The wave of sadness struck him as he was marking the students' paper . HE was lost to its suddenness. One moment he was reading a mediocre paper on Shakespeare's greatness, the next, he found himself on the floor curled up in tears. Collecting himself once again, he wondered at his dramatic outburst. He was not the kind of person to indulge in his emotions so loosely. He hated it when others lost control, more so when he himself lost control. What was it that had made him so upset? Now that he had calmed down, he could better analyze what just took place. He was mildly surprised at himself, it was almost as if something had snapped quite suddenly inside himself, but now he had not the slightest inkling as to what caused him to snap.
He thought of a female student of his who had cried when he gave her an F, how he had despied her then. She was grovelling for mercy. He had wanted to call her a stupid cow. Tears are weak and stupid, the worst kind of undulgence for the flaccid brained. But now, he pondered, but could not find an answer to his own strange behavior. The day had been like any other day--dull but uneventuful. Nothing went wrong in the past week, the past month or even the past year. In fact, there was nothing wrong with his life. He had a comfortable one bed room apartment in a quiet part of the city. It was in a neat little neighborhood where nothing sensational ever happened. Life was predictable in his second floor apartment right smack in the middle of the building. Here, the only sound was the contented purr of his stove and the comforting sound of the faucet. He never had to worry about sounds of gunshots around the corner or of neighbors being too loud in bed.
He was a teacher at a reputable high school, nothing exception or even memorable. To the students he was an old baldie whom they had to put up with for a few hours every week. They did not expect him to impart any great knowledge. For them, knowledge was to be found in the backseats next to someone they can fuck. He was just part of the landscape they had gotten used to. Respect did not come into the equation. They had a transaction, they gave him their time, he gave them a grade that can help them move on to another teacher and another until they eventually left school.
He looked at the old, scratched out coffee mug standing next to the pile of papers. It once said: World's greatest teacher. Now it was barely readable, only "Wors test er" remained. HE was mildly happy when a student gave it to him even though he knew the student did not mean it and probably got it at a ninety-nine cents store or was merely passing on an unwanted gift. He was happy nonetheless. He should have thrown the mug away years ago, but something sentimental in him prevented him from doing so. But now looking at it, it had all the sad look of a retarded donkey, too old even for someone to waste a bullet on --ridiculous and pathetic. It made him angry all of a sudden. He hated the mug, the ugliness of it all, he hated himself for holding on to it like some old trophy. And the student papers, the stash of mediocrity--trash typed out last minute by students who didn't give a shit about Shakespeare, Milton or anything. The sight of the scrawly letters repulsed him. His hatred for everything on the desk was violent. From the ugly mug, to the papers, to the old study lamp, he despised them with an intensity he had not thought himself capable of.
The apartment he had spent so many happy nights basking in its peace and calm was suddenly disgusting. The old dark green carpet, the wallpaper. The bookshelves with the many books he had spent so many hours putting together into a collection he had been so proud of now looked silly and pretentious. Everything was dumb and ugly. The radio with its one blind eye stared accusingly like an idiot angered. He hated his home, his bed clothes, his old slippers, they were moronic and reflected his own patheticness back to himself in surprising clarity.
The ugly red mug was still staring at him with a spastic glee. HE needed to destroy it. He needed to do something foul, kill some squawking thing then spread its sticky blood all over this room. He wanted to slash away the wallpaper and burn the carpet. The pages from all those books should be ripped out, the shelves mutilated. The mug, the mug has to go. It was intolerable.
The window stood gaping like the rest of the room in idiocy. It was still drizzling outside. He hated the smell of the wet earth floating through the window. He grabbed that ugly old mug, determined to fling it out the window.
Through the window, the world outside was peaceful, the drizzle had slowed the activities on the streets to a crawl. But softness and the slowness was ugly to him. Across the street, he could see a woman holding a white umbrella, she was wearing a pale dress that reflected the glow of the street lamps. Trying to sidestep puddles, she was worried about getting her shoes wet. He wanted to fling the mug at her. At that instant, a strong gust of wind blew the white umbrella clean out of her hands and into the sky. It soared past his window like a great white bird then disappeared into the night sky. She snorted in surprise, watched her umbrella take flight, grumbled curses at the wind, then ran free in the rain. He watched the umbrella sweep past him on mute wings. It glimmered for a moment and was then swallowed up by the darkness. He looked at the dark sky, it was clear despite the rain. The moon glowed hazy and cool, gazing down from a corner of its cold, detached eye. He looked full into the face of the city at night, he was surprised at its beauty. It was a beauty that had to be struggled with, the kind of beauty that one had to wrestle in order to own or even to see. Someone was trying to play Bach on the piano somewhere on the street. The melody came to him muffled, diffused. The music stumbled around confused, limping to catch the elusive right notes. He looked at the red mug he still clutched in his hand, he wanted to summon up the anger but realized it was no longer real. He decided to make himself some coffee.
