Spilled wine on a white table cloth,
the heat of embarrassment on a woman's cheek,
the rose of a sunset as it disappears beyond the horizon.
These are the shades of red I've known.
I thought I knew the contours of red,
had felt all the sweetness of the berry,
the salty tang of my own blood,
known the passion of rose,
the warm depths of a woman's body,
but in the mysterious depths of a toilet bowl
I've discovered a new shade.
There is no paint, no crayon,
that paints the aching shade
of blood in the chilled water
of a porcelain bowl.
As my daughter blushes through the burn
of incision, pain pills, and fear
her bare bottom perched atop the toilet
I see her blood mix with the water below.
My body trembles with the sight of it
the slow flowering of blood
flowering through the water
like the opening of a bloom.
She cries and holds her belly.
Done, she asks to be wiped
and I fold the tender fiber of paper
into four equal squares
and gently clean her.
I drop the tainted paper into the bowl
the force sends the blood curling anew.
Wispy tendrils reach and expand
to the out limits of the bowl.
I flush the toilet before I lift my daughter
hoping to hide the sight from her,
but she's seen the blood
and is curious about what it means.
I fumble for the flush,
depress it,
watch the smooth blush slide
of blood in a drain
and catch a glimpse
of time sliding away from me
in a pull like gravity.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The Revision Room
We found ourselves in the Family Waiting Room of Emmanuel Hospital again today. This time the stakes were higher, the surgery more involved, and the door to the Physician Consult Room more shadowed and ominous than before.
The wait was longer. Instead of thirty minutes like the last procedure, we had to wait a full three hours for news from the nurses and doctors. The first update was uplifting. A middle aged nurse with sandy brown hair appeared and said, "Everything's going fine. They're almost done. Dr. Lashley will be out in a bit and he'll call you into that room over there."
That room. The last time I was here, I hated that room and all of its terrible potential. Now I found myself longing for it, desiring it, wanting to be enfolded in the comfort it would provide once the doctor appeared. The clock had been performing a meticulous do si do around the the dial. I streamed X-men cartoons in an attempt at distraction. I read Brady Udall's book. I listened to the iPod. I talked to Tracy. I people watched. Nothing helped. The slow burn of time unfold at a pace measured by tectonic movements, but the doctor finally appeared.
He waved us over with a quick gesture. I'd never been so happy. Here I was bounding across the waiting room to the Physician Consult Room with abandon. Talk to me! Tell me something! When Tracy and I were both secure in the room and the door was hitched closed, the doctor gave us his news. The operation was a success. He had no reason to believe there would be any complications, but it was still surgery and we needed to be cautious.
There was an extended conversation about the 1% probability of scarring, of tube blockage, of infection, of...the list went on. I wondered which statistician had been hired to figure out such things. My mind was racing. I was picking up snippets of this and that. We talked about after care, about when we could take her home, and the whole time my heart was aching with the desire to see her, to hold her hand, to touch the soft flesh at the back of her hand with the smooth oval of my thumb, to caress her, to coo, to whisper encouragement to her groggy anesthetized self.
Tracy was tearful. It wasn't sadness, I don't think, but relief. The doctor left us alone in the room again, just like last time, and our bodies found each other in the middle of the room. I encircled her shoulders with my arms, pulled her to me and held her. I felt her head tip into my chest, her hands reach up to my shoulder blades, and the quivering of her breath. It was like broken ceramic being fitted back together with glue. The pieces met up almost perfectly. There were imperfections in the fit, but the whole was reassembled for the most part. I exhaled for what felt like the first time in months.
In some ways, it was like a rebirth, a movement from the darkness of a womb of anxiety and concern into a lighter place, a passage through a tunnel to come blinking out the other side into daylight. There were still anxieties and concerns, real ones, we would be tested against in the coming days, but the main event had passed. It was like the turning point in a great war. There were smaller skirmishes ahead, but the main battle had been fought and won. It felt like momentum, like racing downhill with no hands on the handlebars, eyes closed. It was a thrill, an adrenaline rush, but full of danger and fraught with peril.
So, we stood hugging in the Physician Consult Room for a while. I was grateful for this small cell of a room. It afforded us a moment to breathe, to relax, to embrace, to come together as a couple, and not only as distraught parents. The relief in these moments is tangible and this cinder block haven afforded us the shelter, the reservoir with which to find purchase on solid ground after being awash in our own tumultuous sea. It was in this baneful room that I discovered I would be here again. But now, having survived the ordeal, I was grateful for the current of life that pulled us here.
After breathing the scent of Tracy's shampoo for a couple of moments, we picked up our bags and resumed our wait with the rest of the waiting room families. But it was different, more relaxed. I picked up Brady Udall's "The Lonely Polygamist" and my eyes skipped down the page in a movement that felt something like dancing.
The wait was longer. Instead of thirty minutes like the last procedure, we had to wait a full three hours for news from the nurses and doctors. The first update was uplifting. A middle aged nurse with sandy brown hair appeared and said, "Everything's going fine. They're almost done. Dr. Lashley will be out in a bit and he'll call you into that room over there."
That room. The last time I was here, I hated that room and all of its terrible potential. Now I found myself longing for it, desiring it, wanting to be enfolded in the comfort it would provide once the doctor appeared. The clock had been performing a meticulous do si do around the the dial. I streamed X-men cartoons in an attempt at distraction. I read Brady Udall's book. I listened to the iPod. I talked to Tracy. I people watched. Nothing helped. The slow burn of time unfold at a pace measured by tectonic movements, but the doctor finally appeared.
He waved us over with a quick gesture. I'd never been so happy. Here I was bounding across the waiting room to the Physician Consult Room with abandon. Talk to me! Tell me something! When Tracy and I were both secure in the room and the door was hitched closed, the doctor gave us his news. The operation was a success. He had no reason to believe there would be any complications, but it was still surgery and we needed to be cautious.
There was an extended conversation about the 1% probability of scarring, of tube blockage, of infection, of...the list went on. I wondered which statistician had been hired to figure out such things. My mind was racing. I was picking up snippets of this and that. We talked about after care, about when we could take her home, and the whole time my heart was aching with the desire to see her, to hold her hand, to touch the soft flesh at the back of her hand with the smooth oval of my thumb, to caress her, to coo, to whisper encouragement to her groggy anesthetized self.
Tracy was tearful. It wasn't sadness, I don't think, but relief. The doctor left us alone in the room again, just like last time, and our bodies found each other in the middle of the room. I encircled her shoulders with my arms, pulled her to me and held her. I felt her head tip into my chest, her hands reach up to my shoulder blades, and the quivering of her breath. It was like broken ceramic being fitted back together with glue. The pieces met up almost perfectly. There were imperfections in the fit, but the whole was reassembled for the most part. I exhaled for what felt like the first time in months.
In some ways, it was like a rebirth, a movement from the darkness of a womb of anxiety and concern into a lighter place, a passage through a tunnel to come blinking out the other side into daylight. There were still anxieties and concerns, real ones, we would be tested against in the coming days, but the main event had passed. It was like the turning point in a great war. There were smaller skirmishes ahead, but the main battle had been fought and won. It felt like momentum, like racing downhill with no hands on the handlebars, eyes closed. It was a thrill, an adrenaline rush, but full of danger and fraught with peril.
So, we stood hugging in the Physician Consult Room for a while. I was grateful for this small cell of a room. It afforded us a moment to breathe, to relax, to embrace, to come together as a couple, and not only as distraught parents. The relief in these moments is tangible and this cinder block haven afforded us the shelter, the reservoir with which to find purchase on solid ground after being awash in our own tumultuous sea. It was in this baneful room that I discovered I would be here again. But now, having survived the ordeal, I was grateful for the current of life that pulled us here.
After breathing the scent of Tracy's shampoo for a couple of moments, we picked up our bags and resumed our wait with the rest of the waiting room families. But it was different, more relaxed. I picked up Brady Udall's "The Lonely Polygamist" and my eyes skipped down the page in a movement that felt something like dancing.
Monday, December 27, 2010
She's Fine!
I'd like to sit here and put together an insightful blog post, but I'm exhausted. Shea's fine. She got through surgery great. She's eating, drinking, and moving water. All great signs. More later.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Twas the Night Before Surgery.
Twas the night before surgery and all through the house, the family was ascurry even the louse.
He was nervous and jumpy and a little bit frightened, it felt like his senses were electrically heightened.
The dog lapped at her bowl with wet slobbery sounds and the wife had all the laundry piled in mounds.
The bags were all packed and sitting by the door, the husband was hoping for a night without her snores.
He found himself confronted with that nemesis, that mage, the frightening canvas of the white gaping page.
The child was cuddled all snug in her bed, and the father's stomach sunk deeply like a cold piece of lead.
So as the night marched on in an endless series of ticks, the dog sensed my nerves and gave me some licks.
Soon I'll lay my head down and try for some sleep, and hope that the spirits will tend to my peeps.
He was nervous and jumpy and a little bit frightened, it felt like his senses were electrically heightened.
The dog lapped at her bowl with wet slobbery sounds and the wife had all the laundry piled in mounds.
The bags were all packed and sitting by the door, the husband was hoping for a night without her snores.
He found himself confronted with that nemesis, that mage, the frightening canvas of the white gaping page.
The child was cuddled all snug in her bed, and the father's stomach sunk deeply like a cold piece of lead.
So as the night marched on in an endless series of ticks, the dog sensed my nerves and gave me some licks.
Soon I'll lay my head down and try for some sleep, and hope that the spirits will tend to my peeps.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
"I Didn't"
Stuart Dybek wrote a beautiful story "We Didn't" and as I was sitting here this evening it somehow entered my thoughts as I was reviewing my day. This blog post is an inferior homage to that wonderful story which can be found in his collection I Sailed with Magellan.
I didn't grade papers today. I didn't sit down with a stack of files or a box full of portfolios. I didn't take time out of my family life to focus on the needs of others. I didn't sit on the sofa, alone, thinking about the slow slide of breath from between my wife's lips. I didn't look at the soft profile of my wife's face in the green glow of the alarm clock and regret the hours spent in the day.
I didn't kiss my daughter goodnight and slide away to the living room to read books for the class I will teach next spring. I didn't miss the opportunity to play with her because my mind was occupied with things I had to finish before I went to work the next day. The books sat piled up on the table next to the sofa, collecting a thin layer of dust from disuse.
I didn't find an excuse to step away from my daughter to check my email. I didn't ignore my wife. I didn't revolve around a thought process of obligation and duty. I didn't have to balance one set of obligations and duties against another.
Instead, my daughter and I had a "picnic" on a blanket in her room. I found a white blanket, a stuffed snowman, a wooden Santa, plastic figurines of children and created a winter wonderland where children were able to profess their wishes to Santa and he was able to fulfill them all. We practiced wishing for things for other people, making wishes to Santa for the plastic children. We practiced wishing goodness for others and thinking about the needs of others before ourselves.
There was a zoo and we fed the animals: a llama, a lion, a tiger, a bunny, a cow, and a horse with a mane of yarn. We whinnied, mooed, clucked, and roared. I read her The Polar Express and began The Night Before Christmas. She was wet part way through the second book and had dirty underwear. I cleaned her, cautious of the redness that was spreading from exposure to her own poop. I disciplined her for asking for things without saying, "Please."
I held her as she drifted toward sleep at nap time. I smoothed her hair back after I took out her barettes and tucked her into bed. She asked, "Is Christmas tomorrow?"
"It's on Saturday, honey. Just a couple of days away." I asked her if she was a good girl.
She said, "No." She reminded me of her accidents.
I told her she was a good girl and told her the difference between being good and making mistakes. She hummed a little under her breath after that. I kissed her, gave her a hug, and told her to have a good sleep. She fell into a deep sleep which I had to wake her from two hours later.
As I walked up the steps to wake her, I passed shadow versions of myself. Each one was me, but an earlier me, a preoccupied version of myself. I saw the furrowed brow of my other self. I saw myself weighted down by the burdens of work and art. I saw myself forgetting the beauty of my own life. As I passed these apparitions, these "other" selves, I felt bad. I felt bad that I could allow myself to forget. To forget my wife, that I could forget my daughter, even for the space of a tick of the second hand. As I crested the stairs and left my apparitions behind me, I felt my heart race as I placed my hand on the knob of the door. When I opened it and saw the light from the hallway spill over my daughter's bed, I knew I was where I needed to be, that I was my present self, my future self, and all endeavors would point the way back to this place, to Shea's side. It's a comfort to have at least that part of one's life stabilized and to not have to question.
***So, not the original, not by far, but it was fun to try and emulate the structure of the story and to make meaning within the confines of a format.***
I didn't grade papers today. I didn't sit down with a stack of files or a box full of portfolios. I didn't take time out of my family life to focus on the needs of others. I didn't sit on the sofa, alone, thinking about the slow slide of breath from between my wife's lips. I didn't look at the soft profile of my wife's face in the green glow of the alarm clock and regret the hours spent in the day.
I didn't kiss my daughter goodnight and slide away to the living room to read books for the class I will teach next spring. I didn't miss the opportunity to play with her because my mind was occupied with things I had to finish before I went to work the next day. The books sat piled up on the table next to the sofa, collecting a thin layer of dust from disuse.
I didn't find an excuse to step away from my daughter to check my email. I didn't ignore my wife. I didn't revolve around a thought process of obligation and duty. I didn't have to balance one set of obligations and duties against another.
