Y e s

 

he asked me 30 x 24 cm acryl on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert

IS IT THEM, OR AM I JUST PARANOID?

Sometimes they look at me as if I were an alien. Like I might

nip off a few choice body parts, remove one or two vital

organs without spilling a drop of blood, then send it all

off to be examined by a Higher Intelligence.

I think they overrate themselves. Some of them are nearly

exquisite, true, but I don’t think anyone of more than

middling intelligence would find them worthy of study.

One could imagine, though barely, the diversions of a field trip—

as it were—but as objects of scholarly desire? I don’t think so.

Last week during dictation one girl must have thought

it was vampire hour. She thrust a crucifix the size of two

large fork tines in my face and muttered some heart-felt if

rudimentary Latin formula. The hysteria began to spread.

Another girl—a blond from Argentina, not averse to tangoing

into glass twenty or so minutes late—tried to rub a sliver of garlic

over one of my paper cuts. I was forced to punish her. I won’t

reveal how, but you can trust me, it will have no lasting effect on her behavior.

During lunch the girls started hammering together a scaffold.

At least they’ve learned something in wood shop. Besides,

they prefer hanging to burning. Fire ordinance? I have to

admire them. They’ve figured out the system. If you play

by the “rules,” you can get away with anything.

Who will write my epitaph? My wife for sure not. I peel back a

layer of bread. Mustard. Lots of it. She knows I detest the stuff.

Or was it my untrustworthy daughter? Or one of her pointlessly

malicious school friends? She has so many of late.