What the Lord Hath Made Crooked (Part 7 of 10)

The following is a series of attached photos sent from Liza to the group. As usual, we publish typed excerpts of these illuminated texts along with the original photo. The best way is to read the text, of course, is to to experience it in its illuminated form.

My prep period is during first hour this year, which is both a blessing and a curse. Yesterday morning, as I slumped over my desk, still partially comatose, my mind wandered to Tuesday's letter.

Embarrassed by its verbosity, doubtful of its clarity, I pondered a more concise way through which to express the 9 paged letter's intent. I revisited the main points in my head—the points I think I made, at least.

Heavenly paths
sinning
wandering
patience
acceptance
God's redemptive powers...

Easy enough, I thought, while simultaneously thinking the opposite.
How could I possibly provide a clear, straight path through a landscape of ideas, of questions so wayward and crooked? But then I got to thinking of a detailed fragment of a hazy image from 8 years previous.

Who can make straight what the Lord hath made crooked?

What I remembered was a poster (or was it a banner? paper cutouts? that hung above (or beside?) the whiteboard in Will's classroom at Lansing Catholic. As I envisioned the collaged scene in my head, I began to sketch. I made rapid, faint lines of objects and placements I was certain of. The whiteboard for instance, there was certainly no misplacing of the room's focal point. Once laid out on my paper, the rest of the scene was set in motion; an infinite chain from signifier to signifier to signified and so on (who woulda thunk Derrida would ever be of use to understanding something instead of just muddying the whole picture like he did at eighteen?).

I associated the whiteboard with Will's chair (or was it a swivel stool?), which brought my focus to the drumset to the left of the chair and whiteboard, which sparked a memory of a Hendrix picture somewhere in the room (which I'm certain I misplaced and misrepresented in my initial memory of the room—on second thought, it was surely black and white, I now see it above the Wall of Fame), the Hendrix picture (or was it a postcard?) reminded me of the Ibsen poster (which I also misplaced and misrepresented—was it above or beneath the Ecclesiastes poster? I remember felt). In trying to remember the color scheme of the signs, I had equally strong remembrances of the accent wall's color as Barney purple and as burnt pumpkin orange (burnt pumpkin orange won out—I think the adjacent classroom (Mrs. Walker's back then?) was painted that terrible purple color. This then brought me full circle back to the Ecclesiastes quote that started all of this madness. Looking up at the clock to see how much time was left of my prep period, I had one last memory. The clock, of course. Perhaps even more of a focal point than the whiteboard—not out of boredom, but out of hunger and anticipation. My teenage fixation on this clock, you see, is an important signifier: through my association of it to hunger and anticipation, I was able to remember that class fell right before lunch during eleventh grade and right before school's dismissal during twelfth grade. Class dismissal was therefore at eleven forty-five and two forty-five respectively.

Upon finishing my preliminary sketch, details that either sharpened or dulled my initial memory began to emerge. I then began placing notes on my picture, notes with detailed my certainty, doubts, or corrections to each of my initial memories. I quickly discovered that the more I obscured the original image with paper and pen ink, the more of this image was revealed to me. So, the more I admitted my uncertainty, the more certain I became. The questions sparked more questions, which in some instances led me to answers and in others, led me to ongoing questions.