Instead, my daughter and I had a "picnic" on a blanket in her room. I found a white blanket, a stuffed snowman, a wooden Santa, plastic figurines of children and created a winter wonderland where children were able to profess their wishes to Santa and he was able to fulfill them all. We practiced wishing for things for other people, making wishes to Santa for the plastic children. We practiced wishing goodness for others and thinking about the needs of others before ourselves.
There was a zoo and we fed the animals: a llama, a lion, a tiger, a bunny, a cow, and a horse with a mane of yarn. We whinnied, mooed, clucked, and roared. I read her The Polar Express and began The Night Before Christmas. She was wet part way through the second book and had dirty underwear. I cleaned her, cautious of the redness that was spreading from exposure to her own poop. I disciplined her for asking for things without saying, "Please."
I held her as she drifted toward sleep at nap time. I smoothed her hair back after I took out her barettes and tucked her into bed. She asked, "Is Christmas tomorrow?"
"It's on Saturday, honey. Just a couple of days away." I asked her if she was a good girl.
She said, "No." She reminded me of her accidents.
I told her she was a good girl and told her the difference between being good and making mistakes. She hummed a little under her breath after that. I kissed her, gave her a hug, and told her to have a good sleep. She fell into a deep sleep which I had to wake her from two hours later.
As I walked up the steps to wake her, I passed shadow versions of myself. Each one was me, but an earlier me, a preoccupied version of myself. I saw the furrowed brow of my other self. I saw myself weighted down by the burdens of work and art. I saw myself forgetting the beauty of my own life. As I passed these apparitions, these "other" selves, I felt bad. I felt bad that I could allow myself to forget. To forget my wife, that I could forget my daughter, even for the space of a tick of the second hand. As I crested the stairs and left my apparitions behind me, I felt my heart race as I placed my hand on the knob of the door. When I opened it and saw the light from the hallway spill over my daughter's bed, I knew I was where I needed to be, that I was my present self, my future self, and all endeavors would point the way back to this place, to Shea's side. It's a comfort to have at least that part of one's life stabilized and to not have to question.
***So, not the original, not by far, but it was fun to try and emulate the structure of the story and to make meaning within the confines of a format.***
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Running the Numbers
Today's been an eventful day and so as I sit here in the living room looking back on everything that's happened, I thought I'd run the numbers.
Number of facial bruises Shea picked up tripping face first into Tracy's cubicle at work: 1
Number of poopy pants from Shea's diarrhea farts: 4
Number of people we waited behind to see Santa: 40-ish
Number of good photos we got taken with Santa this year: 2
Number of times Shea told Tracy and I that she loved us: 15 or so
Number of times Shea said, "This sucker tastes like starlight": 2
Number of hours home alone where I got to play with Shea: 4
The amount of times I would trade this day for another: 0
"You and Me Day" was a resounding success today. Notice that I only say this now that Shea's gone to bed and I have a moment alone to think without scooping poop from a tiny butt crack. The trade off of parenthood is facing these challenges with poise and composure. The joy is that the moment those challenges are over, we are still faced with our greatest love. Our greatest treasure.
Number of facial bruises Shea picked up tripping face first into Tracy's cubicle at work: 1
Number of poopy pants from Shea's diarrhea farts: 4
Number of people we waited behind to see Santa: 40-ish
Number of good photos we got taken with Santa this year: 2
Number of times Shea told Tracy and I that she loved us: 15 or so
Number of times Shea said, "This sucker tastes like starlight": 2
Number of hours home alone where I got to play with Shea: 4
The amount of times I would trade this day for another: 0
"You and Me Day" was a resounding success today. Notice that I only say this now that Shea's gone to bed and I have a moment alone to think without scooping poop from a tiny butt crack. The trade off of parenthood is facing these challenges with poise and composure. The joy is that the moment those challenges are over, we are still faced with our greatest love. Our greatest treasure.
Monday, December 20, 2010
A Sloppy "Come to Jesus"
Everyone I know balances a multitude of relationships. We all have expectations that arise from each and every one of these. For the most part, they run like clockwork. There's a hiccup every now and again, but overall they run fluidly.
Then again, there are those moments where our relationships are not fluid. They are disjointed and chaotic. I recently had a conversation with some friends where it was identified that I should have a "Come To Jesus" moment. Loosely translated this meant a conversation of meaning. A reaffirmation of intention. I took their advice.
What did this mean? Well, in this particular moment, it meant a drunken declaration of affairs. It meant an awkward conversation where neither party wanted to participate. It was awful. It was hurtful. It was...honest.
For those involved, what did it mean? It meant a reckoning. It meant a facing of facts. A REAL conversation. It meant hurt feelings. It meant resentment. It meant a jumping off point for everything that comes after.
For me, it meant reaffirming the fact that even though I am having an argument, I can still be arguing FOR something and not against it. Sometime when we are at our wits end, it means fighting for the things that still have meaning. It means fighting for the person for whom we have meaning. It means being bitter in order to be loving. It means being angry in order to be happy. It means having all of those acidic moments and still coming out the back side with something to be hopeful for.
I fear anger. I do. I don't like feeling angry. I don't like feeling like I want to punch a wall. These are things I classify, normally, as primitive, unevolved, non-me. But, there are times where I am angry. Maybe I've been angry for a long time, and the only way I have to escape that prison is to be angry. We live in an era of pop psychology where, especially for men, we are taught that anger is inappropriate. We are taught that it serves no positive function.
I am here to tell all men that anger does serve a function, but it is in the healthy expression of said anger that we are able to move forward. It is only through communication that anything worth while is conveyed.
I've had "Part I" of my "Come To Jesus" moment. I've confessed. Now, I'm on the road to Damascus. I'm on the road to regaining sight. I'm on the road to reconciling my soul.
Props to A.K. and R.P. for some well played advice.
A long road to hoe ahead, but the first step has been taken.
Then again, there are those moments where our relationships are not fluid. They are disjointed and chaotic. I recently had a conversation with some friends where it was identified that I should have a "Come To Jesus" moment. Loosely translated this meant a conversation of meaning. A reaffirmation of intention. I took their advice.
What did this mean? Well, in this particular moment, it meant a drunken declaration of affairs. It meant an awkward conversation where neither party wanted to participate. It was awful. It was hurtful. It was...honest.
For those involved, what did it mean? It meant a reckoning. It meant a facing of facts. A REAL conversation. It meant hurt feelings. It meant resentment. It meant a jumping off point for everything that comes after.
For me, it meant reaffirming the fact that even though I am having an argument, I can still be arguing FOR something and not against it. Sometime when we are at our wits end, it means fighting for the things that still have meaning. It means fighting for the person for whom we have meaning. It means being bitter in order to be loving. It means being angry in order to be happy. It means having all of those acidic moments and still coming out the back side with something to be hopeful for.
I fear anger. I do. I don't like feeling angry. I don't like feeling like I want to punch a wall. These are things I classify, normally, as primitive, unevolved, non-me. But, there are times where I am angry. Maybe I've been angry for a long time, and the only way I have to escape that prison is to be angry. We live in an era of pop psychology where, especially for men, we are taught that anger is inappropriate. We are taught that it serves no positive function.
I am here to tell all men that anger does serve a function, but it is in the healthy expression of said anger that we are able to move forward. It is only through communication that anything worth while is conveyed.
I've had "Part I" of my "Come To Jesus" moment. I've confessed. Now, I'm on the road to Damascus. I'm on the road to regaining sight. I'm on the road to reconciling my soul.
Props to A.K. and R.P. for some well played advice.
A long road to hoe ahead, but the first step has been taken.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Creating Magic
The ride out to Hood River is a breeze. Tracy makes good time on the freeway and Shea is entranced with the many waterfalls that spill out over the rocky cliffs of the Gorge. It's a beautiful day. It's an unusually sunny day for December and we're on our way to the Polar Express.
Shea's excited to go to the "North Pole" and a visit with Santa and she's singing from her car seat. When we arrive in Hood River, there is some daylight left but the wind is chilling. We wrap Shea in her thickest winter coat and make our way to the train station. We are right on time and so we get to board the train immediately. As we step outside to the platform, we're met by the "conductor" of the train and a couple of the "chefs" who will bring the fantasy to life. The conductor greets us warmly in a thick New England accent and tells us to make our way onto the train.
As we enter the passenger car, there are garlands strung above the windows with Christmas ornaments dangling from them. All of the children are dressed in their pajamas and they are all anxiously looking out the windows or gabbing with their parents. Tracy and I lead Shea to our seats, two bench seats that face each other. The windows of the train are wood framed and old. They clasp with simple latches that you would find on an outhouse door. I wonder how fast we're going to be traveling. Everything in the train is old, worn, run-down, but charming in its antiquity.
As we pull away from the station, Shea is on her feet and looking out the windows. The loudspeakers crackle with a couple of announcements but the noise in the car makes it almost intelligible. The train pulls out of Hood River and shortly afterward, the "conductor" comes through asking for tickets. We give Shea the tickets and she hands them over. The conductor uses his hole punch to punch holes in them. He holds them above Shea's head as he does so and the punched holes rain down over her head like confetti. She smiles and takes the tickets back. She mutters a soft, "Thank you." He moves down the aisle and performs the same trick for the next family.
The world outside the train windows is slowly darkening and one of the train employees dims the lights of the cabin. The chefs come around with hot chocolate and a ginger cookie for everyone. Shea is over the moon. She sits on the edge of the bench seat and nibbles on the cookie. The loudspeaker crackles with life again and we're told we're pulling into the North Pole. The announcer tells us that we'll be passing through the warehouse district where the elves make the toys.
He tells them which toys are made where and then we come across what must be a Harry David warehouse where we can see in the windows. They're making fruit boxes, but you can hear the children squeeling, "Elves! Look at the elves!" Their little faces are plastered to the windows. They keep wiping the frost off the windows in order to see better.
Santa's house is adorned with Christmas lights and he stands outside waving to the children as we pull in and stop. The announcer tells us that Santa will be joining us on the train. Again, there's muttering throughout the train car, "Santa, daddy," and "Santa's coming!"
It's a big train and so it takes Santa a while to move up from the back of the train to our car. When he finally arrives, Shea's a little unsteady. She loves the idea of Santa, but is always a little wary in his presence. We'd left him a seat next to Shea, but he, probably wisely, chose to kneel in the aisle and talk to her.
He asks her if she has her list all prepared and she says, "Yes." Her voice is tiny and almost indiscernible, but Santa's doing great, pulling her out of her shell. When their done talking, his elven assistant hands him a single bell. He passes this to her. She takes it gingerly into her hands and says, "Thank you."
After Santa moves down the aisle to talk to the other children, Shea holds up her bell and presents it to us. Her eyes twinkle with the magic of the encounter. The train is not magic, the day is not magic, the conductor is not magic, and the man is not magic, but the look on Shea's face as she holds up that bell is. Her perception of the world is still infused with the possibilities of magic, of surprise and miracles. I watch her face light up and I can't help but believe too.
Shea's excited to go to the "North Pole" and a visit with Santa and she's singing from her car seat. When we arrive in Hood River, there is some daylight left but the wind is chilling. We wrap Shea in her thickest winter coat and make our way to the train station. We are right on time and so we get to board the train immediately. As we step outside to the platform, we're met by the "conductor" of the train and a couple of the "chefs" who will bring the fantasy to life. The conductor greets us warmly in a thick New England accent and tells us to make our way onto the train.
As we enter the passenger car, there are garlands strung above the windows with Christmas ornaments dangling from them. All of the children are dressed in their pajamas and they are all anxiously looking out the windows or gabbing with their parents. Tracy and I lead Shea to our seats, two bench seats that face each other. The windows of the train are wood framed and old. They clasp with simple latches that you would find on an outhouse door. I wonder how fast we're going to be traveling. Everything in the train is old, worn, run-down, but charming in its antiquity.
As we pull away from the station, Shea is on her feet and looking out the windows. The loudspeakers crackle with a couple of announcements but the noise in the car makes it almost intelligible. The train pulls out of Hood River and shortly afterward, the "conductor" comes through asking for tickets. We give Shea the tickets and she hands them over. The conductor uses his hole punch to punch holes in them. He holds them above Shea's head as he does so and the punched holes rain down over her head like confetti. She smiles and takes the tickets back. She mutters a soft, "Thank you." He moves down the aisle and performs the same trick for the next family.
The world outside the train windows is slowly darkening and one of the train employees dims the lights of the cabin. The chefs come around with hot chocolate and a ginger cookie for everyone. Shea is over the moon. She sits on the edge of the bench seat and nibbles on the cookie. The loudspeaker crackles with life again and we're told we're pulling into the North Pole. The announcer tells us that we'll be passing through the warehouse district where the elves make the toys.
He tells them which toys are made where and then we come across what must be a Harry David warehouse where we can see in the windows. They're making fruit boxes, but you can hear the children squeeling, "Elves! Look at the elves!" Their little faces are plastered to the windows. They keep wiping the frost off the windows in order to see better.
Santa's house is adorned with Christmas lights and he stands outside waving to the children as we pull in and stop. The announcer tells us that Santa will be joining us on the train. Again, there's muttering throughout the train car, "Santa, daddy," and "Santa's coming!"
