Bucci Creates

Leaving Teaching

An empty hallway before school begins. Summer 2020.

I never knew what anxiety felt like until I turned in the resignation for my teaching position. I have been contemplating a different path for months, wondering what else I can do. But pay is not the first thing to make me resign. Probably the main reason is how kids have acted this year. I am not blaming them; they’ve dealt with a lot this year. But it’s choked the life out of my passion. The other reason is lack of support. And, again, I’m sure administrators and the school board feel they are supportive. I have not felt aided by them. One more thing I should note: I teach at the high school I attended about ten years ago. Many of the teachers and a few administrators are still there. It may be that I should not teach there. But I know I’ll miss some of the people – my friends.

2016-2018

I have taught high school video production for three years. Prior to that, I long term substituted and student taught in social studies and English. I consider myself a teacher of five years. It doesn’t pass my notice that over 40% of teachers burn out by year five (Campbell). I hate joining that statistic. After the second week of teaching social studies, I thought I would be one of those educators who literally die in school. I loved what I was doing. I created connections with students. My department was supportive and offered a lot of advice. Life was great!

I applied to the social studies position after almost a full year subbing (filling in for various replacements who I replaced before someone else replaced me and then was replaced by me…). The reason I didn’t get the job was that I hadn’t student taught. From the Department of Education, I found conflicting reports that they could or could not waive student teaching if you taught for at least a semester. The next year, I student taught semester one and took an English long term sub position semester two. This teacher had retired mid year, perfect chance to fit in. And again, with an amazing department! Teaching English was where I felt the most helpful for kids. They told me that what I taught was actually helpful. They even enjoyed our poetry unit. I applied for the job. And was denied because they wanted someone with a master’s degree.

I felt let down. The English department cried after the principal told me he couldn’t offer the job. I looked for jobs at other schools. On one of the last days of the year, a parent came in and told me to apply for the video production (VP) job. I didn’t feel qualified, but I do enjoy video and teaching. I applied. And for the summer, I worked at the Rangeley Historical Society. While at work, the high school principal called and asked if I was serious about the VP position. He offered me an interview with the superintendent. Finally, I was accepted.

2018-2021

For two years I created, taught, and adjusted the curriculum. Then COVID hit. I was already experiencing student disinterest, but only in small amounts. Most kids took VP “for the credit” and expected an easy class. I think they were surprised when we went into the emotion created by various camera shots, angles, and movements. In any case, COVID accelerated the rate of student disinterest. It also showed how unsupported we teachers felt by administrations, school boards, and the community at large.

The biggest reason I’m leaving teaching: student disinterest, disengagement, and disrespect. I have one rule in my classroom: respect. That means no cell phones while I, or others, speak. Yet, so often, I have to remind kids about staying off of them. With COVID, I’m unsure that I can collect them all or make students place them in a common area. It would help if there were some standard that was upheld throughout the building. Yet, each teacher does their own thing. Even I am in favor of letting kids learn time management skills. I’ll let them be on their phone, just as long as they know that the projects are due soon.

Several times over this past year I have tried to engage with students and saw every face in a screen. At least, every face in the classroom. There are still students that are on the computer, 95% of whom I never see. They refuse to have their faces on camera. There are reasons for some, but I think the vast majority log on, say “I’m here”, and go about their day, logging off when class ends. Except for the few who forget and I’m stuck in between classes saying “*student name*, you need help? Are you there?” I call them the ever present absentees.

As I teach or provide time for students to complete projects, I feel alone. I wonder if my impact is even worth my time. I don’t feel that I have done a thing. Currently, with just three weeks left, I have 50% of my students failing. I am not proud of that. But I have also vastly limited the amount of work I expect and the quality. I understand we are dealing with a lot of mental health stress. We. Not just students, but everyone. I also know that just because it’s a little hard, doesn’t mean you give up. You gotta push through!

Some may argue that I should not lower, but raise expectations. I don’t know how that’s feasible. Will kids rise to the challenge? Ordinarily, yes. I’m not so sure this year.

