Sometimes inspiration just doesn't come. Sitting and staring at a blank screen, I wonder if I have made the right choice. What makes me so different from other people? Why is my writing important, or significant? Do I really have anything worthwhile to say? While some people see these questions as just fishing for compliments, they really aren't. There are times when, no matter how good they are, every writer sits and stares at the creation in front of him, or her, and thinks how horrible or worthless it seems to be--when we all believe we have created the literary version of Frankenstein in a work that will haunt us forever.

So, I go back to the marvelous little place all by myself (See January 31, and February 1) and try to maintain my reverie. I sit in the cottage that Lisa created and hope desparately that the wine (which I don't drink) and cheese (which I love) and lack of company will cause a spark of creativity. When it does come, I heave a sigh, put pen to paper and try to create a failing masterpiece. When it doesn't, I contemplate changing my mind about the wine, and instead go in search for tea and prepare myself for the long vigil, adamantly ignoring the nudgings to tread the path to the cafe to sit and watch, feeding my mind.

If anyone needs me, I'll be in the cafe...third table from the back.

The words I love you fling
Themselves from my mouth
At anyone
At random
Hoping to stick to someone
Who understands

Tapping on shoulders
Imperatively questioning
Anyone
Anyone at all
Running from this one to that
Yelling aloud

Pinball machine bouncing
From one
Person to
The next
Finally exhausted
They fall

Tentatively
I pull the button again

On beating a dead horse

Well, we've established that 16 sucks. Regardless of the freedom of depending on parents for one's needs, there are plenty of other issues coming to light that make life a roaring inferno of emotion. One of the issues that many children face that adults try to avoid talking about is lack of concern on the part of parents. My own parents were ridiculously strict. I say that in all honesty looking back on it knowing that rules must be placed and that limits are necessary for development of good character. Some of the rules that my brother and I had to abide by were archaic to the point of stupidity. I was not allowed to wear pants until after my parents divorced. At that time, I was told by each of them separately that the other had come up with that particular rule. I went to my first movie when I was 17. I didn't get my driver's license until I was almost 20. I was not allowed to watch TV when I was young other than "Little House on the Prairie" and shows similar--even with those, I had to ask permission. "Sesame Street" and most shows on PBS were not on the approved list for some reason. So, I missed out on those educational opportunities provided by "School House Rock," etc. But I digress...mainly to show that the only rules I am opposed to from my childhood, and teen years are the ones that were archaic and served no purpose. I am all for rules that limit how late a teen can be out. Alcohol is illegal to a certain age, as are cigarettes thus, I'm all for not letting children under those ages smoke or drink. After those ages, they have a choice to make. .....as I am digressing again......

On to my point....Which was.....Oh yes....

Teacher: I'm calling to see if will be in school today.

Father: Oh...um.... No, he's not going to be there.

Teacher: Oh, well, I just wanted to check on him. He's missed a lot, and he won't be able to get his credits to graduate if he doesn't start coming.

Father: Well, he couldn't find a ride so he can't be there.

Teacher: Do you think you could bring him?

Father: Oh...um...I asked him about that and he didn't want me to, so I guess he's going to stay home.


So, if the parents care that much, is it any wonder that the dropout rate in high school has skyrocketed in the last few years.

Since I have already ranted on how we expect kids to find happiness in nothing, I won't go over that again. But I will go over this. As an employee of a public school, I'm expected to keep kids interested in learning. I'm expected to give them incentive to aspire to greatness. I'm expected to show kids how they can achieve their true potential. Then I send them off home to a parent, or two who really don't care whether or not they get out of bed to come to school the next day. Which leads me to the point of my parents rules. Whether or not we had archaic rules, had I ever told my father or God help me even worsemy mother that I "didn't want to go to school," I would have woken up in the car halfway to said school having learned the lesson to never say such a silly thing again. Come rain, snow, sleet, shine, and usually even illness, I was in school. Whether or not I wanted to go, I agonized through my classes. And this is the one thing I learned...while my parents were not very up-to-date on many aspects of life, they recognized the I had to have education. Regardless of my own desires, school was mandatory. If I had been given the choice, I probably would have quit. But at least they cared that I went.