It's a big train and so it takes Santa a while to move up from the back of the train to our car. When he finally arrives, Shea's a little unsteady. She loves the idea of Santa, but is always a little wary in his presence. We'd left him a seat next to Shea, but he, probably wisely, chose to kneel in the aisle and talk to her.
He asks her if she has her list all prepared and she says, "Yes." Her voice is tiny and almost indiscernible, but Santa's doing great, pulling her out of her shell. When their done talking, his elven assistant hands him a single bell. He passes this to her. She takes it gingerly into her hands and says, "Thank you."
After Santa moves down the aisle to talk to the other children, Shea holds up her bell and presents it to us. Her eyes twinkle with the magic of the encounter. The train is not magic, the day is not magic, the conductor is not magic, and the man is not magic, but the look on Shea's face as she holds up that bell is. Her perception of the world is still infused with the possibilities of magic, of surprise and miracles. I watch her face light up and I can't help but believe too.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Playing
I've been spending so much time studying a hybrid medium in which I've only partially participated that I felt it was time to play in the other half. I'm no artist, but here's a comic strip I made.
My intent with this was to say something significant while allowing the images to add an additional level. For that purpose, I selected some of the ways in which we make meaning: memory, fantasy, perception of reality, etc. What's interesting is that in the "Reality" panel, I've used visual abstraction and a deeper level of cartooning to further the rough ideas. The thought bubbles were an after-thought, and the question marks and exclamation points an after-thought to that after-thought. The tension, for me, resides in the exclamation points in the final panel. Instead of being a question, the abstractions become a demand, a desperate plea, a frantic cry for an organizing principle.
Another interesting point, for me, was that I almost subconsciously put art in both the thought bubble and the boxes the character carries. Why is that? I can wager a couple of guesses, but I'll leave it for you to decide for yourselves.
The Robert Byrne quote also came as an after-thought to the paneling and illustration. Again, for me, it plays as a juxtaposition to what is actually taking place in the panel itself. There are many things in the character's hands that could provide purpose, but it is the segmenting of these individual things that presents the problem. The character is having a hard time balancing all of these individual commitments. One can feel in the demands for "Truth! Beauty! Art! Justice!" a need for an organizing principle, a unifying force that will serve as a tray, a bag, a container for all the disparate elements being balanced. I also thought about including "Love" in the panel, but thought it would get too crowded. OR, it could just be a bunch of squiggles on the page.
I knew I was going to post this first effort on the blog, so I tried to find a subject that would suit its placement here. I hope it worked. It's an intellectual exercise. I'm going to ask my students to make a mini-comic of their own next semester and so I thought I should try my own hand at it. Never ask students to do something you yourself wouldn't do, right?
Anyway, I'll leave it at that. This was a lot more fun than I anticipated. Analyzing my own work after the fact also brought some insights into process and the subconscious. My apologies for the bleed over into the side column of the blog, but sizing down caused legibility issues.
The Superman logo is copyrighted and trademarked by DC Comics. I use it here for no profit but as an educational exercise.
My intent with this was to say something significant while allowing the images to add an additional level. For that purpose, I selected some of the ways in which we make meaning: memory, fantasy, perception of reality, etc. What's interesting is that in the "Reality" panel, I've used visual abstraction and a deeper level of cartooning to further the rough ideas. The thought bubbles were an after-thought, and the question marks and exclamation points an after-thought to that after-thought. The tension, for me, resides in the exclamation points in the final panel. Instead of being a question, the abstractions become a demand, a desperate plea, a frantic cry for an organizing principle.
Another interesting point, for me, was that I almost subconsciously put art in both the thought bubble and the boxes the character carries. Why is that? I can wager a couple of guesses, but I'll leave it for you to decide for yourselves.
The Robert Byrne quote also came as an after-thought to the paneling and illustration. Again, for me, it plays as a juxtaposition to what is actually taking place in the panel itself. There are many things in the character's hands that could provide purpose, but it is the segmenting of these individual things that presents the problem. The character is having a hard time balancing all of these individual commitments. One can feel in the demands for "Truth! Beauty! Art! Justice!" a need for an organizing principle, a unifying force that will serve as a tray, a bag, a container for all the disparate elements being balanced. I also thought about including "Love" in the panel, but thought it would get too crowded. OR, it could just be a bunch of squiggles on the page.
I knew I was going to post this first effort on the blog, so I tried to find a subject that would suit its placement here. I hope it worked. It's an intellectual exercise. I'm going to ask my students to make a mini-comic of their own next semester and so I thought I should try my own hand at it. Never ask students to do something you yourself wouldn't do, right?
Anyway, I'll leave it at that. This was a lot more fun than I anticipated. Analyzing my own work after the fact also brought some insights into process and the subconscious. My apologies for the bleed over into the side column of the blog, but sizing down caused legibility issues.
The Superman logo is copyrighted and trademarked by DC Comics. I use it here for no profit but as an educational exercise.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Word Play
Tracy's delicious vegetarian yakisoba noodles whisk away from the bottom of the wok with ease. My hands are enveloped in the warm water in the sink as I wash the dishes. This is a regular routine in my house. Tracy cooks and I do the dishes. Tracy's still moving around the kitchen, fidgeting with one thing or another, talking to me as I work. Shea dances in the kitchen behind me. Shea's singing to herself as we work, "Doo dat, doo dat," and dancing around on the linoleum floor.
In the natural pause of Tracy and I's conversation, I'm able to pick up a little of what Shea's singing. The "doo dat, doo dat," isn't as innocent as I first thought and I turn my head to listen more closely to what she's saying. As I get past the melody of her song, I become aware of the words. "Fuck that, fuck that." Tracy catches the look on my face and asks, "What?" I say, "Listen." It takes Tracy a while before she picks up on what's going on.
I turn to Shea and tell her, "Shea, that is a very bad word. It's a grownup word and one you are NOT to use." She looks at me a little disconcerted. She hadn't even noticed that I was paying attention to her as she sang. Her brow wrinkles and she gives me her death stare for which she's recently becoming famous. I reiterate that the word is not something she should be using and I tell her I'll swat her bottom if I catch her using it again.
She's immediately in tears and streaking up to her room. This is the moment that's hard. It would be really easy for me to follow her up to her room, comfort her, tell her everything is okay, and try to wash away the "hardness" of the lesson. I don't. I let her have a moment upstairs to think about what's happened. When Tracy hears her crying upstairs, she goes to her. I continue washing dishes and making coffee for the morning.
A couple of minutes later, Tracy and Shea emerge from upstairs. Shea holds her mother's hand as she crosses the kitchen to me and she's got her little head bowed. Again, this is the hard moment. The moment where I want to scoop her up, kiss her face, and tell her I'm sorry I was stern. I don't. Instead, I get down on the floor with her, sit her in my lap and talk. I ask her if she understands why I got upset. She does.
She asks if I want to play with her. I do. I ask her if she wants to go on the boat again (we'd been playing imaginary boat on her bed earlier that afternoon). She does. I ask her where she wants to go.
"New Orleans," she says. I seriously don't know where she comes up with these things.
In the natural pause of Tracy and I's conversation, I'm able to pick up a little of what Shea's singing. The "doo dat, doo dat," isn't as innocent as I first thought and I turn my head to listen more closely to what she's saying. As I get past the melody of her song, I become aware of the words. "Fuck that, fuck that." Tracy catches the look on my face and asks, "What?" I say, "Listen." It takes Tracy a while before she picks up on what's going on.
I turn to Shea and tell her, "Shea, that is a very bad word. It's a grownup word and one you are NOT to use." She looks at me a little disconcerted. She hadn't even noticed that I was paying attention to her as she sang. Her brow wrinkles and she gives me her death stare for which she's recently becoming famous. I reiterate that the word is not something she should be using and I tell her I'll swat her bottom if I catch her using it again.
She's immediately in tears and streaking up to her room. This is the moment that's hard. It would be really easy for me to follow her up to her room, comfort her, tell her everything is okay, and try to wash away the "hardness" of the lesson. I don't. I let her have a moment upstairs to think about what's happened. When Tracy hears her crying upstairs, she goes to her. I continue washing dishes and making coffee for the morning.
A couple of minutes later, Tracy and Shea emerge from upstairs. Shea holds her mother's hand as she crosses the kitchen to me and she's got her little head bowed. Again, this is the hard moment. The moment where I want to scoop her up, kiss her face, and tell her I'm sorry I was stern. I don't. Instead, I get down on the floor with her, sit her in my lap and talk. I ask her if she understands why I got upset. She does.
She asks if I want to play with her. I do. I ask her if she wants to go on the boat again (we'd been playing imaginary boat on her bed earlier that afternoon). She does. I ask her where she wants to go.
"New Orleans," she says. I seriously don't know where she comes up with these things.
Obsession and Laziness
Monday saw me entering in the final grades for three of my four classes. I won't receive the final assignment for my fourth class until tomorrow. So, what to do with today. Well, that's were obsession and laziness come into play.
A former mentor of mine once told me that the writing life when viewed from the outside will look like "sheer idleness". In some ways, he was right. After getting Shea dressed and ready for school, I returned home to a stack of graphic novels I need to read for my "Graphic Novel as Literature" course. I've read three in the space of the day. I turned on the electric blanket in the bedroom, crawled back into bed, and read, read, read.
The diversity of the materials kept me reading for hours on end. "Ghost World" by Daniel Clowes and its angsty teenage discourse kept me going for the first hour or so, but I had to put it aside. It won't make the syllabus. "Asterios Polyp" by Daniel Mazzucchelli was a fascinating voyage into the life and mind of a 50-something retired architecture teacher where he puzzled over the nature of duality. It had images ripped from Dante's "Inferno" and asked the question: What is the opposite of love? Hate? Or indifference? Not exactly your flights and tights expectation from the medium. It's a lovely story.
I poured over graphic novels and essays about graphic novels. I'm finding that my hobby, my personal obsession with the form, actually has a place in academia. It's new-ish and not entirely accepted, but it is there and I might have found my specialty. I love hybrid forms, chocolate in my peanut butter, and the examination of the tension between image and text gets me excited. I've come up with the titles for two academic papers already. The titles influence the content and I'm interested to see how these ideas play out over the course of a term.
Although the biggest victory today was the nap. In reading the graphic novels, I fell asleep with the book open on my chest. I don't remember deciding to nap, but rather was enveloped by it, surprised by it, and found the dream both restful and dreamless. When I awoke, the book was still open on my chest and I reentered the narrative dream of Asterios. Dreaming while awake, and dreamless while sleeping, I had a good day.
A former mentor of mine once told me that the writing life when viewed from the outside will look like "sheer idleness". In some ways, he was right. After getting Shea dressed and ready for school, I returned home to a stack of graphic novels I need to read for my "Graphic Novel as Literature" course. I've read three in the space of the day. I turned on the electric blanket in the bedroom, crawled back into bed, and read, read, read.
The diversity of the materials kept me reading for hours on end. "Ghost World" by Daniel Clowes and its angsty teenage discourse kept me going for the first hour or so, but I had to put it aside. It won't make the syllabus. "Asterios Polyp" by Daniel Mazzucchelli was a fascinating voyage into the life and mind of a 50-something retired architecture teacher where he puzzled over the nature of duality. It had images ripped from Dante's "Inferno" and asked the question: What is the opposite of love? Hate? Or indifference? Not exactly your flights and tights expectation from the medium. It's a lovely story.
I poured over graphic novels and essays about graphic novels. I'm finding that my hobby, my personal obsession with the form, actually has a place in academia. It's new-ish and not entirely accepted, but it is there and I might have found my specialty. I love hybrid forms, chocolate in my peanut butter, and the examination of the tension between image and text gets me excited. I've come up with the titles for two academic papers already. The titles influence the content and I'm interested to see how these ideas play out over the course of a term.
Although the biggest victory today was the nap. In reading the graphic novels, I fell asleep with the book open on my chest. I don't remember deciding to nap, but rather was enveloped by it, surprised by it, and found the dream both restful and dreamless. When I awoke, the book was still open on my chest and I reentered the narrative dream of Asterios. Dreaming while awake, and dreamless while sleeping, I had a good day.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Impulse to Love
My writing mentor and friend Jack Driscoll has been known to say, "The impulse to write is the impulse to love." The moment I heard these words, I knew they were true. I've always had a problem with loving too much. I care too deeply at times and this causes me all kinds of grief. That is, until I realized that I could funnel all of those forces into the tip of a pen.
This blog is an effort to wrestle with my loves. Each role I place upon myself is a love obligation. I love the writing. I love my students. I love my daughter. I love my wife. I love my family and friends. I love the world at large. Each of these things brings me countless benefits, but also opens me up to multiple sources of disappointment and heartbreak. By writing my way through these roles, I am able to temper each of those emotions and navigate my day with a bit more surefootedness.
For those of you who read these pages, know that I love you. It is in an effort to communicate this sense of love, commitment, and struggle that I hope to be closer to you. Writing is, after all, communication. While I may not be eloquent when you stand in front of me, while the forces of anger and disappointment temper my ability to communicate in the moment, I am trying. It is here in this open forum, this public space, that I practice courage. It takes a lot for me to put these words down on paper and know that others will read them.