He thought of a female student of his who had cried when he gave her an F, how he had despied her then. She was grovelling for mercy. He had wanted to call her a stupid cow. Tears are weak and stupid, the worst kind of undulgence for the flaccid brained. But now, he pondered, but could not find an answer to his own strange behavior. The day had been like any other day--dull but uneventuful. Nothing went wrong in the past week, the past month or even the past year. In fact, there was nothing wrong with his life. He had a comfortable one bed room apartment in a quiet part of the city. It was in a neat little neighborhood where nothing sensational ever happened. Life was predictable in his second floor apartment right smack in the middle of the building. Here, the only sound was the contented purr of his stove and the comforting sound of the faucet. He never had to worry about sounds of gunshots around the corner or of neighbors being too loud in bed.
He was a teacher at a reputable high school, nothing exception or even memorable. To the students he was an old baldie whom they had to put up with for a few hours every week. They did not expect him to impart any great knowledge. For them, knowledge was to be found in the backseats next to someone they can fuck. He was just part of the landscape they had gotten used to. Respect did not come into the equation. They had a transaction, they gave him their time, he gave them a grade that can help them move on to another teacher and another until they eventually left school.
He looked at the old, scratched out coffee mug standing next to the pile of papers. It once said: World's greatest teacher. Now it was barely readable, only "Wors test er" remained. HE was mildly happy when a student gave it to him even though he knew the student did not mean it and probably got it at a ninety-nine cents store or was merely passing on an unwanted gift. He was happy nonetheless. He should have thrown the mug away years ago, but something sentimental in him prevented him from doing so. But now looking at it, it had all the sad look of a retarded donkey, too old even for someone to waste a bullet on --ridiculous and pathetic. It made him angry all of a sudden. He hated the mug, the ugliness of it all, he hated himself for holding on to it like some old trophy. And the student papers, the stash of mediocrity--trash typed out last minute by students who didn't give a shit about Shakespeare, Milton or anything. The sight of the scrawly letters repulsed him. His hatred for everything on the desk was violent. From the ugly mug, to the papers, to the old study lamp, he despised them with an intensity he had not thought himself capable of.
The apartment he had spent so many happy nights basking in its peace and calm was suddenly disgusting. The old dark green carpet, the wallpaper. The bookshelves with the many books he had spent so many hours putting together into a collection he had been so proud of now looked silly and pretentious. Everything was dumb and ugly. The radio with its one blind eye stared accusingly like an idiot angered. He hated his home, his bed clothes, his old slippers, they were moronic and reflected his own patheticness back to himself in surprising clarity.
The ugly red mug was still staring at him with a spastic glee. HE needed to destroy it. He needed to do something foul, kill some squawking thing then spread its sticky blood all over this room. He wanted to slash away the wallpaper and burn the carpet. The pages from all those books should be ripped out, the shelves mutilated. The mug, the mug has to go. It was intolerable.
The window stood gaping like the rest of the room in idiocy. It was still drizzling outside. He hated the smell of the wet earth floating through the window. He grabbed that ugly old mug, determined to fling it out the window.
Through the window, the world outside was peaceful, the drizzle had slowed the activities on the streets to a crawl. But softness and the slowness was ugly to him. Across the street, he could see a woman holding a white umbrella, she was wearing a pale dress that reflected the glow of the street lamps. Trying to sidestep puddles, she was worried about getting her shoes wet. He wanted to fling the mug at her. At that instant, a strong gust of wind blew the white umbrella clean out of her hands and into the sky. It soared past his window like a great white bird then disappeared into the night sky. She snorted in surprise, watched her umbrella take flight, grumbled curses at the wind, then ran free in the rain. He watched the umbrella sweep past him on mute wings. It glimmered for a moment and was then swallowed up by the darkness. He looked at the dark sky, it was clear despite the rain. The moon glowed hazy and cool, gazing down from a corner of its cold, detached eye. He looked full into the face of the city at night, he was surprised at its beauty. It was a beauty that had to be struggled with, the kind of beauty that one had to wrestle in order to own or even to see. Someone was trying to play Bach on the piano somewhere on the street. The melody came to him muffled, diffused. The music stumbled around confused, limping to catch the elusive right notes. He looked at the red mug he still clutched in his hand, he wanted to summon up the anger but realized it was no longer real. He decided to make himself some coffee.
posted by Nippy at 10:32 PM
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