I'm sure there were parents back then who didn't care. Those parents have had children who don't care if their children go. Those children will have children who don't care if their children don't go to school. And the cycle continues. We speak a lot about cycles of violence, cycles of abuse, cycles of emotional illness, but we never address the cycles that are caused by them. So your kid doesn't want to go to school. Guess what? Most kids don't. By making it an option to stay home, a parent takes away a child's aspiration. By not caring whether or not that child goes to school, the parent then exhibits apathy to that child's future. Don't think that the kid's miss that. They don't. The same kids who have parents who won't make them go to school are the ones who come to me and tell me that they wish their parents would be more demanding. They come to me and say "I know I need more structure, but I know I can do whatever I want, so I do." And parents expect me to change their lives.

So I bring this whirlwindish confusing post to an end by saying...Kids aren't stupid. They know when parents just give up. They know when people quit caring. They know what love is supposed to be. They know they are testing the limits. But if you never give them rules, if you never give them any reason to rebel, they will just push it till they find something to rebel against. So what if they don't want to go to school. Education is free here. Would you rather surrender the world to a generation of uneducated people or to a generation who understands that whether or not it is desirable, education is still important?

And so the fateful day arrives. I have been justified in my disdain this year. Last night I worked till 12:15, and that was leaving early. The nights before I left early as well, at 9:00 and 10:30 on Tuesday and Wednesday respectively. When I close my eyes visions of roses dance through my head. Actually, they more or less sit still...occasionally losing a petal or two. The petals fall gracefully to the ground to be forever lost in a growing pile of trash no less than ankle deep. Do you have any idea how much trash florists creat over the blessed holiday of valentines day. We could create tons of mulch for needy gardners everywhere.

Ok, yes, I know I'm rambling and I need some sleep, but it's not over yet. Hopefully tomorrow I will have had a little sleep and will be more coherent. It would be good. I have a fabulous rant going in my head.

I have been a workaholic for quite some time. Most of the time, I'm happy that way. The holiday of Valentine's day is a different story. As most of you have gathered, I work in a high school. I also work as a floral designer in my spare time. During the week of Valentine's there is no such thing as spare time.

Most women want roses, or some other type of flower for V-day. Unless they are dead, black and accompanied with a can of gas and a flame thrower, I do not. Candy, perhaps. Dinner, maybe the day after. Hot chocolate, you had damn well better. But flowers....no.

I think that's all the energy I have to complain. That's pretty sad.

At 16 years old, life sucks. Everyone hates you and nothing ever goes the way you want it too. Every day is a battle. People stare and laugh at you. No one seems to understand. It seems that no one cares and no one ever will. Life just sucks.

Life wanders by day by day, each day seeming longer than the last, but shorter at the same time. When there is something you want to do, it seems that you never get to do it. Over and over, you are denied small, and simple pleasures. The things you most want to do, you are not allowed to do. The things that make you most miserable are the things you are required to do.

Watching this in the lives of my students I'm pulled back to a time when I felt that way. I often wonder how many teachers really think about how it was when they were 16. I hear them say, "These are the best years of your life." Sitting in astonishment at what is obviously blatant patronization, I am reminded of how angry I was when I heard that. "Great!" I would think, "My life will never get better than this." No wonder the suicide rate is so high. No wonder kids try to find more and more ways to give themselves pleasure. During the time of Decadence people sought for more input. That era presumably passed. But here we are in a generation of children and teenagers who are being told that they have nothing to look forward to. They have to forget how crappy life is in some way. Why not choose drugs? Why not choose sex? Why not choose anything that gives extreme input?

