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The_Incredible_Minkus
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Name: Adam
Country: United States
State: Ohio
Metro: Lima
Birthday: 3/13/1985
Gender: Male
Interests: Man... there's a lot I could put on here... like fitty... maybe fitty tree
Occupation: Student
Industry: Education/Research
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  HozerGW
Member Since:
7/17/2003
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| It's been forever since I wrote on this thing. While I'm sure there are people who still check Xanga regularly, precious few relative to the age where updates on this particular page were highly abundant, this particular entry is for only one. My audience is myself, but sometimes a piece of writing made available to the masses finds the eyes of those for whom it was not intended. In light of this, if you have decided to read, thank you, and I hope you enjoy.
There is no way that the point of no return can rest easy on peoples' consciences. It has been 5 years and one month since I began a process that I was unprepared for. As it progressed, I made do, took a lot of hits, and learned how to roll when they made impact so I could keep pressing forward, and wakeing up for any next day that came along. As my work prepares to come to its closure, I seem to find myself not entirely dissimilar to Brooks Hadlin. My work and my reward stands before me smiling, and I'm using every ounce of self controll in my being to keep from cutting it's throat if it means I can stay here longer.
I am institutionalized to Ada, Ohio. It's my life. It's my place. Leaving here and moving on means stepping into a world that I am entirely unfamiliar with. I will look on automobiles for the first time and realize that the world went and got itself in a big damn hurry while I was off serving my time in an unfriendly place that I had managed to make my own by my own effort. Once out, I will be expected to start my own life in half the upstairs of my parents' halfway house, and fend for myself. I'm sure it goes without saying that this is terrifying.
Every time I sit down to do my planning, enter grades or work on those precious last few assignments, I can't help but wonder what will happen to me if I just don't do them. If I were to simply let the grading back up, and never finish it, drop the ball constantly on my plans for the following day, or never complete my work, I would fail the quarter. My professors would call me in and ask if there is perhaps another path that might be more suitable for me. I would be able to take two more quarters in writing classes, and not have to worry about the prospect of graduation for another six months.
Meanwhile, not helping the process, my students are my students. They don't do their work. They don't want me there. I can't get three quarters of them to go so far as to stay awake through an entire class period. There is a part of me that wonders if this is merely simptomatic of the school system in which I am doing my work. After all, it is an inner city school with a low academic record. These students were never really that interested to begin with. These thoughts do nothing to help me wake up every morning, though.
I set three alarms. I somehow find my way to the shower, put on the shirt and pants I ironed the night before, grab my ready to go sack lunch, and drive through the Ada McDonalds for a large, black coffee before embarking on the road to Lima. On the way there, I play through the upcoming day in my head. I do my song and dance, the students give either unenthusiastic applause or resonating boos, and I return home to prepare for the next day. My life has reached a point I hoped it would never reach. I am bland.
There is nothing that sets me apart from the thousands of other teachers in the country. I can't say that I'm outstandingly brilliant because I don't even have an undergraduate degree to back it up yet. I can't say that I'm making a groundbreaking difference in students' lives because there is no difference to be made. I can't say that I'm doing anything special because there is nothing special to be done at this point. Even upon the completion of this very piece of writing, I will take out assignment prompts, and write about how I will be an effective teacher by doing the same thing any other teacher would do in the classroom.
Still, there is solace. It comes in the form of music, and the comforting sting of nickel and brass beneath my fingers. It comes in the form of those who care about me. My parents, my confidants, my professors, and those friends who have stood by me since the crust of the earth was shaped. It comes in the form of the promise of more tomorrows, and more chances to climb out of my bland hole to become as unique as I deserve to be. Solace pushes me on. It writes my plans, grades my work, and finishes my assignments.
So I exist. I continue pushing despite how desperately boring it makes me feel. In time, I will become what I become, and unlike Brooks, I will carve my name in the rafters and pass on the rope in favor of the gifts of freedom placed in wait by those who care about me. My trial is mine, and it will be overcome. Where others run, I bloom.
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| Holy crap, the world is coming to an end.. and it's starting in Ada.
That is all.
Happy Apocalypse
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| Seems I'm at it again... Way too much work to do at the end of the quarter, and I feel completely overwhelmed. The question is: why do I let myself get to this point? I've had a long time to work on the stuff I need to finish, but I just haven't. Know what? I don't feel like answering right about now. Essentially, I'm going to rest easy in the knowledge that I'm an idiot and keep pushing to get all these silly details taken care of.
Assignments left: 7
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| I spotted something interesting tonight while taking a break from my homework.
I had been working for about 6 hours straight on assorted material, and between my Senior presentation (which is ready to screen) and my Classroom Strategies reading, I decided to take a walk around the lake to unwind. I left the building, and took the straight path to the bridge. It was cold, and by the time I made it to the corner of the apartment complex, I already had icicles forming on my mustache (condensation, not grossness,) so I decided only to walk around half of the lake, using the bridge as a shortcut. I walked over to the bridge, and stopped like I normally do to survey the surroundings. Campus looks lovely from the bridge at night. I looked toward Affinity and enjoyed the lights, but then I turned around to face Lima and Founders complexes, and noticed something amiss. There was a bicycle in the middle of the pond on the ice.
Now, this is by far not the best prank I have ever seen, and to some (especially given the recent editorial in the newspaper about bike theft) it might be seen as a sign of malevolence, but after several years seeing nothing but destructive or weak pranks, it made me happy to see something simple, and in good humor. The owner of the bike will probably get up tomorrow, notice his bike missing, and spot it in the lake on the way to class. No harm done, he might be a little late (it was a male frame, so I'm assuming he,) and people will have a good laugh. It just goes to show that a prank doesn't have to be over the top to be funny. It can be as simple as a repositioning of belongings to mess with the owner's mind.
PS: I rock today.
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| "Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of
your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been
fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own
sacred tears."
-Kahlil Gibran
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