I am afraid picturetrail has caught on to my abuse of their free
picture sharing account.  I have been thoroughly warned.  I
expect about a week delay before these pictures are removed, so enjoy.

I, too, notice a pause between posts.  This is only because I am
preparing you, my audience, for my xanga post graduation absence. 
That’s right.  I have thought about it, and I have decided that it
is just that time.  Not that I will be looking down upon students
in my newfound college graduate maturity, but I need to leave web
logging at the top of my game. 

Did I mention that I am done?  Very done.  About two weeks
ago.  12 weeks of student teaching, followed by a 5 week gap until
graduation.  The first 12 flew, but these last 5 are
dragging.  I have found that I am not good while off a
schedule.  I cannot handle this.  Ask my roommate.  I
made an extensive to do list my first day upon completion of my
teaching and finished it within hours.  Edit resume. 
Check.  Send graduation announcements.  Done.  Clean out
room.  Yep.  Get gas in car.  Sure.  I can only
practice putting on the carpet for so long, and I have only more
chronicle of narnia left.  I need ideas.  I need
busyness.  Afternoon rain, extreme cold, and lack of telivision
also severely limit my options.  For now I will be content with a
consistent tutoring job and a not so consistent substitute teaching
posistion.

Have you seen my voice?

The picture of the sidewalk is my favorite.  And I know that I am
not an art major, but my last photograph has nice balance.  The
tree on the left and the negative space on the right. 
Despite a smaller size, the fire this year was crazy.  And still
hot.  Radiant heat does burn.  It poured through the whole
thing, and the smoke from the wet wood was fantastic.  A friend
noted that it was probably not unilke the pillar of cloud and pillar of
fire leading the Israelites.  Good call.  I am sure there is
some amazing life application that involves the downpour of the rain
colliding with the power of the fire, but I could not come up with
one.  Maybe something about purification?  But I’ve got
nothing.

It was my first homecoming, outside of “the service,” since freshman
year.  I actually spent time with my family during an event. 
A very foreign concept.  My absence from the club was not as
monumental nor as melancholy as I thought it might be.  Just
another bonfire.  One with a lot of rain.  Just another
peprally.  One with a lot of stage.  Just another football
game.  One with a lot of heartache.  If you were unable to
make it down from GA or NC, know that you were missed.

It is always nice to eat out with family, swing clubs with dad, and
receive baked goods.  Mom brought with her another batch of bran
muffin mix.  This is the second large tupperware of bran mix I
have received in the past month, and half of the last batch is still in
my fridge.  Bran muffins are great, but it is hard for Abel and me
to finish them off, and my bran consumption is so much that it is probably not
healthy.  Is it possible to be too regular?  I do not know
who is telling my mom that I am constipated, but if you are, please
stop!  I am fine.  If you would like a bran muffin, or
twelve, let me know.  Seriously.

*He forces me into the path of friends.

*He comforts me amoung the houses of the dead.

*He drives away the jackals.

*He tells me my story, and no one elses.

*He keeps me safe on the narrow hillside path.  Stays between me and the edge all the time.

*He is Himself.  He is Himself.  He is Himself.

And to think I am reminded of this not through a Quiet Time, but rather through The Horse and his Boy.

Today a student asked me if I knew who Snoop Dogg was.  Hilarious.

An update.  I will try to hit on all areas of my life that you might or might not be interested in.

* I have completed six weeks of student teaching, and six weeks
remain.  Incredible.  I have begun to teach all day, and
weeks now fly.  I have received much self affirmation regarding my
choice in career thus far.  It is tiring.  It is long. 
It is rewarding.  It is fun.  Each class with a unique
personality.  I have gotten over any “I am in college.  Do
you think I am cool?” mindset that I might have started the year
with.  I think I am able to relate and connect with the students,
more so than an “adult,” but I am all business when it comes to Algebra II.  Don’t let my
youth fool you.  One class today was beginning to get out of hand
as I joked around with them.  Way off task.  No threat, no
yell would settle them.  I asked them, “How does it feel to be the
one class that is the sole reason for running me away from teaching and
the education system?”  They cheered in response. 