We give children hopelessness and tell them to play. We give them sorrow and tell them to be happy. We give them pain and tell them not to cry. We give them anger and tell them to learn to love. Women are told that they can be anything they want, but when they try, they are told that it isn't their place. Girls are told to be positive about their bodies, and when they are, they are told that they are conceited. Boys are told to be sensitive but are made fun of when they cry. We tell them to be accepting of all lifestyles, but make fun of anyone who doesn't fit into our defintion of "normal."

What do we expect? Do we really believe that children will listen to us when we never listen to them? This philosophy of "Do as I say, not as I do?" has destroyed generations and we have still never learned our lesson. If we insist on girls being independent do not allow them to be put down when they are. If we insist on equality in lifestyle, do not destroy a boy who show homosexual feelings. Yes, I said homosexual. That happens in high school. It happens every day somewhere and it is the responsibility of the adults of the world to put aside predjudice and accept them as we say we do. When we tell a girl that she is pretty, don't be upset with her if she believes it. Don't expect her to demurely accept your compliment with a grain of salt.

Society as a whole has priorities in all the wrong places. Because I'm 5'6" 115lbs, blonde, blue eyed, and an ex-model, I'm accepted as a good and wholesome member of society. So, any girl in high school who can diet to make herself thin enough to be attractive, but not too thin, dye her hair blonde, get tinted contacts, braces (if necessary), and learn to smile and nod without really understanding anything (because blondes aren't supposed to be very smart you know) can hold a good position in todays world. I am offended by this. I am reminded of the archaic idea that a woman is only defined by the man she marries. In a way, we are married to the idea that we must be the beauty queens of society. Those who are not pretty enough to be among us, are allowed to be smart, but not too smart. If they are too smart, they are pushed aside as obviously unmarryable material. So, what do the high school girls do? Which way do they choose?

I know I'm not the only one who sees a problem with this. We have created a world where children are at once, forced to be independent and reprimanded for doing so. We expect our children to understand that we have their best intentions in mind, but never bother to find out what they want to do. Then we are angry because we see them as spoiled and lazy for demanding rights for themselves. Perhaps if we focused more on what is really good for them we would learn that they are not lazy or spoiled. They are confused. They are angry and tired of being told that they are at once precious and worthless. Who are we to blame them?

I scribble a lot about being a writer and how it feels and the difference between me and the rest of the world. Incessant ramblings on the oddity of who I am flow easily from my fingertips. I know I'm not alone in the way I feel. There are others like me, but in saying that, I consistently prove myself to be an alien among humans. From split infinitives to sentence fragments, I boldly break the laws of grammar and reason in search of a greater truth, or at least a more attractive one, knowing that it, perhaps, doesn't exist. The wanderings and musings in my own mind and realm of perception placed indelibly on paper for all to read are only the beginning of the existence I choose.

I pick solitude over sociality. I prefer to be alone. I prefer to be able to see everything without the hindrance of great human emotion to muddle my thought. It's easier (and let us never forget, safer) to be able to see a situation from a distant perspective. If I never have to step back to look at it, that's just one less step I have to take. Of course this is somehow a dream I can never accomplish, because, as a writer, I must have the conflict of emotion. I must be able to feel the waves of anger, love and fear washing over me. It's necessary for me to be able to hold disdain in my hand as a child, to nurse it and coddle it so I can understand more fully. Danger must be had, and fear must be felt. I must be able to touch each and every emotion in the spectrum of the human mind without letting it touch me.

I sit alone on a park bench watching the passersby, knowing that I am different, yet knowing that I am exactly the same. I feel the same way. I eat, breathe and sleep, and am annoyed by this in a way that I think they are not. I react to touch, sight, sound, taste and smell the same way, but I watch their reaction with greater interest than calculating my own. The concept of another human being is my obsession. As a predator watches prey, I wait for the precise moment that another person feels an emotion I've seen before, but not from that person and pounce on it with all the vigor of a small kitten tearing apart a toy mouse. I thrive believing that I understand, and I hold, in my small little paws, the secret to the universe seen...one person at a time.