I ask how kids are at the beginning of class. Silence.

I ask how kids want to spend the next class period. What do they want to learn? Silence.

I ask if anyone wants to meet with me on Wednesdays (which we have as remote days with office hours). Silence.

Always. Silence.

The other major issue is lack of support. As a new teacher, we have three years of probation. Yearly contracts. One aspect of education are evaluations. Teachers are evaluated by administration. Administrators by other administrators. I understand normal year evaluations. Something I don’t understand is why teachers are evaluated during COVID. We are teaching in-person and remote students at the same time, wearing masks, and expected to have the same amount of impact. Or, at least, that’s how it seemed to me.

One of the worst experiences this year was not an observation by an assistant principal (AP) and superintendent, but the conference held afterwards. This didn’t feel like a conference though, more like an assault. When I arrived at the AP’s office, he asked me to sit down and he’d be back. He wasn’t the only one to return. He brought the principal himself. And for twenty minutes, they questioned my logic for the class period and told me they were disappointed in the results. “What has caused you to go backwards in your technique?” they asked. Who are they to look at my teaching technique when they have not taught in the hybrid model? The principal has never even taught in the classroom? Why judge teachers in a brand new system? Offer them advice. Don’t double team them and tell them how disappointed you are.

For the first semester, every Friday I met with the AP and reviewed my lesson plans for the week. I felt abused. I felt like every move was scrutinized. I was even less inclined to visit the office. It seemed like every interaction with administration was negative. So, I avoided them unless absolutely necessary.

It isn’t just administration. The school board continued to “support” teachers, but they were only receiving good news and assuming all was well and good. But it was not well and good. Over the course of the year, I experienced the same anxiety and depression as the students. I lost interest in almost everything. I can’t seem to wake up without being exhausted, despite getting “enough” sleep. But I keep going, trying to give my all to the kids.

The best part is how people assume teachers are taking time off. I went to the doctor’s one day when my school was forced into total remote mode and overheard this old guy talking to a receptionist. “They get all summer off. And now they are at home doing nothing. Why don’t they want to go into school and teach? Teachers are so lazy.”

How do I tell my advisees who will become seniors next year? And how do I tell the drama kids, who I’ve directed for over three years? This isn’t on them. And part of me feels bad moving on. The other part knows it’s best.

Future

I don’t think students will suddenly re-engage when school returns in the fall. I don’t think I’ll feel comfortable with administration in the fall. Therefore, I tendered my resignation after months of wondering if it’s the right thing to do. I’m not sure where I’ll go next or what I’ll do, but I still want to serve society and educate people. I think my time in the classroom is done for now. This was one of the hardest things I’ve done. But I know, in the long run, it’ll be worth it. I need to feel successful. I need to feel that I am doing good work.

May 13, 2021

Background information relevant to this post:

I teach high school level Video Production.

I had a tough day teaching. I have been for a while, wondering if I’ve lost my mojo. I attempted starting the day with positivity. I wanted to have a great day. But I have put myself in a pickle, allowing students to work on their choice video project. My three classes were nearly completely silent, in person and remote students. One kid tried connecting with me. We talked briefly about the incompetencies of the Chromebook. Especially when it comes to video production.

Most of my day was spent cleaning up my Nick Bucci Tutoring website (update 10/19/21: I’ve decided to follow my passion for videography. So that’s a dead site. Sorry) and this blog site, watching videos on Tin Type photography and personal development. After pulling myself out of several YouTube wormholes, I graded. I wouldn’t even say I taught. It felt like I wasted the day. I spent 8 hours of my life amounting to nothing.

It wasn’t until I got to my girlfriend’s house that I felt like the day had begun. I’ve decided to invest more time in writing. I enjoy it and it makes me feel satisfied. I decided to journal. And here I am, listening to the birds chirp outside and the cats chirp inside. I am hoping to re-balance where I spend my time. Less “working” and more on things I enjoy. It’s a matter of building profitable hobbies. I like the idea of passive incomes (making money work for you); it’s just a matter of motivation, which I’m lacking lately.

