical sense, that by distancing myself from people I know, and places I know, that by creating a self-imposed exile, that I'll emerge one day from the wilderness with something beautiful.  That people will look at me, and they'll think about what could have possibly happened.  About what great strides I've made, and what a person I've become, and there will be mystery.  The exile will exist in their minds as this period of unimaginable magic and growth. 

But it seems like, and I was going to write, "the truth is," but the truth is, I don't know, it seems like, people are what make us better.  People we know.  But I don't know. I'm still having a hard time.

-DMK.