i suck at titles

saptamana aasta am avut o sedinta cu parintii mai speciala un pic,
o diriginta careia ii e frica de parinti si de directiune poate sa sprijine foarte putin copiii - de fapt, poate sa le faca mult rau chiar.
nu vreau sa zic despre diriginta nici ca e rea, nici ca e proasta - sunt insa convinsa ca pur si simplu cand e vorba de scoala, relatia profesor-elev, interactiunile cu parintii, nici nu se gandeste la chestii gen autenticitate, sinceritate fata de sine si ceilalti. ce conteaza e disciplina, si "sa fie bine" - adica sa nu se agite apele. pe principiul ca daca tacem din gura si vorbim cu "dvs" si ne imbracam in taior si pantofi cu toc, n-o sa aiba nimeni cum sa ne puna la indoiala "profesionalismul"... iar pe copii trebuie sa-i "tinem bine in frau" si sa nu le dam impresia ca pot sa "faca ce vor ei" - chiar daca sunt copii buni, un regim prea permisiv poate sa-i "strice." pai nu? [dedic dirigintei si directei poezia some rules, de wendy cope, see below]
din filozofia asta a dirigintei, combinata cu o filozofie foarte asemanatoare la directoarea adjuncta, plus un dram serios de populism la cea de-a doua, a iesit o situatie de toata jena acum vreo luna. am simtit nevoia sa clarificam un pic lucrurile, pentru a evita further discomfort pentru puffy penguin (numele de cod/clasa al pustoacei al carei tata a dat cu oistea-n gard, fara stirea/vrerea ei, iar diriginta si directa i-au dat din pacate o mana de ajutor ca s-o dea in gard cat mai tare. en fin, sedinta de saptamana asta iesit bine, toata lumea a inteles ca my self-assumed responsibility e sa sprijin pustii cum pot mai bine, si ca NU o sa vorbesc "like a lady" la clasa:) mi s-a luat o pietricica de pe inima c-a mers bine - unde mai pui ca n-au avut reactie aiurea nici la pierce-ul din nas, nici la mohawk-ul cel violet, iupidu <3
alta chestie misto de la scoala saptamana asta: macbeth ca punct de pornire pt discutii ample despre normele/constrangerile de gen. am mai spus-o, se stie, dar o s-o mai zic o data aici: i ADORE 10U3, charas NU ii merita. 
pe alte planuri narative:
saptamana asta am primit o invitatie intr-un board fitzos - am refuzat din lipsa de incredere si energie de investit in chestii politice, cu un picior in ong-isme... mi-e din ce in ce mai greu sa cred in altceva in afara de one-person-at-a-time sau, hai fie, one-small-group-at-a-time.
tot saptamana asta am primit o invitatie pe care am acceptat-o - sa bag o doza de inspiratie la learnity - pentru cine nu stie, asta e programul de liceeni al cross/univ. alternativa, iar eu sint mare mare fan. o sa fie vineri pe 7 aprilie, la 19.30, iar principalele doua subiecte pe care le-am propus sunt:
autenticitatea profului in relatia cu parintii
impactul normarii de gen asupra omului si societatii (familie, scoala, politie, parlament, guvern, legi, referendumuri nationale)
new beginning de saptamana asta: eu si chiparosu' am pus de un grup de suport pentru adolescenti refugiati. ma super incarca asta, mai ales avand in vedere ce-i acasa la mine in fiecare zi. pustii astia sint aur, sint o lectie de putere si veselie si de speranta si de frumusete asa cum rar mi-a fost dat sa vad. pustiul ala cu barba are o mana (dreapta) si un picior mutilate groaznic de politistii bulgari. si nu vorbeste nici romana, nici engleza, nici franceza. si am petrecut vreo trei ore impreuna in care am POVESTIT o gramada de chestii - iar omu' zambeste ca un dumnezeu tot timpul.
ieri si azi mi-am ars-o mai mult pe acasa, cu telefonul si laptopul inchise. am tot citit - un roman merry-go-round de imagini si emotii si planuri narative (camera lui iacob, de virginia woolf) si niste poezii. vi le pun mai jos, cu pozele lunii. 
s-aveti o saptamana buna, mmmmmmmmmmmmuack <3

why must itself up every of a park
e. e. cummings

why must itself up every of a park 
anus stick some quote statue unquote to
prove that a hero equals any jerk
who was afraid to dare to answer “no”?
quote citizens unquote might otherwise
forget(to err is human;to forgive
divine)that if the quote state unquote says
“kill” killing is an act of christian love.
“Nothing” in 1944 AD
“can stand against the argument of mil
itary necessity”(generalissimo e)
and echo answers “there is no appeal
from reason”(freud)--you pays your money and
you doesn’t take your choice. Ain’t freedom grand