But, in the end, compassion, empathy, and, yes, love are what motivate me. The world is a beautiful place; I believe this, and I wrestle with my efforts to show this, to convey it, and sometimes the quiet space of a blank screen is the only place where I am centered enough to allow it to be true. So, this is my love letter to all my friends, family, students, colleagues, and acquaintances. I may be Clark Kent in person, but when I'm able to sit down at the computer and create, I can fly. I am Superman. I will do my best to live up to that legacy and document it here in the practice of my craft.
This blog is an effort to wrestle with my loves. Each role I place upon myself is a love obligation. I love the writing. I love my students. I love my daughter. I love my wife. I love my family and friends. I love the world at large. Each of these things brings me countless benefits, but also opens me up to multiple sources of disappointment and heartbreak. By writing my way through these roles, I am able to temper each of those emotions and navigate my day with a bit more surefootedness.
For those of you who read these pages, know that I love you. It is in an effort to communicate this sense of love, commitment, and struggle that I hope to be closer to you. Writing is, after all, communication. While I may not be eloquent when you stand in front of me, while the forces of anger and disappointment temper my ability to communicate in the moment, I am trying. It is here in this open forum, this public space, that I practice courage. It takes a lot for me to put these words down on paper and know that others will read them.
But, in the end, compassion, empathy, and, yes, love are what motivate me. The world is a beautiful place; I believe this, and I wrestle with my efforts to show this, to convey it, and sometimes the quiet space of a blank screen is the only place where I am centered enough to allow it to be true. So, this is my love letter to all my friends, family, students, colleagues, and acquaintances. I may be Clark Kent in person, but when I'm able to sit down at the computer and create, I can fly. I am Superman. I will do my best to live up to that legacy and document it here in the practice of my craft.
The Righteous Indignation of Students
Today I passed around a couple of student examples of research papers. One was barely passable and one was "A" level work. I passed around the barely passable version first. The students weren't even halfway down the first page when they began scoffing at the work.
I was amazed at how quickly they are able to identify the faults of another piece of writing and yet so blind to how closely their own papers resemble the poor example. It wound up being a great exercise for them. After we got beyond the snarky comments and the smart ass remarks, they were forced to actually dig into the paper and identify the things that made it poor.
This is the first time I've given a bad example of a writing assignment. I suggest it. It's a great way to get their critics working before you turn them loose on their own work. Cheers to a successful lesson plan.
I was amazed at how quickly they are able to identify the faults of another piece of writing and yet so blind to how closely their own papers resemble the poor example. It wound up being a great exercise for them. After we got beyond the snarky comments and the smart ass remarks, they were forced to actually dig into the paper and identify the things that made it poor.
This is the first time I've given a bad example of a writing assignment. I suggest it. It's a great way to get their critics working before you turn them loose on their own work. Cheers to a successful lesson plan.
A Well-Timed Beer
Last night I had the chance to hang out with a friend at the pub. It'd been a long time since we'd hung out and there were a lot of new developments to talk about: a new relationship, a school term coming to a close, and the various dramas that unfold in the living of a life. I got a chance to talk to someone outside my regular company and I found myself talking about things I normally don't talk about. I found myself sharing a part of myself that I don't normally share with people.
It made me realize how closed off I am from the company of others. I have a lot of conversations, but not like this. This was different. I found myself unclenching a bit. My friend, AK, sits on the fringes of my life, connected to me and me alone in terms of my regular cast of characters. He's not embroiled in the daily, or even weekly, goings-on in my life. When this happens, you are forced to give a broader context to your stories. You're forced to give the bigger picture.
For example, when you pick up an X-men comic book, there are decades of history that back up that story, but due to the fact they assume people are ongoing readers, they don't rehash all of the context/history that has come before. But, every now and then, they relaunch a line and they tend to give a generalized history that will bring new readers deeper into the fold and give a sense of who these characters are and what they've gone through in their lives.
It was much the same way last night. I was telling stories about the last couple of months, but I found myself filling in the blanks from years past. I had to see my life in the broader tapestry of the larger life than the minuscule dramas that unfold in a day/week/month. This perspective led me to realize things about my life that I hadn't considered before. It was the equivalent of removing horse blinders. Instead of seeing only the immediate situation, I was forced to place it in the larger context of ongoing relationships, larger themes, grander scope.
What did I realize? What grew out of this conversation? Well, it gave me insight into my current situation and made me realize that there are certain things that are being repeated, certain mistakes being made over and over again, and conversations that are still not being had. Sometimes it takes the insight of someone not sitting inside the situation to bring clarity. It makes me realize that I need that larger network of friends. I need to make time for them. I need to share with them, have them share with me, and reconnect with the larger tapestry that is my life both in terms of the people who occupy it and the way I live it.
It made me realize how closed off I am from the company of others. I have a lot of conversations, but not like this. This was different. I found myself unclenching a bit. My friend, AK, sits on the fringes of my life, connected to me and me alone in terms of my regular cast of characters. He's not embroiled in the daily, or even weekly, goings-on in my life. When this happens, you are forced to give a broader context to your stories. You're forced to give the bigger picture.
For example, when you pick up an X-men comic book, there are decades of history that back up that story, but due to the fact they assume people are ongoing readers, they don't rehash all of the context/history that has come before. But, every now and then, they relaunch a line and they tend to give a generalized history that will bring new readers deeper into the fold and give a sense of who these characters are and what they've gone through in their lives.
It was much the same way last night. I was telling stories about the last couple of months, but I found myself filling in the blanks from years past. I had to see my life in the broader tapestry of the larger life than the minuscule dramas that unfold in a day/week/month. This perspective led me to realize things about my life that I hadn't considered before. It was the equivalent of removing horse blinders. Instead of seeing only the immediate situation, I was forced to place it in the larger context of ongoing relationships, larger themes, grander scope.
What did I realize? What grew out of this conversation? Well, it gave me insight into my current situation and made me realize that there are certain things that are being repeated, certain mistakes being made over and over again, and conversations that are still not being had. Sometimes it takes the insight of someone not sitting inside the situation to bring clarity. It makes me realize that I need that larger network of friends. I need to make time for them. I need to share with them, have them share with me, and reconnect with the larger tapestry that is my life both in terms of the people who occupy it and the way I live it.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
End of Term Quotables
It is the end of Fall term at Pacific. As such, I've tried to meet with my writing students individually to prepare the last push toward completing their final research paper and, also, to debrief the term with them. Here's a couple of things the students felt they needed to share with me.
1. From a student who expressed anxiety about writing all term long, she said, "I can write now. I used to feel like I was mostly a test-taker, but now I feel like I can write a 10-page paper and do good."
2. From a senior student who displayed multiple writing issues and had an academic accommodation for Disability Services, she said, "I know what I have to do now. I took composition classes at my other school, but now I feel like I know what I have to do for me. I know my process."
3. From a fairly reserved student who didn't necessarily say much in class but who handed in lovely creative pieces, she said, "I want to talk to you about minoring in Creative Writing." I told her I didn't do advising as I was an adjunct, but she said she wanted to talk to me.
4. Via email I got a student who said, "Thanks for a great and fulfilling term."
I love these comments. It isn't that I had something to do with them, which I know I did, but that it means they LEARNED. They learned about their process, they grew past their phobias, they discovered a passion, and they achieved the rewards of working hard on a singular skill, a focused pursuit. THIS is why I teach. I want this for every student who enters my classroom. I want to facilitate this process for them. I want them to discover themselves and the world in the way writing makes possible.
It's been a long and grueling term, one that had me questioning my methods and my effectiveness. None of that has gone away, but maybe instead has been validated. Maybe this insecurity, this desire to be better for them, will make me a lifelong learner and push me to better myself each and every term. In the meantime, I'm basking in the glow of their development.
1. From a student who expressed anxiety about writing all term long, she said, "I can write now. I used to feel like I was mostly a test-taker, but now I feel like I can write a 10-page paper and do good."
2. From a senior student who displayed multiple writing issues and had an academic accommodation for Disability Services, she said, "I know what I have to do now. I took composition classes at my other school, but now I feel like I know what I have to do for me. I know my process."
3. From a fairly reserved student who didn't necessarily say much in class but who handed in lovely creative pieces, she said, "I want to talk to you about minoring in Creative Writing." I told her I didn't do advising as I was an adjunct, but she said she wanted to talk to me.
4. Via email I got a student who said, "Thanks for a great and fulfilling term."
I love these comments. It isn't that I had something to do with them, which I know I did, but that it means they LEARNED. They learned about their process, they grew past their phobias, they discovered a passion, and they achieved the rewards of working hard on a singular skill, a focused pursuit. THIS is why I teach. I want this for every student who enters my classroom. I want to facilitate this process for them. I want them to discover themselves and the world in the way writing makes possible.
It's been a long and grueling term, one that had me questioning my methods and my effectiveness. None of that has gone away, but maybe instead has been validated. Maybe this insecurity, this desire to be better for them, will make me a lifelong learner and push me to better myself each and every term. In the meantime, I'm basking in the glow of their development.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Smoke "Break"
I've been smoking again.
Anything I can say beyond that is simple excuse, but I've stumbled upon a new thought that I feel has some merit. Why am I smoking? Well, that's the big question isn't it? I have a couple of lame reasons I can think of, but I've found one that I believe actually has some merit.
I haven't had any alone time in a long time. I've had time alone late at night, hours between 10 and 2 am where I'm left alone in the living room of my house, but even those hours have been spent in service of others. I go to work, I come home to family and family time, and then I rededicate myself to the needs of students, of the schools I work for, etc. I don't take time off for myself as an individual.
That's not true when I smoke. When I'm smoking I step outside. I look at the stars. I come up with new ideas for stories and for poems, for essays, for lesson plans, for vacations, for memories and dreams. It's an entirely selfish pursuit. It's destructive and selfish, but it's mine. These moments are my own and I don't feel like I owe those moments to anyone but myself. I relish each drag, and I meditate in a way.
I'm not good at "no." Never have been. I concern myself with the needs of others. I've always played the backstories of others in my head. It's empathy. I feel what they feel and this often results in me not allowing myself to feel what I feel. I know how self-centered this sounds, how self-serving, but I'm trying to be honest about the impulse, about where I'm coming from. I need these moments. I don't need the cigarettes, but I need these moments where I can go out and be a person, an individual, where I don't feel my heartstrings being pulled by someone else's needs, someone else's demands.
I love. This is the greatest blessing I have in my life. It's also my greatest curse. I love people who treat me well. I love people who treat me poorly. I love people I've known for years. I love people I met 20 minutes ago. It's always been this way for me. It results in all kinds of complications and smoking is simply one of them.
For those with a "if you want to quit, quit" attitude, this sounds like a self-justification. I understand that. But this is also the reality of being me. I won't say "no" when others need me. I simply won't. So, I use the "need" for a cigarette to make the excuse for me. I use the cigarette to step outside and stand under the stars. In those moments after midnight, when I'm outside by myself while I know others are near, I watch the smoke leave my lips and rise into the darkness of night. The wisps rise into the dark and catch the breeze. If you listen closely, you'll hear the message in the smoke. It will be a whisper, a breath, and it will sound like "please."
***Let it be understood that I know EXACTLY who my audience is: family and friends. I know you'll all have a desire to talk to me about this issue. For now, I ask that you leave me to my struggle. Leave those admonitions and concerns for another day. I am aware of everything you can possible say, another "gift" of my empathy, and I tell you I will fight back.
Anything I can say beyond that is simple excuse, but I've stumbled upon a new thought that I feel has some merit. Why am I smoking? Well, that's the big question isn't it? I have a couple of lame reasons I can think of, but I've found one that I believe actually has some merit.
I haven't had any alone time in a long time. I've had time alone late at night, hours between 10 and 2 am where I'm left alone in the living room of my house, but even those hours have been spent in service of others. I go to work, I come home to family and family time, and then I rededicate myself to the needs of students, of the schools I work for, etc. I don't take time off for myself as an individual.
That's not true when I smoke. When I'm smoking I step outside. I look at the stars. I come up with new ideas for stories and for poems, for essays, for lesson plans, for vacations, for memories and dreams. It's an entirely selfish pursuit. It's destructive and selfish, but it's mine. These moments are my own and I don't feel like I owe those moments to anyone but myself. I relish each drag, and I meditate in a way.
I'm not good at "no." Never have been. I concern myself with the needs of others. I've always played the backstories of others in my head. It's empathy. I feel what they feel and this often results in me not allowing myself to feel what I feel. I know how self-centered this sounds, how self-serving, but I'm trying to be honest about the impulse, about where I'm coming from. I need these moments. I don't need the cigarettes, but I need these moments where I can go out and be a person, an individual, where I don't feel my heartstrings being pulled by someone else's needs, someone else's demands.
I love. This is the greatest blessing I have in my life. It's also my greatest curse. I love people who treat me well. I love people who treat me poorly. I love people I've known for years. I love people I met 20 minutes ago. It's always been this way for me. It results in all kinds of complications and smoking is simply one of them.
For those with a "if you want to quit, quit" attitude, this sounds like a self-justification. I understand that. But this is also the reality of being me. I won't say "no" when others need me. I simply won't. So, I use the "need" for a cigarette to make the excuse for me. I use the cigarette to step outside and stand under the stars. In those moments after midnight, when I'm outside by myself while I know others are near, I watch the smoke leave my lips and rise into the darkness of night. The wisps rise into the dark and catch the breeze. If you listen closely, you'll hear the message in the smoke. It will be a whisper, a breath, and it will sound like "please."
