Pronunciations

"See the child."

-- First line of Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian

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Last day of ArtReach today. We lie sequestered on the gymnasium floor, sleeping behind our backdrop while children stretch out for gym on the other side. We hear their chants: "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten--"

It is rainy and humid and the gym doors are both open to help the air flow.

A teacher just came back and handed me a paper-clipped bundle of thank-you letters from the kids who saw this morning's show. Their innocent appreciation is the best: crayon markings outside of lines, a slight feeling of wax to the touch and a heavier sheet of paper, their names scrawled between scribbles. Pencils and crayons. Magic wands.

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I don't know. I always expect some feeling of finality, a just assessment of the past as it culminates in this day of threshold-crossing, the sense that this transition is happening to someone else. I expect that out-of-body feeling, that sensitivity to moments.

I don't feel that. I feel like I have been sitting in an uncomfortable chair for far too long, watching the same movie. The thought of taking the van back to the office is chorish, not cathartic. It's just the next thing. I'm glad to move on, but I don't feel like I'm moving on at all.

I don't mind.

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I may be hired also by an accounting firm downtown. As a secretary/accountant, I guess. They have me learning QuickBooks 2009 right now.

If I can land a part-time arrangement with them, I can make serious bank. The next few months could drastically improve my financial sitch. So, I am back in college mode, reading the books and watching online tutorials. Maybe I'll even call an accountant friend or two for tips. Basically, as long as I perform well at the interview and show that I can use the program--or learn quickly how to use it--I've got the job. Another steady job.

Sometimes, life needs legitimacy.

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Went to a Catholic workshop last night. Had to; in order to lead workshops at Catholic schools, I am required to go through this course. I expected a lot of Do's and Don't's of teaching privately-schooled kids, but it turned out to be a discussion of two short videos about sexual abuse.

Of children. It was rough.

I watched the videos and got distracted by the horrible overacting. It was shot like a documentary but the actors seemed so overwrought, so insincere. It was awkward, because they were talking about such sensitive stuff. Then I learned that only one of the people in the films was a paid actor. They were all really the folks who went through all that, and they were asked to write their own experiences out, memorize them as lines, and recite them as dramatically as they could for the camera. Therapy meets Catholic cinema. Like I said, it was rough.

The facilitator of the event was a nun in plain clothes (mom jeans and a flannel shirt) who pronounced "question" with a kind of grinding slur, so that it sounded--ironically enough--like the word "Christian."

Question. Christian.

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Sometimes, life needs pronunciation.