What One Girl Knows

Cornelia Funke's The Thief Lord is a very good young adult novel. I know it might be surprising that I actually have time to read "for pleasure," as it's termed, and I really don't have the spare time. But if I don't read, I get crabby and burnt-out and critical of everything. Books stabilize me, I guess.

I am saving the new Harry Potter until after my pre-service training ends. So I have some self-restraint.

Two more weeks of pre-service training left. At this point, I am shirking social responsibilities (joining Jason at an art gallery in Manhattan) to furtively finish my research for an annotated bibliography project. I am also using a rather simple reward system for getting up way too early in the morning for summer school, just to go through another six hours of grad school: sodas and ice cream sandwiches.

I need to wean myself off these rewards before September starts.

So. My first day of student teaching at I.S. 5 was a big waste of time. Several teachers decided not to show up, and conversely, more than the expected amount of students, so the morning was spent babysitting 75 fourth through eighth graders while watching National Treasure in an auditorium. Is National Treasure really an appropriate movie for fourth graders? There were quite a few guns. No sex though, I guess we can be thankful about that much.

Oh, and right before the movie, some mysterious pen exploded in my backpack just as my water bottle (also in my backpack) uncapped itself. A vivid blue puddle seeped from the bag, stained the bottoms of my books, and made me temporarily miserable.

And now my first class at Queens College has been cancelled. Though I guess I shouldn't complain too too much -- it means that I actually have time to blog.

Terrifying dream about Jason this morning. It was one of those closer-to-reality-than-comfortable scenarios where I woke up from a deep sleep, saw Jason next to me, and realized that he should have still been in Dunkirk (I enjoy how my dream life preserves certain facts from my life). He looked like Jason and sounded like Jason, but I knew it wasn't Jason. At one point, my dream self even banished the evil Jason look-alike from the apartment.

Okay. Now that I actually described it, it sounds more like a Buffy episode than a nightmare. But it was scary. I wonder where it stemmed from. Am I secretly afraid that I don't really know who Jason is?

Which also, from an awake-me standpoint, sounds quite ridiculous.