***Let it be understood that I know EXACTLY who my audience is: family and friends. I know you'll all have a desire to talk to me about this issue. For now, I ask that you leave me to my struggle. Leave those admonitions and concerns for another day. I am aware of everything you can possible say, another "gift" of my empathy, and I tell you I will fight back.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Faced with a Different Story
The majority of this blog is dedicated to the idea of identity. It is an analysis of roles, of responsibilities and duties, and much of it is self-generated. It is the way I approach these roles, these identities. But what happens when one is faced with outside opinion? What happens when that outside opinion is so contrary to what you believe about yourself? How do you rectify the situation?
Well, as in most things, that depends. I was recently confronted with a perception of who I was that was completely contrary to who I think I am. I consider myself a family man, a giver, but what if others don't see that? What happens when someone close to you thinks you are selfish, irresponsible, and thoughtless?
You reassess, that's what you do. It would be easy for me to simply say, "Pshaw, that's not me. That's not who I am." But what if I'm wrong? What if I am selfish? What happens if I don't think about others as much as I think I do? This blog post is full of questions and very little answers. I'm struggling under the weight of these ideas. I'm forced to consider that maybe I am an asshole.
I know the fundamental thing that was used to base this judgment was false. I know the situation is not what the other person thought it was, but that doesn't change the fact that this person believes these things about me. They believe me to be selfish, irresponsible, thoughtless. They think that I don't have consideration for others and their feelings and I don't know where that impression comes from.
So, I slide into those murky depths of self-analysis and the accompanying self-doubt. I was having a good day too before all of this happened. Like a really good day. I felt good about my work, about my contribution to the world, and now I'm left wondering if I've portrayed myself as the hero of a false narrative. I'm Don Quixote running after windmills. What if the good things I believe about myself are fabrications? I know this isn't true, or at least totally true, but it's hard to maintain when the accusations come from someone who knows me well, or should.
I'm stumbling through my day today, doubting my contributions, but I know I'll resolve this. I know I'll slowly knit the pieces back together and find my center, but I'm just now picking myself up after having the rug pulled out from under me.
Well, as in most things, that depends. I was recently confronted with a perception of who I was that was completely contrary to who I think I am. I consider myself a family man, a giver, but what if others don't see that? What happens when someone close to you thinks you are selfish, irresponsible, and thoughtless?
You reassess, that's what you do. It would be easy for me to simply say, "Pshaw, that's not me. That's not who I am." But what if I'm wrong? What if I am selfish? What happens if I don't think about others as much as I think I do? This blog post is full of questions and very little answers. I'm struggling under the weight of these ideas. I'm forced to consider that maybe I am an asshole.
I know the fundamental thing that was used to base this judgment was false. I know the situation is not what the other person thought it was, but that doesn't change the fact that this person believes these things about me. They believe me to be selfish, irresponsible, thoughtless. They think that I don't have consideration for others and their feelings and I don't know where that impression comes from.
So, I slide into those murky depths of self-analysis and the accompanying self-doubt. I was having a good day too before all of this happened. Like a really good day. I felt good about my work, about my contribution to the world, and now I'm left wondering if I've portrayed myself as the hero of a false narrative. I'm Don Quixote running after windmills. What if the good things I believe about myself are fabrications? I know this isn't true, or at least totally true, but it's hard to maintain when the accusations come from someone who knows me well, or should.
I'm stumbling through my day today, doubting my contributions, but I know I'll resolve this. I know I'll slowly knit the pieces back together and find my center, but I'm just now picking myself up after having the rug pulled out from under me.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Disappointment
As a writer, I'm supposed to have a firm grasp of the language. I use words to recreate reality, or I'm supposed to anyway. I remember being young. I saw the world in terms I understood. I created reality from firm definitions, words I knew, but I didn't realize my own ignorance. So, I'll begin in a way I tell my students not to, with a definition.
Disappointment is defined as the state or feeling of being disappointed. It's a vague definition that uses the root word in its own definition. It tells us nothing. I thought I knew what the word meant.
In my youth the word represented moments when expectations went unfulfilled. The movie "Daredevil" disappointed me. My GPA disappointed me. The fact that I rarely got laid disappointed me. These were major concerns to a young man, but they are minor concerns to an older man.
It's an issue of scale. As a young man, life revolves around the self. I didn't get laid. The movie disappointed me. As an older man, I've run into a new level of disappointment. I've run into the disappointment of my parenting skills. Classrooms haven't ignited with new learning. My wife has been disappointed in preventable ways. And, finally, my daughter's life has been harder than I could have ever wanted.
Today was a rough day. It was the day where my daughter could have been "healed". She has kidney reflux. It's an issue dealing with the bladder, but effects her kidneys. Today was the day when a procedure could have ended all that, if every thing went according to plan. It didn't.
Tracy and I sat in the family waiting room of the day surgery ward while my daughter went into the surgery bay today. We knew that there were two ways the day would go. The first was that the doctor would insert a camera and a needle through her urethra. This way described a procedure where they would inject a small amount of fluid into the tube draining from her kidney to her bladder. This fluid would constrict the opening of the tube and prevent her urine from backing up to her kidney. This would, in turn, prevent her urine from scarring her kidney and allow it to grow.
The other version involved a level of deformity in her valves that wouldn't allow the procedure to move forward. The doctor told us that this level of deformity was an unlikely thing, but that it would be known within minutes of Shea's entrance into the surgical bay.
Well, after Shea went into surgery, I went to the gift shop. I bought a copy of Rolling Stone for myself and an issue of Real Simple for Tracy. The whole walk, which was an excuse to escape the waiting room in the first place, took about 15 minutes. When I returned to the waiting room, I passed Tracy's magazine to her. She set it on her lap. She thanked me for it. She knew it was a distraction I needed. I hadn't even gotten past the sections of the magazine that are basically quips on photographs when I looked up and saw the surgeon.
It. Was. Disappointment. I had promised myself that I wouldn't hope. I promised myself I wouldn't set mental expectations for the day, but what can you do? I'm a father. I'm a father to a wonderful three year old girl with persistent health issues. I hoped.
When I saw the doctor standing at the end of the row, I heard Tracy gasp, or say something, or sob, I'm ashamed to say that I don't know which. I saw the doctor and I saw him acknowledge us and then turn to the private consulting room. He turned his back to my wife and I as we gathered up our backpack full of child-sized snow boots, our travel coffee mugs, and, yes, our copies of Rolling Stone and followed him into the private room. The bad news room.
I had already pinpointed the room when I walked into the waiting room. It lurked on the corner of my vision like a specter, like THE specter everyone in that room was avoiding, and I had to enter it. I knew what lie inside that room and so nothing in that room mattered. My reaction, my wife's reaction, the doctor's tact and sensitivity, his personal anecdotes about children with the same issue, none of it mattered because I knew what it was before I ever set foot in that room.
As a parent, when you get this kind of news, it requires you to reconstruct your reality bit by bit. I know I said I tried not to have expectations, but who's kidding who? I had to rebuild my reality again in that moment. It was a moment where I doubted my potential.
I hurt for Shea. I want her to have an easy life. I want two fully functional kidneys. I want no more anesthesia. I want no more catheters, scans, probes, low dose antibiotics, therapy days, etc. I don't want this for me. I want this for her. I wish she wasn't so good with doctors because she hadn't seen them all her life. I wish she was wary of nurses and that she didn't ask them to hold their stethoscopes up to her chest.
But, none of that wishing does anything. My daughter IS trusting of doctors and nurses. She thinks blood pressure tests are "arm hugs." She thinks stethoscopes are cool and she even knows how to deep breaths when the nurses press the cold metal the smooth pink flesh of her back. She's used to going to hospital bookshelves and pulling out the shared books. She thinks the portable console with the Nintendo inside is awesome. Notice how none of these words are negative. This is exactly what I mean. This is normal for her. She's used to it. The fallout comes from my expectations, my hopes, dreams, aspirations.
So, I play Nintendo on hospital wheelie carts. I read books with the printed label "Property of Legacy Emmanuel Hospital" inside. She doesn't care. I do. And therein lies the problem.
This is my new disappointment. I don't think my younger self would even have a word for this. I don't think my younger self would have hung out this long to understand it. I like being an older man. I like being here. My life is here. My loves are here. I will know disappointment on new levels as the days pass. I will know new levels of complexity, of maturity, of emotion, of love. There are moments where I want my youth back. Today, even after all of this, isn't one of those days. I've lived with myself for 34 years and I'm sick of myself as a subject. If I get Shea, I'll live with disappointment.
Disappointment is defined as the state or feeling of being disappointed. It's a vague definition that uses the root word in its own definition. It tells us nothing. I thought I knew what the word meant.
In my youth the word represented moments when expectations went unfulfilled. The movie "Daredevil" disappointed me. My GPA disappointed me. The fact that I rarely got laid disappointed me. These were major concerns to a young man, but they are minor concerns to an older man.
It's an issue of scale. As a young man, life revolves around the self. I didn't get laid. The movie disappointed me. As an older man, I've run into a new level of disappointment. I've run into the disappointment of my parenting skills. Classrooms haven't ignited with new learning. My wife has been disappointed in preventable ways. And, finally, my daughter's life has been harder than I could have ever wanted.
Today was a rough day. It was the day where my daughter could have been "healed". She has kidney reflux. It's an issue dealing with the bladder, but effects her kidneys. Today was the day when a procedure could have ended all that, if every thing went according to plan. It didn't.
Tracy and I sat in the family waiting room of the day surgery ward while my daughter went into the surgery bay today. We knew that there were two ways the day would go. The first was that the doctor would insert a camera and a needle through her urethra. This way described a procedure where they would inject a small amount of fluid into the tube draining from her kidney to her bladder. This fluid would constrict the opening of the tube and prevent her urine from backing up to her kidney. This would, in turn, prevent her urine from scarring her kidney and allow it to grow.
The other version involved a level of deformity in her valves that wouldn't allow the procedure to move forward. The doctor told us that this level of deformity was an unlikely thing, but that it would be known within minutes of Shea's entrance into the surgical bay.
Well, after Shea went into surgery, I went to the gift shop. I bought a copy of Rolling Stone for myself and an issue of Real Simple for Tracy. The whole walk, which was an excuse to escape the waiting room in the first place, took about 15 minutes. When I returned to the waiting room, I passed Tracy's magazine to her. She set it on her lap. She thanked me for it. She knew it was a distraction I needed. I hadn't even gotten past the sections of the magazine that are basically quips on photographs when I looked up and saw the surgeon.
It. Was. Disappointment. I had promised myself that I wouldn't hope. I promised myself I wouldn't set mental expectations for the day, but what can you do? I'm a father. I'm a father to a wonderful three year old girl with persistent health issues. I hoped.
When I saw the doctor standing at the end of the row, I heard Tracy gasp, or say something, or sob, I'm ashamed to say that I don't know which. I saw the doctor and I saw him acknowledge us and then turn to the private consulting room. He turned his back to my wife and I as we gathered up our backpack full of child-sized snow boots, our travel coffee mugs, and, yes, our copies of Rolling Stone and followed him into the private room. The bad news room.
I had already pinpointed the room when I walked into the waiting room. It lurked on the corner of my vision like a specter, like THE specter everyone in that room was avoiding, and I had to enter it. I knew what lie inside that room and so nothing in that room mattered. My reaction, my wife's reaction, the doctor's tact and sensitivity, his personal anecdotes about children with the same issue, none of it mattered because I knew what it was before I ever set foot in that room.
As a parent, when you get this kind of news, it requires you to reconstruct your reality bit by bit. I know I said I tried not to have expectations, but who's kidding who? I had to rebuild my reality again in that moment. It was a moment where I doubted my potential.
I hurt for Shea. I want her to have an easy life. I want two fully functional kidneys. I want no more anesthesia. I want no more catheters, scans, probes, low dose antibiotics, therapy days, etc. I don't want this for me. I want this for her. I wish she wasn't so good with doctors because she hadn't seen them all her life. I wish she was wary of nurses and that she didn't ask them to hold their stethoscopes up to her chest.
But, none of that wishing does anything. My daughter IS trusting of doctors and nurses. She thinks blood pressure tests are "arm hugs." She thinks stethoscopes are cool and she even knows how to deep breaths when the nurses press the cold metal the smooth pink flesh of her back. She's used to going to hospital bookshelves and pulling out the shared books. She thinks the portable console with the Nintendo inside is awesome. Notice how none of these words are negative. This is exactly what I mean. This is normal for her. She's used to it. The fallout comes from my expectations, my hopes, dreams, aspirations.
So, I play Nintendo on hospital wheelie carts. I read books with the printed label "Property of Legacy Emmanuel Hospital" inside. She doesn't care. I do. And therein lies the problem.
This is my new disappointment. I don't think my younger self would even have a word for this. I don't think my younger self would have hung out this long to understand it. I like being an older man. I like being here. My life is here. My loves are here. I will know disappointment on new levels as the days pass. I will know new levels of complexity, of maturity, of emotion, of love. There are moments where I want my youth back. Today, even after all of this, isn't one of those days. I've lived with myself for 34 years and I'm sick of myself as a subject. If I get Shea, I'll live with disappointment.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Using Timed Exercise to "Slow Down"
I'm toting around a stack of rough drafts right now, the last ones I'm commenting on for the entire semester, and I've been trying to find time to grade them without taking over my private time. I'm on a crusade to preserve private time right now. Well, in order to "slow down" and have time to myself, I've begun using a countdown timer to keep me on task and to limit the amount of time I'm spending on any one given student rough draft.
