Open House preparation

I listen to Alice Sarah Ott, sip a green tea poured brewed in my cup lined with blue centerless flowers. I’m more on than at my desk, descending the piano with a stomp whose plural form is missing in my own missing imagination. I have been tasked for what feels like the last and middleth time with putting on a show for the higherups shadowing through hearsay from the parents that will in fact be the ones in the room in three days. It is Open House Season and on Friday I was jumped by my supervisor onto camera, recorded for review from the Head Mistress who will upload it onto the Drive for all to peruse and judge for themselves the judgment already branded over the dented aura that has perched atop me, awaiting further correction by those two and then the company owner herself. It is because, all of it, is due the lack of hard toys that I am the one expected to provide, when the school itself does not or cannot. Were life a matter of simply doing what one loves, certainly life’s own titled would be my own. But as it stands before me, whose priority is unquestioned by those who also even further stands before me, life involves that dreaded and misabused word of my father’s, “sacrifice.” I had previously fashioned in a dreamlike sequence in which I all translate in the morning, teach in the afternoon, psychoanalyze in the evening, and occasionally play music on the weekends day to day. Now a day is but a day, incited by a sleep whose contour is that of the revealed depth of my pillow molded into place by the water left to dry lingerly after my showers after putting away dinner, called to mind to inform me that a form of progress does exist, somewhere. But how does one keep silent as I do, yet attain a voice whose room would be a square permitted only by the voices of an age I would deserve, such as that of my own burned behind the flagging banners of ambitions that once held it up in a day bright and positively burning. It is but now when I look at the books to my right and think of instead copying down into my notebook some poem canonically recommended for an amulet that once found me in my efforts as I hunched over the text myself, spending all day from day to day fashioning my heart out of every shade of the page from every angle I could put myself up from and into, rather than merely looking over at Crane’s wind-tarnished face. I’ve got to get back to my Open House planning, hoping somehow I can find day in my time to brandish another meaning I once had, when I had the alterity to be simultaneously myself and someone else.