More camping
Less complaining about my situation
More writing
Less worrying about money
More film photography
Less faking emotions

Time for suppah!

Paths

To be a writer, one must be an alcoholic. That is a truth I have seen now. I drank; I wrote. I stopped drinking; I stopped writing. Now, with whiskey near, it’s flame reaching my innards, I feel engulfed with the writing spirit. That is what alcohol is. It is the spirit within the writer. I see things. I imagine and create. Like a child with crayon, I may write with just the whiff of sweetness that brings chills to my body. I am sent forth on a journey within my mind. The destination is unknown. The purpose is unknown. But I am able to make sense of it, somehow. The whiskey nibbles its way down my gullet. And I can see my tale unraveling.

There they gathered, three kings with their guardsmen, huddled around fires, surrounded by shelter halves. Shields aside, all of the men mingled, merry and full of confidence. Ale is passed around. There is a slight wind blowing in the night, just enough to step closer to the flames – the warmth. Trees sigh their contentment from the woods. But from the grass in the fields, there is anger. Feet trample. Ale is spilled. Swords ram the ground. And in the distance, there is noise. Galloping horses. Shouting men.

The guardsmen and kings, awash in glory and elatement, hear nothing. Not until there is a pause in the laughter, after a king’s joke. Then they hear hooves throwing up dirt. They listen to metal clinking. But only for a moment. Guardsmen rush to their shields, unsheathe swords, make ready spears, set arrows. The galloping horses rush by, merely glancing at the gathered men.

And onward they go, furiously riding to another destination. From where the author rests, in the confines of the wooded area, guardsmen relax. Swords are re-sheathed, shields are set down, arrows put away. In the woods, we watch. Learning their reactions is key to success. Our riders enter the woods behind us, cautiously quiet. They have created this lesson, taught us the quickness of the guards, the calmness of the kings. With weapons put away, the celebrations conclude. The kings head to bed, guards are posted. The camp becomes silent, save for the cackling of burning wood.

We continue watching.

I continue drinking. Three sips in and I feel the energy, shifting positions multiple times. Each one comfortable for a time, then I must change. Couch, floor, chair. Sip. Smoothness. My mind is full, like a stomach after Thanksgiving. Where the thoughts go, no one knows. There is an untenable mix of sadness and joy. Pleasure and boredom. Days filled with nothing but video games: conquering Europe as Germany, Italy, Switzerland, the USSR. Days filled with beers and whiskey. Filled with a warm hearth, cat snuggles, and wonderment. What will follow these days of nothing? What is next? Simply teaching? Is there more? Travel? A change?

For the night, nothing changes. There might be guards relieving their comrades, but the kings sleep and the fire burns. In the woods, guards take turns, but our leader sleeps. He always sleeps. Yet, when there must be decisions, he is awake, keenly choosing what is right. When will we slaughter these men? That is the talk among our people here. When can we unleash our pent up anxiety and attack?

Our Lord approaches suddenly, peering through the darkness into the camp before us. He is silent, like the camp. He gazes for some time and leaves. Is that a clue? Will we soon be free to lay waste to these poor souls? They are doomed the moment we set eyes upon them. Morning is looming. I see dawn rising from the horizon’s heart. The camp awakens. Our people awaken. For a moment, we share more similarities than differences. We are connected by our commonalities. There is peace.

What binds us together here on earth? What do we share? A path. Not the same path, but the “fact” that we are on a path. It is not the same path. It is not a similar path, but we are on a path. Some lead to greatness; some lead to failure. There are short ones and long ones. They all are dead ends, with no chance to turn back. Interactions between one another are where paths intersect. Sometimes, paths become bound together. We spend so much time with someone else that we almost share the same path. But that is impossible. Our path is for ourselves. To each his/ her own.