Fifteen minutes is the magic number. I've been giving myself fifteen minutes and a bulleted list approach to feedback for each student draft. To my surprise, I'm able to almost fill each student response sheet with pointed revision feedback. I'm going to be able to turn around a whole class full of essays in the matter of just five hours. I don't know why I've never considered giving myself a deadline. It's brilliant. The timer goes off, I write my last bit of endnotes and I move on to the next student's paper.
I've always tried to keep track of the amount of time I spend on each student draft but I've got the feeling that I haven't been altogether accurate with my timekeeping.
The point of all this. Harness time to our advantage instead of being a slave to it. By using time to keep me focused and on task, I'll be able to meet my deadline and not exhaust myself with 3 am grading sessions. HOORAH!
Fifteen minutes is the magic number. I've been giving myself fifteen minutes and a bulleted list approach to feedback for each student draft. To my surprise, I'm able to almost fill each student response sheet with pointed revision feedback. I'm going to be able to turn around a whole class full of essays in the matter of just five hours. I don't know why I've never considered giving myself a deadline. It's brilliant. The timer goes off, I write my last bit of endnotes and I move on to the next student's paper.
I've always tried to keep track of the amount of time I spend on each student draft but I've got the feeling that I haven't been altogether accurate with my timekeeping.
The point of all this. Harness time to our advantage instead of being a slave to it. By using time to keep me focused and on task, I'll be able to meet my deadline and not exhaust myself with 3 am grading sessions. HOORAH!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Support Independent Literature
Hello WTF followers and Facebook friends,
I'd like to take a moment to recognize the efforts of some amazing people I know out there in this great big world. The world of publishing can be a harrowing place full of pitfalls and compromises, but I am so very blessed to know a handful of individuals who are running their own projects in an effort to keep the literary world alive and kicking.
If you have a few moments, check out some of these links and buy some of the journals these wonderful editors and artists are bringing to the world. Without them, the world would be a little less rich. They are the backbone of new art, new literature, and they should be rewarded and compensated for their HARD work.
Trachodon: http://www.trachodon.org/ - A Dinosaur of a Little Magazine
Silk Road: http://silkroad.pacificu.edu/index.html - A Literary Crossroads
Work: http://workmagazine.wordpress.com/ - Dedicated to Celebrating the Daily Grind
Projector: www.projectormagazine.com - Focuses Light on to Film
Perigee: http://www.perigee-art.com/ - Publication for the Arts
All of the people who make up these organizations are passionate, hard-working, and dedicated to keeping the written word and our cultural history/legacy growing with each passing day. Please consider rewarding them for their efforts with a small pittance, a few shekels, and reap the rewards of your generosity by discovering their unique vision of art and artistry.
Thanks for your time,
Kyle
I'd like to take a moment to recognize the efforts of some amazing people I know out there in this great big world. The world of publishing can be a harrowing place full of pitfalls and compromises, but I am so very blessed to know a handful of individuals who are running their own projects in an effort to keep the literary world alive and kicking.
If you have a few moments, check out some of these links and buy some of the journals these wonderful editors and artists are bringing to the world. Without them, the world would be a little less rich. They are the backbone of new art, new literature, and they should be rewarded and compensated for their HARD work.
Trachodon: http://www.trachodon.org/ - A Dinosaur of a Little Magazine
Silk Road: http://silkroad.pacificu.edu/index.html - A Literary Crossroads
Work: http://workmagazine.wordpress.com/ - Dedicated to Celebrating the Daily Grind
Projector: www.projectormagazine.com - Focuses Light on to Film
Perigee: http://www.perigee-art.com/ - Publication for the Arts
All of the people who make up these organizations are passionate, hard-working, and dedicated to keeping the written word and our cultural history/legacy growing with each passing day. Please consider rewarding them for their efforts with a small pittance, a few shekels, and reap the rewards of your generosity by discovering their unique vision of art and artistry.
Thanks for your time,
Kyle
Buried in Graphic Novels...And Loving It!!!
There's nothing better than having an excuse to spend money on the things you love. Oh, and getting reimbursed for it with your professional development funds. As I get further and further along the road to developing my Graphic Novel as Literature course, I'm getting deeper and deeper into the world of comics. Who would have thought it possible?
First, let me start by saying I'm a traditional superhero comics guy. Tights and flights type of fare, but the world is slowly opening to me and showing me all the types of stories that can be told in this medium. On my desk right now are:
Pride of Baghdad
Persepolis
Blankets
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Batman: The Dark Knight Returns
Understanding Comics
Promethea
Refresh, Refresh
and many others.
I'm swimming in this medium and loving every minute of it. First off, "Understanding Comics" is a revelation. I've been collecting comics for so long, but I've never quite understood the form of them in the same way I do now. The scale of abstraction vs. realistic depiction, the gutter, etc. There's a whole vocabulary out there that is making my experience of the medium that much deeper, richer, and exciting.
I wonder though if it will be like what a former grad school advisor warned me about in diving into reading. "Once you start reading like a writer, it takes a bit of the joy out of it." Well, I still love to read good fiction so I'm hoping that understanding the mechanics of graphic novels will not diminish my love.
Ah, who's kidding who, we're like star-crossed lovers comics and I. I'll drink the poison before I let them go.
First, let me start by saying I'm a traditional superhero comics guy. Tights and flights type of fare, but the world is slowly opening to me and showing me all the types of stories that can be told in this medium. On my desk right now are:
Pride of Baghdad
Persepolis
Blankets
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Batman: The Dark Knight Returns
Understanding Comics
Promethea
Refresh, Refresh
and many others.
I'm swimming in this medium and loving every minute of it. First off, "Understanding Comics" is a revelation. I've been collecting comics for so long, but I've never quite understood the form of them in the same way I do now. The scale of abstraction vs. realistic depiction, the gutter, etc. There's a whole vocabulary out there that is making my experience of the medium that much deeper, richer, and exciting.
I wonder though if it will be like what a former grad school advisor warned me about in diving into reading. "Once you start reading like a writer, it takes a bit of the joy out of it." Well, I still love to read good fiction so I'm hoping that understanding the mechanics of graphic novels will not diminish my love.
Ah, who's kidding who, we're like star-crossed lovers comics and I. I'll drink the poison before I let them go.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Gumbo
A couple of days ago, the light in my office was yellow with warmth. I had a break in between student appointments and I was eating my lunch. The trees outside my window now slide through a scale of perfectly bare to alit with the flame of Fall. The season is advancing like the term, rapidly.
I'm sitting at my desk, looking out the window when suddenly I am struck dumb by "gumbo." I don't know why the word appeared in my head. My lunch didn't consist of anything remotely close to gumbo. I hadn't read anything that had gumbo in it. It was simply the word rising out of my consciousness and calling attention to itself. I opened up a word document and started writing. I got down three pages of a story. "Gumbo." That's all it takes sometimes. A word, an image, a brief awareness of something outside the self and all of a sudden my fingers are flying across the keyboard trying to learn who Latisha and Carl are. I don't know why "Latisha", I don't know why "Carl", but they are the two people occupying the home in the Eola Hills where the gumbo is being cooked. Words have power when we listen to them. Here's the first two ROUGH paragraphs of the story that was born out of gumbo:
Latisha stood over the pot, stirring in the last of the diced jalapenos when Carl returned from fishing. She knew he'd return early. He'd seen her pulling the gumbo pot out of the pantry the night before. If there was one thing Carl couldn't resist, it was 'Tisha's gumbo. He'd left before first light as he always did. She'd watched him dress in the dark from under the covers. Fall had arrived early this year and the night's chill resonated throughout the bedroom.
Stupid space heater, 'Tisha thought. She wanted central air, or baseboard heaters that she didn't have to worry about bursting into flames in the middle of the night. Sure, she knew plenty of people around who burned the space heaters all night, but 'Tisha'd lost her grandmother that way and she wasn't about to take the risk in her own house.
I'm sitting at my desk, looking out the window when suddenly I am struck dumb by "gumbo." I don't know why the word appeared in my head. My lunch didn't consist of anything remotely close to gumbo. I hadn't read anything that had gumbo in it. It was simply the word rising out of my consciousness and calling attention to itself. I opened up a word document and started writing. I got down three pages of a story. "Gumbo." That's all it takes sometimes. A word, an image, a brief awareness of something outside the self and all of a sudden my fingers are flying across the keyboard trying to learn who Latisha and Carl are. I don't know why "Latisha", I don't know why "Carl", but they are the two people occupying the home in the Eola Hills where the gumbo is being cooked. Words have power when we listen to them. Here's the first two ROUGH paragraphs of the story that was born out of gumbo:
Latisha stood over the pot, stirring in the last of the diced jalapenos when Carl returned from fishing. She knew he'd return early. He'd seen her pulling the gumbo pot out of the pantry the night before. If there was one thing Carl couldn't resist, it was 'Tisha's gumbo. He'd left before first light as he always did. She'd watched him dress in the dark from under the covers. Fall had arrived early this year and the night's chill resonated throughout the bedroom.
Stupid space heater, 'Tisha thought. She wanted central air, or baseboard heaters that she didn't have to worry about bursting into flames in the middle of the night. Sure, she knew plenty of people around who burned the space heaters all night, but 'Tisha'd lost her grandmother that way and she wasn't about to take the risk in her own house.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The Return of "You and Me Day"
When I was teaching on a four day schedule, I used to have Fridays off. Fridays were days spent with Shea-at home, at the mall, at the park, at a friend's house-it didn't matter. It was Shea and I together. We began calling them "You and Me Days". As I tucked her in to bed on Thursday nights, I would ask her, "Do you know what tomorrow is?"
She'd gasp, pull the blankets up to her chin, and say, "You and Me Day?!"
"Mmhmm. It's 'You and Me Day.'"
When I started the five-day work week, Fridays vanished as "You and Me Day". So, when I heard that Tracy was going wine-tasting with her girlfriends, I secretly thrilled to the idea of being home alone with Shea. Now, it's November in Oregon, so the weather wasn't the great. We couldn't go to the park or anywhere like that, but I was determined to give Shea a fun day. When I asked her what she wanted to do, she said, "Just stay home." Again, I was secretly thrilled.
It's fun to take Shea out of the house, but it's even more fun to stay home and play. We get out the pretty dress up dresses, the tiaras, the radio, wands, stuffed animals, etc. There's no end of fun to be had in the house and Saturday was no different.
At one point Shea was dancing on the bed and she was making me laugh so hard I had to go get the video camera. She's turning into a regular dance floor diva. I don't know if you will be able to hear it in the video, but she turns back to me at one point and informs me, "This is Lady Gaga." I'm not sure if I find that cute, funny, or terrifying. Here's a quick clip of her moves.
We played dress-up, took her babies to an imaginary park, got the guitar and the ukulele out, played music together, and danced away the afternoon. When I finally left her room to check the time, it was an hour and a half past her nap time. Oops! When I finally got her calmed down enough to take a nap, brushed her hair out of her face, and gave her a kiss, she looked up at me and said, "I love 'You and Me Day.'" I couldn't agree more.
She'd gasp, pull the blankets up to her chin, and say, "You and Me Day?!"
"Mmhmm. It's 'You and Me Day.'"
When I started the five-day work week, Fridays vanished as "You and Me Day". So, when I heard that Tracy was going wine-tasting with her girlfriends, I secretly thrilled to the idea of being home alone with Shea. Now, it's November in Oregon, so the weather wasn't the great. We couldn't go to the park or anywhere like that, but I was determined to give Shea a fun day. When I asked her what she wanted to do, she said, "Just stay home." Again, I was secretly thrilled.
It's fun to take Shea out of the house, but it's even more fun to stay home and play. We get out the pretty dress up dresses, the tiaras, the radio, wands, stuffed animals, etc. There's no end of fun to be had in the house and Saturday was no different.
At one point Shea was dancing on the bed and she was making me laugh so hard I had to go get the video camera. She's turning into a regular dance floor diva. I don't know if you will be able to hear it in the video, but she turns back to me at one point and informs me, "This is Lady Gaga." I'm not sure if I find that cute, funny, or terrifying. Here's a quick clip of her moves.
We played dress-up, took her babies to an imaginary park, got the guitar and the ukulele out, played music together, and danced away the afternoon. When I finally left her room to check the time, it was an hour and a half past her nap time. Oops! When I finally got her calmed down enough to take a nap, brushed her hair out of her face, and gave her a kiss, she looked up at me and said, "I love 'You and Me Day.'" I couldn't agree more.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Raindrop Kara-Shea
Grey clouds slide across the sky like silent assassins preparing for a sneak attack. I'm outside the house with my stalwart companions - Shea and Neera - ensuring the safety of our compound. Neera, who is on ground patrol, keeps returning with the same suspect - a raggedy tennis ball. As her commanding officer, I order her to leave the ball alone, but she suspects the thing of terrorist plots.
