Archive for the ‘Jason Erik Lundberg’ Category
What They Don’t Tell You
Tuesday, July 28th, 2009
1. You will be expected to renounce all worldly possessions, familial ties, and social connections so as to maximize your teaching performance at the School.
2. You will be expected to wear the assigned teacher’s uniform, eat the prescribed teacher’s diet, and sleep in the teacher’s wing of the School dormitories. Your head will be shaved each Sunday evening by the School barber.
3. You will be expected to deliver thorough and incisive comments on every student composition, no matter the length of the assignment, the number of students in the class, or number of classes you teach.
4. You will be expected to pleasantly endure the loss of your privacy thanks to the ubiquity of scunts, wiretapping, keystroke-tracking software, and an over-vigilant security guard named Ted.
5. You will be expected to self-install a minimum of twelve nanny arphids that analyze marking decisions, pedagogical preparation and delivery, lesson plan productivity, and sexual attraction to your colleagues.
6. You will be expected to give, via telepresence, three or more simultaneous extra tuition lessons per term to students falling below the established minimum quota for excellence. Teachers who fail to meet their Excellence Quota for two consecutive terms will be subject to Retirement.
7. You will be expected to downlink a minimum of five workshop improvement courses per term during your sleep cycle, and mentally transmit your progress to the Dean of Teacher Upgrading upon completion the following morning.
8. You will be expected to feel grateful for your cloistered employment and constant comparison to the progress of your more capable colleagues, including robots and administrative staff. Consultation of the Educational Ranking board is mandatory before entering your sleep cycle each night.
9. You will be expected to fear the loss of your job, the downscaling of pay, the withdrawal of course knowledge, the lowering of governmental status points, and the placement of your name on the educational blacklist.
10. You will be expected to love the School with all your heart, until the day you die from exhaustion or are Retired with prejudice.
Ikan Berbudi (Wise Fish)
Monday, June 22nd, 2009
“Good morning, dear lady,” said the fish. “Today is the day I will die.”
Mrs Singh stood dumbfounded in the kitchen of her food stall. The fish, a grand red snapper with pointy teeth and auspicious markings, lazily trod water in its aquarium above the sink. It had brought Mrs Singh good luck since persuading her to spare its life three years ago. Her pescatarian menu consisted of curries and veg, and business had soared with the fish’s presence. It had also provided a strange companionship after her husband had died and her children had moved away. This announcement terrified her with its consequences.
“Why would you say this, fish?”
“Because it is true. I have lived a long life, in part thanks to you, but it will come to an end later today.”
“What if I buy you a new tank? Or a pond in which you can freely swim?”
“It will not matter, auntie. I will still die.”
“I could change your food, buy the expensive flakes from Thailand.”
“It still would not change the fact that I will die.”
“Is there anything can be done?”
“I am afraid not. It is the way of things. But I do ask for one kindness in return for the years of wealth I have brought you.”
“Anything, fish.”
“Cook me as you would any of my brothers, and then consume me yourself.”
“Very well.”
And so later that day, after Mrs Singh had served her last customer, the fish quietly stopped moving and floated upside down in its tank. Mrs Singh descaled the snapper, gutted it, and cooked it in fiery curry along with fingers of okra and slices of eggplant.
With the first bite, she experienced a heightening of all her senses. With the second, she gained understanding of the speech of plants. With the third she perceived the sticky strings of the vast LifeWeb that connects all living beings. With the fourth, the knowledge that her new perceptions would fade by tomorrow.
Mrs Singh wept for the fish’s gift, eating every last bit of flesh until her wise friend was completely gone.