The paths we travel are all on the same plot of land. All six billion of us are walking on a small plot of land. We say it is a small world when we meet someone who knows someone we know. Paths cross. If your path crosses with a mutual acquaintance of mine, we have a connection. How else would I be able to house sit for someone who would otherwise be a stranger? Yet, here I find myself, on another snow day, wondering where my life will lead. The snow falls. The fire burns. My drink runs out. I will have to get up soon. That will force me to finish this piece, as I find difficulty in finishing writing once I set it down. I will finish what I have started.

The author will finish what he has started. It would be easy to unleash a slew of arrows into the kings, as they leave their shelters, but easy is no path to enjoyment. There must be conflict. There must be surprise and some level of difficulty. Our leader brings the tribe forward. We move swiftly, crouching in the grass. The camp is ahead, fire still blazing, guards still watching. But they don’t see us. And we rush them. We slash throats, crack limbs, split skulls, stab hearts, and it is too quick. Over too soon. Despite our attempt to create difficulty, it is still easy. Easy to be stealthy. But we celebrate regardless. For it is a victory. We pile the bodies, break their camp. Break our camp. And we leave. Onward to our next encounter. We don’t pick the path. A path picks us.

He Thought He Was Good.

Written June 2019

He thought he was a good writer, at one point. He wrote of love and war, though he had never engaged in an armed conflict with any human being. He had also written of alternate realities, dreaming up what life would be like if the Confederates won or a French baker had left just in time to avoid Hitler’s occupation of France. But now, he felt empty when he sat at the computer or with a pen and paper. Although he aimed to write, especially now with so many more experiences (still no war), there was either emptiness or a swell of ideas so overwhelming, he felt like he was on an island paradise watching a tsunami approaching ever quickly. Drinking sometimes helped, but only to return to his old ways, the absolutely unhealthy ways.

But he would sit in his underwear and a neon green t-shirt and read one of his old pieces. Memories would flood and he rambled about the old days: old love, college life, lives he had never lived. There are college collections: sleeping with a friend (literally), post-Senate shenanigans, lost love. Now, only broken connections and a loneliness that is partially self induced and equally provided by such a small town. Karaoke night wasn’t great. But the Allen’s is back, a bittersweet reintroduction between old friends. He is ashamed to have bought it at the IGA, unable to stop himself. He hesitated putting it in the fridge. He paused opening it. He stammered a “fuck me” as he poured it. But drinking it! AHHHHHHH! That is refreshing. He ignores the thought of weight gain and reads another old piece he once wrote.

There are at least a hundred pieces in his story folder. Some are finished; most are not. He once tried to finish a piece, it resulted in a homicide…in the story. He thinks of writing the next new-gen Western or redoing an old screenplay he had. There is hope, but opening up the document will stop his fingers from moving, from typing. He reads another story, seemingly ancient and not written by himself.

First Landings

Creative Writing Prompt: Write from the perspective of an alien entity that has no experience with or context of earth. From: 250 Writing Prompts by You Can Write It.

In the year of your first moon landing, I found myself hurtling through space in an escape pod. I came from a different galaxy at war with itself. Many of your nations have been embroiled by civil war; imagine that on the scale of inter galactic civil war. Planetary governments were dispersing from the Council, citing distrust in the Council’s leadership. My planet was facing sure destruction. As captain of the last shuttle off the planet, I led my people to a remote space station. There was a power struggle and mutiny. Rather than be killed by treasonous fools, I left.

And my escape led me to your earth. My escape pod buried itself into the fertile rocky soil of the North Eastern United States. To me, it was just land and darkness when I slammed into the ground. There were tall organic structures reaching all around me. At first, I thought it was an army and I was surrounded. When these creatures did not move, I ran. I ran through them. There were hundreds!

That’s when I found myself on the cold, black surface. It was hard and unkind to my feet. I noticed this was a path, made by another creature. Travelling fast down this path was a vehicle of some sort, unlike any I had seen. Two creatures were in the front. They saw me and their vehicle slowed. I ran.

