Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind, in the commonplaces of the asylum where the cracked mirror or my own selfish death outstared me . . .I tapped my own head; it was glass, an inverted bowl. It is a small thing to rage inside your own bowl. At first it was private. Then it was more than myself. --Anne Sexton

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

time well spent in class

Applied to 15 Occasional Teacer postings in Durham region during Children's Lit class this morning.

This is the most pointless class - the prof reads us chilren's stories. Then we have to select a children's book and create a follow-up activity, and present it to the class. No one in class is paying attention; rather, they are all completing other coursework, msn'ing, FBing, or perhaps applying for jobs online like me. Have I mentioned lately that teacher's college sucks?

Damn, still 5 more hours until we head back to Toronto.

Listening to: stupid questions from classmates
Posted by La bohème at 10:20 AM
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