Portrait of a Lady
T. S. Eliot
Thou hast committed -- 
Fornication: but that was in another country, 
And besides, the wench is dead. 
(The Jew of Malta) 

I 
Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon 
You have the scene arrange itself — as it will seem to do— 
With "I have saved this afternoon for you"; 
And four wax candles in the darkened room, 
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead, 
An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb 
Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid. 
We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole 
Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips. 
"So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul 
Should be resurrected only among friends 
Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom 
That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room." 
—And so the conversation slips 
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets 
Through attenuated tones of violins 
Mingled with remote cornets 
And begins. 

"You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, 
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find 
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends, 
(For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind! 
How keen you are!) 
To find a friend who has these qualities, 
Who has, and gives 
Those qualities upon which friendship lives. 
How much it means that I say this to you — 
Without these friendships — life, what cauchemar!" 
Among the winding of the violins 
And the ariettes 
Of cracked cornets 
Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins 
Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own, 
Capricious monotone 
That is at least one definite "false note." 
— Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance, 
Admire the monuments, 
Discuss the late events, 
Correct our watches by the public clocks. 
Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks. 

II 
Now that lilacs are in bloom 
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room 
And twists one in her fingers while she talks. 
"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know 
What life is, you who hold it in your hands"; 
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks) 
"You let it flow from you, you let it flow, 
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse 
And smiles at situations which it cannot see." 
I smile, of course, 
And go on drinking tea. 
"Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall 
My buried life, and Paris in the Spring, 
I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world 
To be wonderful and youthful, after all." 

The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune 
Of a broken violin on an August afternoon: 
"I am always sure that you understand 
My feelings, always sure that you feel, 
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand. 

You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel. 
You will go on, and when you have prevailed 
You can say: at this point many a one has failed. 

But what have I, but what have I, my friend, 
To give you, what can you receive from me? 
Only the friendship and the sympathy 
Of one about to reach her journey's end. 

I shall sit here, serving tea to friends ...." 

I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends 
For what she has said to me? 
You will see me any morning in the park 
Reading the comics and the sporting page. 
Particularly I remark. 
An English countess goes upon the stage. 
A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance, 
Another bank defaulter has confessed. 
I keep my countenance, 
I remain self-possessed 
Except when a street-piano, mechanical and tired 
Reiterates some worn-out common song 
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden 
Recalling things that other people have desired. 
Are these ideas right or wrong? 

III 
The October night comes down; returning as before 
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease 
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door 
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees. 
"And so you are going abroad; and when do you return? 
But that's a useless question. 
You hardly know when you are coming back, 
You will find so much to learn." 
My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac. 

"Perhaps you can write to me." 
My self-possession flares up for a second; 
This is as I had reckoned. 
"I have been wondering frequently of late 
(But our beginnings never know our ends!) 
Why we have not developed into friends." 
I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark 
Suddenly, his expression in a glass. 
My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark. 

"For everybody said so, all our friends, 
They all were sure our feelings would relate 
So closely! I myself can hardly understand. 
We must leave it now to fate. 
You will write, at any rate. 
Perhaps it is not too late. 
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends." 
And I must borrow every changing shape 
To find expression ... dance, dance 
Like a dancing bear, 
Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape. 
Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance— 
Well! and what if she should die some afternoon, 
Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose; 
Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand 
With the smoke coming down above the housetops; 
Doubtful, for quite a while 
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand 
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon ... 
Would she not have the advantage, after all? 
This music is successful with a "dying fall" 
Now that we talk of dying— 
And should I have the right to smile?