Suddenly, from above, the onslaught begins. Raindrops descend upon my balding skull as I take cover under the eaves, scanning the sky to see if we should wait out the attack or retreat inside. My second-in-command, Shea, the purple assassin and hothead soldier, takes matters into her own hands. In the rallying battle cry of a good soldier, she sings out, "Rain, rain, go away, come again another day," and unleashes a barrage of karate blows unlike anything ever recorded in human history. Each flashing blow is accompanied by a forceful and brutish, "Hi-yah."
The attack is brutal. The rain never knows what hits it, but Shea is determined and she keeps up her berserker rage until she is out of breath and can't sing the "Rain, Rain" song anymore. When she is done, she swipes the back of her hand across her forehead and sighs, "Whew." The rain may have won the battle, but I'll return with my troops on another day. The war has yet to be decided. The purple assassin is pleased with the carnage of the day.
Suddenly, from above, the onslaught begins. Raindrops descend upon my balding skull as I take cover under the eaves, scanning the sky to see if we should wait out the attack or retreat inside. My second-in-command, Shea, the purple assassin and hothead soldier, takes matters into her own hands. In the rallying battle cry of a good soldier, she sings out, "Rain, rain, go away, come again another day," and unleashes a barrage of karate blows unlike anything ever recorded in human history. Each flashing blow is accompanied by a forceful and brutish, "Hi-yah."
The attack is brutal. The rain never knows what hits it, but Shea is determined and she keeps up her berserker rage until she is out of breath and can't sing the "Rain, Rain" song anymore. When she is done, she swipes the back of her hand across her forehead and sighs, "Whew." The rain may have won the battle, but I'll return with my troops on another day. The war has yet to be decided. The purple assassin is pleased with the carnage of the day.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Imminent Window of Free Time
It's freaking November, people. I can't believe it. My daughter is talking to me about Santa, we're putting her preschool holiday "concert" on the calendar, and I've already bought a couple of gifts for my wife. Winter is here. Sunday is "Fall Back" and the nights will grow increasingly cold and stormy.
With this season comes a break. A BREAK! I can't even breathe I'm so excited. The week of Thanksgiving will mark the steadily decreasing work load that will take me straight into December and through most of January. I have some ideas.
I want to hang out with my wife in the evenings, rubbing her feet and having a glass of red wine. I want to spend some December afternoons at home with my daughter for what we affectionately call "You and Me" days. I want to see my friends. I want to play cards and maybe have a couple beers. I want to see "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" in the theater. I want to go skiing. I want to read a novel for pleasure. I want. I want. I want.
I've been giving my energy to others since last Christmas break and I'm exhausted, spent, and ready to recharge. I'm ready to be a "selfish prick" by loving the things I love for extended periods of time and ignoring everything else. Tracy...I choose you. Shea...I choose you. Kyle...I choose you. John (Character in my novel)...I choose you. The rest of you might be shit out of luck if you come asking for favors. BUT, if you call to chat, to have a cup of coffee, or to see a movie, I'll be overwhelmed with joy that you thought of me.
I love Christmas, always have; it's my favorite time of year. This year I plan to celebrate by appreciating all of the blessings in my life: my family, my health, my creativity, and my good fortune. It's looking to be a magical holiday season.
With this season comes a break. A BREAK! I can't even breathe I'm so excited. The week of Thanksgiving will mark the steadily decreasing work load that will take me straight into December and through most of January. I have some ideas.
I want to hang out with my wife in the evenings, rubbing her feet and having a glass of red wine. I want to spend some December afternoons at home with my daughter for what we affectionately call "You and Me" days. I want to see my friends. I want to play cards and maybe have a couple beers. I want to see "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" in the theater. I want to go skiing. I want to read a novel for pleasure. I want. I want. I want.
I've been giving my energy to others since last Christmas break and I'm exhausted, spent, and ready to recharge. I'm ready to be a "selfish prick" by loving the things I love for extended periods of time and ignoring everything else. Tracy...I choose you. Shea...I choose you. Kyle...I choose you. John (Character in my novel)...I choose you. The rest of you might be shit out of luck if you come asking for favors. BUT, if you call to chat, to have a cup of coffee, or to see a movie, I'll be overwhelmed with joy that you thought of me.
I love Christmas, always have; it's my favorite time of year. This year I plan to celebrate by appreciating all of the blessings in my life: my family, my health, my creativity, and my good fortune. It's looking to be a magical holiday season.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Disbelief
For a change of pace, I decided to do more of a kinetic exercise in my WR 115 class yesterday. It was an exercise in careful observation, use of concrete details in writing, how to control time in a narrative. ANYWAY, it was basically an exercise where they have to take a walk and then I teach them a bunch of things that can arise out of taking a walk. It is one of my most favorite lessons to teach and I was a little school-girl giddy about it.
We were halfway through class when one of my students in a lull says, "Can we go outside today?"
"Yes," I said. The student stared at me in disbelief, wondering if he had magic powers like Harry Potter or, for the older set, Fonzi. Had he somehow convinced me of something.
I explained the exercise to them, that they were allowed to go outside for ten minutes but they couldn't take their phones, not to walk in pairs, not to chat, but to go take a quiet walk around campus. The weather couldn't have cooperated more if I'd had control over it. It'd warmed to seventy outside but it had rained the day before and fall was in the air, like a ripe apple harvest.
The room emptied in 10 seconds flat. They were practically storming out of the classroom. Except. Except for two young girls. One of the girls came up to me and asked a clarifying question about the assignment. She's a quiet girl in class and so I answered the question before saying, "Are you going to go outside now?" She made up some lame story about having broken toes. No boot, no cast, no limp. Yeah, right!
The second girl sat quietly in the corner of the room. She's seemed like a nice enough girl in the class, but she also doesn't say much. When I say, "Are you, um, going to go outside?" She shakes her head "no" and looks back down at her folder.
"You know this is an exercise for the class and not a bathroom break, right?"
"Yes," she says.
"You know we're going to do a writing exercise after this that is based on the walk, right?"
"Yes."
"You know this isn't just a busy work task, but an actual lesson that pertains to the essay your writing. I don't waste class time with just time fillers."
The girl looks up from her notebook, levels her gaze at me, and says, "You can make a note in your little book if you like." She then returns to her notebook.
I mark her absent for the day. She remains in the class for the remainder of the period, even interrupting a discussion later in the day by talking with her neighbor. She's the reason I have an attendance and participation portion of the grade that is reserved for my best judgment. If it happens again, there will be consequences.
We were halfway through class when one of my students in a lull says, "Can we go outside today?"
"Yes," I said. The student stared at me in disbelief, wondering if he had magic powers like Harry Potter or, for the older set, Fonzi. Had he somehow convinced me of something.
I explained the exercise to them, that they were allowed to go outside for ten minutes but they couldn't take their phones, not to walk in pairs, not to chat, but to go take a quiet walk around campus. The weather couldn't have cooperated more if I'd had control over it. It'd warmed to seventy outside but it had rained the day before and fall was in the air, like a ripe apple harvest.
The room emptied in 10 seconds flat. They were practically storming out of the classroom. Except. Except for two young girls. One of the girls came up to me and asked a clarifying question about the assignment. She's a quiet girl in class and so I answered the question before saying, "Are you going to go outside now?" She made up some lame story about having broken toes. No boot, no cast, no limp. Yeah, right!
The second girl sat quietly in the corner of the room. She's seemed like a nice enough girl in the class, but she also doesn't say much. When I say, "Are you, um, going to go outside?" She shakes her head "no" and looks back down at her folder.
"You know this is an exercise for the class and not a bathroom break, right?"
"Yes," she says.
"You know we're going to do a writing exercise after this that is based on the walk, right?"
"Yes."
"You know this isn't just a busy work task, but an actual lesson that pertains to the essay your writing. I don't waste class time with just time fillers."
The girl looks up from her notebook, levels her gaze at me, and says, "You can make a note in your little book if you like." She then returns to her notebook.
I mark her absent for the day. She remains in the class for the remainder of the period, even interrupting a discussion later in the day by talking with her neighbor. She's the reason I have an attendance and participation portion of the grade that is reserved for my best judgment. If it happens again, there will be consequences.
Political Ads at Two am, or My Dog Ate My Homework
***I don't know what happened, but I thought I posted this a couple of days ago. It didn't go through, but I figured why not. I'm sorry, Professor, but my dog ate my homework.***
I'm quite possibly at my grouchiest at two am. Well, that's not true. I'm quite possibly my most indignant. This election season I found myself watching a lot of television advertisements. They made me feel old. They made me feel like that old man who says, "In my day..." You can finish the sentence however you like, but, in my day, it didn't seem like the political ads were this shameless. There were so many ads that quoted out of context, that played upon the fears of the public, or outright lied.
When your sleep deprived and waist deep in student papers, papers where you are trying to teach them about honest expression, ethical uses of quoted material, and the need to create trust between the reader and writer, these ads become a big deal. At two am I'm considering letters to congressmen and candidates. I'm outraged at undisclosed funding sources, of emotional arguments, of logical fallacies in professional argument. I can smell the fertilizer you're hoping will bloom into an argument that sways me via pathos.
I am a citizen, damn it, talk to me straight. I have an education, common sense, a sense of fairness, a strong sense of family, community, and civic obligation, and an ability to judge character. Your ads do not speak to any of these things. Quit the pandering and let's have a fucking conversation already.
I'm quite possibly at my grouchiest at two am. Well, that's not true. I'm quite possibly my most indignant. This election season I found myself watching a lot of television advertisements. They made me feel old. They made me feel like that old man who says, "In my day..." You can finish the sentence however you like, but, in my day, it didn't seem like the political ads were this shameless. There were so many ads that quoted out of context, that played upon the fears of the public, or outright lied.
When your sleep deprived and waist deep in student papers, papers where you are trying to teach them about honest expression, ethical uses of quoted material, and the need to create trust between the reader and writer, these ads become a big deal. At two am I'm considering letters to congressmen and candidates. I'm outraged at undisclosed funding sources, of emotional arguments, of logical fallacies in professional argument. I can smell the fertilizer you're hoping will bloom into an argument that sways me via pathos.
I am a citizen, damn it, talk to me straight. I have an education, common sense, a sense of fairness, a strong sense of family, community, and civic obligation, and an ability to judge character. Your ads do not speak to any of these things. Quit the pandering and let's have a fucking conversation already.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Joy Narrative comes to the classroom.
I enter the classroom in a jumble of bags, papers, and coffee. The students are all present all ready. My mentor is standing at the front of the class addressing all of them, fielding questions. When I set my things down and get my head about me, they actually seem to quiet.
This is my class of college freshmen. This has been my "problem" class, the one I've had to scold and lecture about attention and the ability to follow verbal directions. So, imagine my surprise when I set out to read the poem of the day and they appear attentive.
The essay we are set to discuss for the day is Andrew Sullivan's "What Is a Homosexual?" and they all appear ready to launch into the discussion. I've scheduled for half the class period to be taken up with discussion of the essay and then we will move on to the handout and sample essay I have concerning illustration. Well, I almost don't get the chance.
The class comes alive with discussion within a matter of minutes. There are people expressing views that range from the simple and biased to complex and rich. It's a lovely conversation, one where I am simply operating as a mediator and not an orator. I love these days. We talk about gender versus sex, cross-dressing, segregation, and various pleas for acceptance from certain corners. It is engaged, respectful, and honest and I find myself loving them in that moment.
I'm so proud of them and I remember why I'm a teacher. I love it when I see people thinking about ideas and discussing them respectfully. I don't care if I agree with them or not. Without lively debate there is no new knowledge. Or is that no new wisdom? Not sure and today I don't care. Can't wait to get back in the classroom.
This is my class of college freshmen. This has been my "problem" class, the one I've had to scold and lecture about attention and the ability to follow verbal directions. So, imagine my surprise when I set out to read the poem of the day and they appear attentive.
The essay we are set to discuss for the day is Andrew Sullivan's "What Is a Homosexual?" and they all appear ready to launch into the discussion. I've scheduled for half the class period to be taken up with discussion of the essay and then we will move on to the handout and sample essay I have concerning illustration. Well, I almost don't get the chance.
The class comes alive with discussion within a matter of minutes. There are people expressing views that range from the simple and biased to complex and rich. It's a lovely conversation, one where I am simply operating as a mediator and not an orator. I love these days. We talk about gender versus sex, cross-dressing, segregation, and various pleas for acceptance from certain corners. It is engaged, respectful, and honest and I find myself loving them in that moment.
I'm so proud of them and I remember why I'm a teacher. I love it when I see people thinking about ideas and discussing them respectfully. I don't care if I agree with them or not. Without lively debate there is no new knowledge. Or is that no new wisdom? Not sure and today I don't care. Can't wait to get back in the classroom.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Joy Narrative - Day 3
Hot chocolate, an hour of free time, and a friend.
Yesterday I had the chance to catch up with a friend. LV and I went to grad school together, but we also work together now. We share an office. Simply because we share an office doesn't mean that we have a lot of time to catch up. Quite the opposite in fact.
Somehow yesterday provided us the unique opportunity of an hour. When I realized that LV and I had some free time AT the same time, I put my grading down. She asked if I wanted a cup of hot chocolate as she was making some for herself and I agreed. The day yesterday was sunny and cool outside our office window. It's fall here in Forest Grove and the trees on campus were celebrating with a fireworks display of yellow, orange and red.