* I am road tripping this weekend to Tennessee.  For a
wedding?  For golf?  For a good friend?  You pick the
reason.  Either way, I am going.

* I left my classroom and headed to my truck late this afternoon. 
I felt good about the day, as I kept most classes productive and
survived a long lesson x5.  As I walked, it began to rain. 
Not wanting to drench my nice shirt/tie combo, I buckled on my backback
and began to run.  My run turned into a trot, as my backback
bounced with each step.  My trot turned into a wobble. 
Thought to self, “Brian, you look less like a teacher and more like a
lanky sixth grader trying to catch up to his bus.”  I embraced the
rain and walked the rest of the way.  And this is not the only
reason I feel like I am junior high:

* Any girl I like, any form of a relationship I ever consider always
begins with pre-teen tendencies.  Why is this?  Why must I
insist on getting the scoop, before I move?  Why must a friend
talk to her friend, or a sister talk to her sister, before I can build up
courage enough to initiate?  It might bring self assurance, but
with it comes the awkward.

* Golf lessons.  I am taking them.  I found my swing.  But who to play with? 

Trout Fishing in America performing live at the Waco Art Fest?!  I
missed them at Austin City Limits, but I could never pass up the
opportunity to see them in my own backyard.  In fact, we made a
weekend out of it:

If you are curious, TFIA is
made up of a seven foot tall man with a guitar, and a five foot tall
man with an upright bass.  I consider them a mix between Raffi
and Peter, Paul, and Mary.  Basically, the music your dad might
enjoy, and the  music you listened to when you were a child. 
I was knew of one song, which to me was reason enough to go.  It
would atleast be good for a laugh and another random waco experience, I
believed.  Watching the fifty to sixty year olds crowd the stage
for better seating and then sing along to most songs, combined with the
consumption of spicy indian food was a completely new experience.

Random photographs remind me of summer.  I miss those days.

Off to a golf lesson.  Yeah, you heard right. 

I almost always tie my tie correctly on first attempt, sometimes
second.  I make a pot of coffee in the morning, and I bring my
thermos to work.  I occasionaly make a second pot when I get
home.  I drive slow to and from work to allow more time to observe
clouds and listen to talk radio.  News Radio 820 in the
morning.  NPR in the afternoons.  I enjoy a heavily starched
shirt and a pair of pressed pants.  Yesterday, I shined my black
dress shoes.  Classical music and movie soundtracks have found
their way onto my iTunes playlist.  Legends of the Fall is my
favorite.  I try to find my way to bed around 10:30 p.m. 
11:00 p.m. seems late to me.  Midnight on a school night is
unthinkable.   I can no longer translate instant message
abbreviations that kids are using.  And I refuse to use
them.  I long to have my beard back.  I have shared a bottle
of wine with my father.

I am no longer a child.

I recently purchased an animated film. 
I loved it.  Last week, a principal held a trash can in front of
my face and told me to spit out my gum.  I called my mother early
this morning to ask if lenin pants are acceptable when worn with a
shirt and tie.  (I pulled it off.)  I do not make my
bed.  I make students angry when I cut in front of them in the
cafeteria line.  They give me questionable looks when I tell them
that I am a teacher.  I still love the rock and the
roll.   I talk slang.  I post on  xanga.  I
rarely share a “normal” smile in any photograph.  Ask Lucas. 
The first section I read in any newspaper is the comics.  Fox
Trot, Zits, Garfield, Peanuts.  Those are my favorites.  In
that order.

Apparently, I am not quite an adult.