I hid inside one of the tall organic’s belly. Until I knew their names, I decided to call them Talls. It was cold that night and my shivering kept me awake for the majority of the darkness and I was unable to rest. I don’t sleep like you humans, but I rest when stationary and my brain is inactive for minutes before re-activating. You would call it meditation.

The sun rose and I heard speaking. A four legged creature appeared in front of the belly of the Tall. It yelled at me or the Tall. Then its jaws reached for my feet. I kicked it and leaped to the next Tall. They did not seem to mind my climbing them. The four legged animal gave chase, but could not reach me in the Talls. I saw figures, much like the two in the vehicle further beyond this animal. They were speaking in a different tongue, but yelling most certainly.

I misjudged the distance to a Tall and fell. The four legged animal charged me. I had nothing to defend myself. I stood up and yelled at it: Go away!

It didn’t hear me and jumped upon me. Its weight was huge and I crumbled. But instead of biting me, it licked. A strange action. I thought it was poisonous. I threw it off of me and tried to run. Something loud snapped behind me and I felt a great pain in my back. Something hot rubbed against my breathing apparatus. I had been shot?

My captors were those organics from the vehicle. A large group of them circled around me. I was ready to be eaten alive. But one of them pushed the others back. Was he the leader? They brought me here. So, where am I?

The Last Party

Prompt: It’s the perfect party for the end of the world. Who throws it? What’s going on? From: 250 Writing Prompts by You Can Write It.

Chapter One

Leo knew how to throw the best party. There were a few reasons. The first is Leo himself. Leo was known as an extremely sociable man around town. Bartenders knew him by name, the police appreciated his help occasionally, and everyone felt a connection to him. Leo once took the Myer-Briggs personality test and came out ENFP, if that says anything.

Leo’s job as a real-estate broker (#1 in the region for five years straight) led to great wealth (which was put into “Leo’s Corporation” or tied up in other investments). Leo had a sweet house too. He hired a contracting company to convert his 3-car garage into a bar. He bought a liquor-license and opened it to the public. But he only worked when he wanted, so the bar was open at odd hours, but always with an hour’s heads up. Finally, Leo’s girlfriend. If Leo was the town celebrity, Leo’s girlfriend, Barbara, was the quiet hermit. Most in town never heard her speak. Many wondered if she was mute. Few knew she preferred smaller parties, events hosted by Leo for particular people.

That was not the case tonight. Leo posted early in the morning he was opening the bar at 3pm. By noon, folks were already lining up to party. The garage was capped at 50 people with a two-hour time limit (for 95% of customers). Groups visiting were allowed in every fifteen minutes to keep the line moving. Leo had considered expanding, but he liked the idea of a special place. High demand, low supply.

An hour before the doors opened, Leo met Barbara in their kitchen. Leo poured them both a shot of Jamison. He looked briefly around, admiring his work so far, acquiring 60% of the neighborhood. He had done so slowly, since he first received his broker’s license 15 years ago. Now he raised his glass.

“To the end of the world,” Leo toasted.

Barbara smiled briefly. And she replied.

“May it not be the end of us.”

They dropped the Jamison in their mouth and swallowed. Leo guided his wife into the basement, which had been turned from a gaming center into a classical library, complete with bookshelf walls and a small bar in the far corner. In years past, Leo invited the closest of friends down here. Often times, they used it as the private club. Sometimes they read from Leo’s massive collection of political science and history books. Leo stepped behind the walnut bar and pulled up on the jar of olives. The glass olives, much like marbles, tinked against each other. One of the bookshelves heaved itself out of the wall. Barbara pushed it aside and flipped on the lights by her side. Leo joined her.

The two stepped into an elevator and tapped the descend button. The metal doors closed slowly. Leo grabbed Barbara’s hand.

“Barb, how long until the impact?”

“Eight hours. We have touch down at 8:21pm, dear.”

“And our plans?”

