At last...

Look. They are just thistles.

It's just a wasteland.

But it mattered to me at that moment.

It matters to me now.



I stopped.

I framed.

I paid attention.

Thistles. Just thistles. No arty filters.

It was just another day.

Today.

I was caught between conflicting feelings.

"Fuck it all."

"I'll read that book."

That book by that well connected, well respected, well accepted peer.

I reviewed the choices.

"Fuck it all."

That book.

"Pay attention to those students." 
"Show them you are there"

I was here.

Conflicting feelings....

Conflicting feelings...

Power to choose.

I chose the students.

A considered choice it was.

I took the spreadsheet.

The students couldn't do that.

Data.

Just fucking data.

It wouldn't really have mattered.

They were just students.

I clicked on a link.

It was a person, a real person.

A person with fears, hopes, expectations...

No expectations...

Low expectations...

A person, with memories, with stories, with stories to write.

"Fuck it all."

What is more important?

It clicked.

This wasn't really work.

It was life.

LIFE.

I got caught up in the joy, the curiosity, the responsibility that was a click away.

I clicked, I measured my words, I wanted the moment to count.

I am just a teacher.

They were just thistles.

She was just a student.

Make it fucking count.

I counted.

I even timed it.

With a fucking iPhone.

It took me two hours.

At last...

Two hours for twenty people.

I calculated.

6 minutes per person.

What counts?

How long is a song?

You don't need so much time.

A word, a reference, a link, a picture, a song.

Just a word.

Just a second.

Just a déclic.

Just a song.

"Fuck it all."

Another person.

Binoche.

Her again.

I shall go and Google her here.

Touches of sense...

There was a teacher they were talking about.

She was talking about her.

Being her.

For the other person.

For her.

So many years after.

At last...

There was a song on the TV.

I posted it here.

To mark the moment.

To remember an instant.

AT LAST.

"Fuck it all."

I'll read the book after.

I'll do the paper, the conference after.

What counts?

The applause?

The status?

The money?

Touches of sense...

I received a couple of mails.

Just students.

They said: "Thank you."

In so many words.

Nothing else.

Counts.

Interstellar on TV.

I am not watching.

I am writing.

I am aware of...

Etta James on Youtube.

Jazz chilling out on the sofa.

Another day.

I am here.

This was life.