Do you, my peers, find yourselves in similar circumstances?  I no
longer feel like a child.  I do not even feel like a college
student.  So that makes me an adult?  I have no paying job,
and I am still dependent on my parents.  I walk around high school
not knowing exactly where I belong.  Do I hang around and laugh
with students.  Do I sip coffee and gossip about administration
and problem children in the teachers lounge?  All in all, I find
myself in an awkward situation.  Fortunately I thrive on awkward situations.

More details and stories regarding the teacher’s life that I am now slipping into are sure to come.  Maybe.

And if this post happens to have a Britney Spears “Not a Girl, Not Yet
a Woman” theme to it, then I swear it is by coincidence and not because
I am listening to her cd right now.

My truck is beginning to show its age.  Ten years. 85000
miles.  Not fast.  Not pretty.  Not automatic.  But
always trustworthy.  Always loyal.

Until today.

We had some overheating issues.  Which led to breakdown
issues.  Which lead to frustration in Brian’s life.  My truck
gurgled, clanked, and fizzed as I drove it to the mechanic this
afternoon.  I spent the long, slow drive there praying that I
would make it.  I didn’t. 

I began to think hateful, hurtful thoughts about my piece of a car as I
waited for a tow truck.  But I stopped myself.  You see…we
have been through a lot.  This is the truck, and i refuse to give
my truck a name, that I was afraid to drive when I was 16, that took me
and Jake to the driving range when I finally got the courage to drive
it, that took me to highschool dances, that moved me to college, that
survived three days at grannies, and that WILL move me home when I
graduate.  The flood of memories almost made me tear up as my
vehicle was pulled up onto the tow truck.  Kind of like seeing an
old family member in the hospital.  Maybe that is a stretch. 
But I swear I heard my truck moan in pain as it was chained and hoisted
up.

I then spent some of the evening over at my sister’s well-decorated
loft apartment. (I am stealing her car for a few days)  I saw a
large wooden sign above the door that read:

“let it sneak up on you”

I asked what “it” was.  She replied, “love.”  Of course.  Let love sneak up on you.

Seriously?  Let me preface my comments by admitting that I know
very little about romantic love.  Never experienced it.  But
I am not so sure I want love sneaking up on me.  I freeze up and
get into panic mode if I get anywhere close to love.  The last
thing  I need is to picture love as this creature lurking in the
shadows,  creeping up behind me closer and closer, just waiting to
pounce on my unexpecting back.  How about “let it kindly introduce
itself to you”?  Or “let it prepare you for its appearance and
meet you head on”?  Again, what do I know.

Feel free to leave your thoughts on this cute quote.

Feel free to leave your favorite memories with my truck.

Ben Taylor sounds a lot like his dad. 

I had a brief adult realization today.  I was walking from my
truck to my apartment, just getting home from a long school day. 
My tie around my shoulders, my shirt sleeves rolled up, my coffee mug
and bag in hand.  For that one moment, as I walked into the door,
I reminded myself of my dad, and I smiled.

I survived.  A monumental day.  The day that a friend
referred to as ‘the last day of my education and the first day of my
career.’  It is nice to think about it that way.

I began my student teaching experience early this morning at Midway
High School.  A very nice school, but seemingly
conservative.  I did not so much mind the daily shirt and
tie.   No problem.  But then asked to shave my
beard?  Remove my manhood?  Seriously?  A no facial hair
policy?
Well, it turns out they were serious.  So my plans of being a
well-respected, older, slightly intimidating math teacher vanished as a
summer’s worth of facial hair falls into the bathroom sink.

* cue song *

Back to high school.:  Algebra II.  11th grade.  
Five class periods per day, beginning with “enrichment hour” at 7:30
a.m.  I could not think of anything less “enriching” than waking
up at 6:00 to get ready for school.  Again, what can I do? 
Despite the questionable starting time and dress code, I am still very
excited about this experience.  More stories of algebra, awkward
high school situations, and ties are sure to follow.

Lucas, this is for you:

Sorry I couldn’t make this happen earlier.