“Secure. I’ll show you now.”

The doors opened to a completely darkened room until Barbara clicked the light button. An overhead porch light came on. Ahead was an oak door, much like the one to their main house. Leo turned the handle and offered Barbara the first steps into their home. Their underground home had been designed to impersonate their above ground house. Every room was identical, including the basement library. The difference was hidden supply stores in every room and a large supply store behind the pantry. Supplies for five years had been purchased slowly to elude suspicion of a build up. A gun cabinet included some antique fire arms, something Leo enjoyed. And in the entry way to their bedroom, Barbara had requested an office of her own to continue her writing.

Leo and Barbara were not the conductors of world’s end, but they hid the cause after discovery. Dr. Martin Nomed worked at the observatory station near Mount Hope. When Leo was in college, he briefly interned under Dr. Nomed. During a night exploring the night sky, Dr. Nomed noticed an unusual heat flare far in the cosmos. He made note of it in his journal and continued on. Over the course of a month, Dr. Nomed made entries in his journal of this unknown thing in the sky. It seemed to be moving a little bit closer. Dr. Nomed found no mention of it in issues of the electronic planetary newsletter he received or in the scientific forums he was a member of.

Dr. Nomed studied his unidentified object for a year. He traced it’s trajectory, size, and composition. It was an asteroid, the size of Denver, Colorado (10 miles wide). Dr. Nomed expected it to be an extreme, Earth shattering event. When he concluded his studies, Dr. Nomed discovered his asteroid (“Denver” A-15K) to be headed for the Western United States.

Leo was one of the first people Dr. Nomed shared his information with.

“This event, Leo, will destroy the entire North American continent and rain dust and ashes on the rest of the planet!”

“What can be done?”

“NASA can try to destroy it or push it off course, but I fear that is unlikely. An asteroid of this size is unstable. It has a 1 in 5 chance to hit the earth.”

Dr. Nomed wrote his discovery in an article for publication. Leo read it for him. After proofreading the article, Leo offered it to his father. Leo’s dad was the head of a tech company. This company, small, but profitable, gave Leo’s dad a good lifestyle. And his father used his money to research conspiracy theories, trying to prove or disprove these ideas.

When Leo gave the article to his father, Leo’s dad double-checked with a scientist friend. They decided that this was a perfect opportunity to start the world over again. Leo strangled Dr. Nomed before the doctor could post his research. The observatory caught fire due to an “electrical short” and Dr. Nomed’s body was burned up, along with all evidence of “Denver”.

After college, Leo earned his broker’s license and began his real-estate carrier. Along the way, his father and Leo began preparing. They told few people of their knowledge and created a small association for their future. The association, naming itself “Denver Assoc.” kept tabs on other observatories and ensured that no news of the asteroid got out.

Leo’s father died of a heart attack, placing Leo as head of Denver Assoc. Leo took charge immediately and began not just researching conspiracy theories, but creating them too. Leo put his best friend, Barbara, in charge of designing theories that would orchestrate distrust in the government. Barbara and Leo worked closely, spending many nights drinking and forming new conspiracy theories that Barbara posted in various chat forums to sow dissent.

Now, in their underground home, Leo picked up the phone.

“Party is on tonight. Meet me at the door.”

There was a response, but Leo was so excited he barely heard it. He kissed Barbara hard. She grinned and slapped Leo’s ass. Leo guided Barbara on one last tour of their future shelter. They made love in each room.

At 2pm, Leo met four of his associates at the door. Charles and Rachael were the oldest at 40. They were young apprentices of Leo’s father and invested heavily in Leo’s underground house. Charles and Rachael were unmarried, waiting for the asteroid to strike, before their ceremony. Charles was a craftsman by nature, gardener by occupation. Rachel loved guns and would serve as gunsmith. Tim and Wes were the last two, gay and married. They were part IT support and part engineer. In order to survive after a massive impact, Denver Association would need their capabilities. Leo served as Chairman and cook, while Barbara was quartermaster.

The six core members of Denver Association entered the underground complex and laid claim to the rooms designated to them. Leo called for a meeting at 2:30pm. They met in the complex’s kitchen. Leo, Barbara, Tim, and Wes stood around a marble island. Charles and Rachel sat on stools nearby. They shared a small glass of red wine.

“I am ready to start this journey with all of you. I hope you found your rooms as you’d like?” Leo asked.

“Yes. Just as expected,” Charles said.

Wes agreed.

“Enjoy yourselves this evening. But indulge lightly. We truly celebrate after the strike,” Barbara said.

Charles raised his glass, “To us.”

End of Chapter One

More writing here…

No Identity

For a brief moment, no more than three seconds, I forgot who I was. Staring at the chocolate gelato looking waves of the river, my name left me. I was simply a homo sapien looking at water. Purely primal. I didn’t have a name, job, girlfriend, house, debt, hunger, or history. And then it was gone. I became a teacher on a photography walk. I regained a mortgage and my name. But the river was beautiful. And worthy of my time.

Have you felt this way, dear reader? Is this common? When is a time you lost yourself? Have you had your identity drown in the river or burn in a campfire? This experience should be mandated by law. It grounds us and reminds you that this world is bigger than you. Everyone and everything has a story and a past. Although we often find ourselves acting as the main character in our own play, remember that you play a role in everyone else’s story.

I have recently picked up film photography. Rather than capture an image digitally and have that immediate review, film (also known as analog) requires time and patience. With film photography, you have a set number of “slots” on a roll of film in which to take pictures. Each picture is special and demands thoughtfulness (besides the usual aperture, shutter speed, and ISO considerations).

It’s not just the shooting of film and carefully crafting composition; developing is the other half of film photography, as Ansel Adams once said. Developing film is an art itself as you can change the look and texture of your pictures by over or under exposing the images. Timing and chemical variances can impact how negatives will come out. And did I mention one has to wait for them to dry before viewing?

The best part about film, for me, are the adventures. For example, I have lived in the same town for 27 years. One would think that there isn’t possibly anything I haven’t seen. I took a walk around the downtown shopping area with my film camera and discovered new windows, signs, and entire buildings I had never really looked at. Film is discovery.

I’m not the only one to experience this return to film. Look up “film”, “35mm”, or “analog” on Instagram. You’ll find thousands of people reverting to the vintage techniques. If you yourself dare to try it, I wish you luck using digital again. I don’t take my digital camera out much anymore. I love film. I love finding a moment of time, capturing it, and having it reveal itself after I unravel the reel. Digital just isn’t the same.

The river is quietly flowing, replenished this winter by two days of rain. The snow is gone and the railroad tracks are abandoned save for my girlfriend and I taking film pictures. But for a moment, as I pull the camera down, I lose myself. I, as a person, am gone. I do not exist. I am just a human body near a strong river that has been used by Native Americans and my European relatives for generations. But even more, I do not have ancestors. I am nothing, just observing nature. And it is beautiful.

I recommend you go out in nature and experience identity loss. Lose yourself to the world. But only for a short while. You got life to live!

First Post: Salutations

Howdy-do! The name is Nick Bucci. If you haven’t read the bio: I am a teacher, writer, and photographer. You should also know that I enjoy the Oxford Comma. I’m not really sure what the purpose of the blog will be other than quenching my desire to write. If I create a commitment, I have to follow through, eh? What will the writing be about? Great question! Perhaps I’ll write about whatever floats along the river of my mind. Current events, my reactions, random ramblings, or a short piece of fiction or non-fiction. Regardless, I’ll be writing. And this is my first post.

That’s the point, I believe.

As far as formatting goes, I currently felt like including some of my pieces from college that I felt confident in. The main blog will include anything I write. Of course, comments and constructive feedback are welcome. Disrespect and hate speech – not so much.

I am here to write. This site serves as a platform to better my writing habits. From the first post to the last, I hope you are well.