I followed LV down the hall to the teacher's lounge with my travel mug. As we waited for her plug-in kettle to warm up, we began talking about our classes and our students. The dialogue began as it usually does, a couple of complaints about too many papers, not enough thought, etc. But because we had the space of an hour, we slipped deeper into the conversation than we normally do. We found ourselves talking about the intent of education and the necessity for new models, new paradigms that rely on creative thinking rather than standardized testing. It was one of those conversations that is fueled by the passions, that is a true call and answer, a meeting of the minds and I found myself "high" from it. Maybe it was the hot chocolate. Whose to say?
We didn't necessarily solve anything through our discussion, but we rediscovered something about why we teach, about why we love it, and why it is important, and the process elicited a joyful sigh. LV soon had to depart and she made her way out of the building.
I was left alone with my reflections and I felt good about myself, about my place in the world, in my work, and what I give to my students. I put on my iPod, closed my office door, and danced a little bit before I sat down to grade the rest of my papers. I found that they went quickly and I was more readily able to see the potential nestled in their thinking/writing.
Hot chocolate, an hour of free time, and a good friend altered my perspective, shifted my mood, lifted me up a little bit. It's what friends are supposed to do. I simply hope that as LV walked out of Berglund that day, weighted down with her baskets full of papers, that the load felt light and a song bounced around the back of her head.
Yesterday I had the chance to catch up with a friend. LV and I went to grad school together, but we also work together now. We share an office. Simply because we share an office doesn't mean that we have a lot of time to catch up. Quite the opposite in fact.
Somehow yesterday provided us the unique opportunity of an hour. When I realized that LV and I had some free time AT the same time, I put my grading down. She asked if I wanted a cup of hot chocolate as she was making some for herself and I agreed. The day yesterday was sunny and cool outside our office window. It's fall here in Forest Grove and the trees on campus were celebrating with a fireworks display of yellow, orange and red.
I followed LV down the hall to the teacher's lounge with my travel mug. As we waited for her plug-in kettle to warm up, we began talking about our classes and our students. The dialogue began as it usually does, a couple of complaints about too many papers, not enough thought, etc. But because we had the space of an hour, we slipped deeper into the conversation than we normally do. We found ourselves talking about the intent of education and the necessity for new models, new paradigms that rely on creative thinking rather than standardized testing. It was one of those conversations that is fueled by the passions, that is a true call and answer, a meeting of the minds and I found myself "high" from it. Maybe it was the hot chocolate. Whose to say?
We didn't necessarily solve anything through our discussion, but we rediscovered something about why we teach, about why we love it, and why it is important, and the process elicited a joyful sigh. LV soon had to depart and she made her way out of the building.
I was left alone with my reflections and I felt good about myself, about my place in the world, in my work, and what I give to my students. I put on my iPod, closed my office door, and danced a little bit before I sat down to grade the rest of my papers. I found that they went quickly and I was more readily able to see the potential nestled in their thinking/writing.
Hot chocolate, an hour of free time, and a good friend altered my perspective, shifted my mood, lifted me up a little bit. It's what friends are supposed to do. I simply hope that as LV walked out of Berglund that day, weighted down with her baskets full of papers, that the load felt light and a song bounced around the back of her head.
Clint McCance
I know I was supposed to dedicate this week to the Joy Narratives, but this issue came to my attention and I couldn't help but do my part to spread the word.
Recently, an Arkansas School official posted a Facebook post in response to Spirit Day. A day where people were supposed to wear purple in support of homosexual teens. The vitriol and hatred present in this post was despicable. McCance even called for all homosexuals to kill "thereselves". This is a man who makes decisions that control the education of young minds. In my opinion, this kind of individual is the most dangerous sort of person to have in control of curriculum. He should resign immediately.
I can't fault him for speaking his opinion out loud. Most times people who feel this way are dictated by shame and fear of social retribution. I think if there is any chance of eliminating this kind of prejudice we have to allow these people to speak their minds so at least their thoughts exist in the public domain. McCance at least stands by his convictions and lets people know his bias. His comments should spark a dialogue, an exchange between people that discusses the value of a life, EVERY LIFE, and how harmful these kinds of comments can be to young minds.
I won't even begin to discuss the grammar of the post itself. This from a man in charge of education?!
For more information on the situation, you can follow this link.
Recently, an Arkansas School official posted a Facebook post in response to Spirit Day. A day where people were supposed to wear purple in support of homosexual teens. The vitriol and hatred present in this post was despicable. McCance even called for all homosexuals to kill "thereselves". This is a man who makes decisions that control the education of young minds. In my opinion, this kind of individual is the most dangerous sort of person to have in control of curriculum. He should resign immediately.
I can't fault him for speaking his opinion out loud. Most times people who feel this way are dictated by shame and fear of social retribution. I think if there is any chance of eliminating this kind of prejudice we have to allow these people to speak their minds so at least their thoughts exist in the public domain. McCance at least stands by his convictions and lets people know his bias. His comments should spark a dialogue, an exchange between people that discusses the value of a life, EVERY LIFE, and how harmful these kinds of comments can be to young minds.
I won't even begin to discuss the grammar of the post itself. This from a man in charge of education?!
For more information on the situation, you can follow this link.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The Joy Narrative - Day 2
Tomorrow is comic book day. Today I'll be on the Internet looking up previews of comics that come out tomorrow. The comic book companies release four- to five-page previews of the new titles a couple of days in advance. I could simply wait until tomorrow to read the first pages of the books I collect, but I can't help myself. I want those stories. I want to keep up with Green Lantern, Cyclops, Wolverine, Storm, Rogue and X-23. I love these characters. I have followed them now for almost two decades. I've grown up with them. I've developed a deeper sense of story by reading theirs.
I'm a writer. I'm bound to love stories, but there is something unique about comic books, about the blending of image and text that...morphs the form into something new and exciting. Some will say it is all violence and cartoon women with big breasts, but it is more than that. For example, the core titles I collect are the X-men line. While the X-men are about high adventure and pulp fiction, the comics are also about family, alienation, courage and heroism, growing up, and finding your purpose in the world.
In much the same way that generations have grown up with the Bible as a source of morality, so have I grown up on the lessons of the comic book world. More often than not, you will find the characters in comics driven by an inner sense of purpose, forced to question the limits of their own morality and how that morality translates into action. I think they serve as the modern day fable, the parable. They can be used as a barometer of culture.
When Captain America was killed a couple of years ago, it felt right. There was something present in the culture at that specific juncture that made it seem appropriate that a symbol of American patriotism should be assassinated. In fact, he was assassinated by one of his own (the plot thickens). Well, since then he's been resurrected in typical comic book fashion, but that too reflects on what is happening in American culture.
Many people scoff at my fetishistic pleasure in comic books, but there is something real and tangible underneath the sci-fi/fantasy. The metaphor of power translates in very real terms into a life lived on this plane. I love them and I hope to keep that little kid inside of me alive for as long as a I possibly can.
I'm a writer. I'm bound to love stories, but there is something unique about comic books, about the blending of image and text that...morphs the form into something new and exciting. Some will say it is all violence and cartoon women with big breasts, but it is more than that. For example, the core titles I collect are the X-men line. While the X-men are about high adventure and pulp fiction, the comics are also about family, alienation, courage and heroism, growing up, and finding your purpose in the world.
In much the same way that generations have grown up with the Bible as a source of morality, so have I grown up on the lessons of the comic book world. More often than not, you will find the characters in comics driven by an inner sense of purpose, forced to question the limits of their own morality and how that morality translates into action. I think they serve as the modern day fable, the parable. They can be used as a barometer of culture.
When Captain America was killed a couple of years ago, it felt right. There was something present in the culture at that specific juncture that made it seem appropriate that a symbol of American patriotism should be assassinated. In fact, he was assassinated by one of his own (the plot thickens). Well, since then he's been resurrected in typical comic book fashion, but that too reflects on what is happening in American culture.
Many people scoff at my fetishistic pleasure in comic books, but there is something real and tangible underneath the sci-fi/fantasy. The metaphor of power translates in very real terms into a life lived on this plane. I love them and I hope to keep that little kid inside of me alive for as long as a I possibly can.
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Joy Narrative - Day 1
The other day I made a quick blog post on dancing and how much I love it. I felt great afterward and I began thinking about how I need to focus on things that bring me real joy. So, I decided that for one week I would try and write exclusively about things that made me happy.
Today? My dog, Neera.
Tracy and I were living on a piece of country property when we got Neera as a puppy. She's the daughter of a pound rescue. We don't know much about her breed but it's fairly obvious that she's at least a little bit lab. She's had her problems. She's been attacked by other dogs, raccoons, and skunks. She's dog on dog aggressive and so she's not exactly a dog park dog, but she's sweet with our little girl, has been since Shea was a baby. She loves to snuggle with me and there are many nights when I fall asleep with my arm over her and the smell of her fur filling my dreams.
Each and every day we run her outside. We grab the Chuck-It and toss the tennis ball for her. She rips around the yard like a shadow. She's fast as hell and she'll play until she pukes. She's getting on eight years old now and lately Tracy and I've been noticing a little bit of slowing in her. We have many good years left with her and for that I'm grateful.
Even as I'm sitting here typing, Neera is lying next to me on the couch. She curls up next to me when I work and waits for me to go to bed. Tracy gets frustrated at times because she wants Neera to keep her company until I go to bed, but the dog often winds up posted up next to me. I scratch her ears between grading essays and if it gets to late she whines and tells me I need to go to bed. She's like an alarm clock in reverse.
For many of you these posts will be the least interesting of my posts, but these are the things that lift me up in a day. When I get home from work and my dog greets me at the door with an overly enthusiastic hello, well, I light up a little. She's a part of our family and she brings me comfort and companionship and that coveted emotion...joy.
Today? My dog, Neera.
Each and every day we run her outside. We grab the Chuck-It and toss the tennis ball for her. She rips around the yard like a shadow. She's fast as hell and she'll play until she pukes. She's getting on eight years old now and lately Tracy and I've been noticing a little bit of slowing in her. We have many good years left with her and for that I'm grateful.
For many of you these posts will be the least interesting of my posts, but these are the things that lift me up in a day. When I get home from work and my dog greets me at the door with an overly enthusiastic hello, well, I light up a little. She's a part of our family and she brings me comfort and companionship and that coveted emotion...joy.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Dance
Lately, I've been on a pop/R&B/rap kick. I'd like to say I don't understand it, but I know exactly why I've been listening to this type of music.
I LOVE TO DANCE.
Trust me when I say this is not the most comfortable admission for a married, 30-something, white boy father. I don't have moves. I'm not altogether graceful, but what I don't have in natural ability I make up for in joy. That's right...joy. It brings me joy to dance. I've been CRAVING a wedding lately. I want someone to get married so I have an excuse to get out there and dance.
I'm sitting here right now listening to "4 minutes" by Madonna, Justin Timberlake, and Timbaland. I have them on headphones so the rest of the house doesn't wake up, but I have the volume cranked and I got the head bobbing, the foot jumping and I feel like I could be compelled out of my seat at any moment. I could stop writing in the middle of a sentence to go bust a...
I LOVE TO DANCE.
Trust me when I say this is not the most comfortable admission for a married, 30-something, white boy father. I don't have moves. I'm not altogether graceful, but what I don't have in natural ability I make up for in joy. That's right...joy. It brings me joy to dance. I've been CRAVING a wedding lately. I want someone to get married so I have an excuse to get out there and dance.
I'm sitting here right now listening to "4 minutes" by Madonna, Justin Timberlake, and Timbaland. I have them on headphones so the rest of the house doesn't wake up, but I have the volume cranked and I got the head bobbing, the foot jumping and I feel like I could be compelled out of my seat at any moment. I could stop writing in the middle of a sentence to go bust a...
Friday, October 22, 2010
Rough Drafts
One of my writing classes is handing in rough drafts tomorrow. I'm not going to edit them.
I'm sitting here feeling guilty about this. I've never had students hand in an essay without helping them with their drafts...ever. I'm officially cutting them loose to do it on their own.
The reason I'm doing this is because I'm auditioning the concept. Lately I've been talking with other teachers about their process and almost none of them comment on rough drafts. I believe in the process I've used over the last couple of years. I've seen improvement, real improvement, in student writing, but I can't maintain. I've commented on every students' rough draft on every essay assignment for every semester since I've begun teaching. That means I have marked 1320 essays in the last three years. It's exhausting.
So, I'm going to let them do it on their own. I'm going to see if there is a significant difference in the quality of their finals. I'm giving them a page and a half worth of peer review questions they will have to answer (single spaced) and I'm giving them until next Wednesday to complete the final.
I have to do this. Something has to give. The class I'm doing this with has received my feedback on six different occasions. That only includes major essay assignments and not the blog assignment or other prewriting activities.
I know this post is a giant justification. It's me working past my guilt. I'm hoping it works.
I'm sitting here feeling guilty about this. I've never had students hand in an essay without helping them with their drafts...ever. I'm officially cutting them loose to do it on their own.
The reason I'm doing this is because I'm auditioning the concept. Lately I've been talking with other teachers about their process and almost none of them comment on rough drafts. I believe in the process I've used over the last couple of years. I've seen improvement, real improvement, in student writing, but I can't maintain. I've commented on every students' rough draft on every essay assignment for every semester since I've begun teaching. That means I have marked 1320 essays in the last three years. It's exhausting.
So, I'm going to let them do it on their own. I'm going to see if there is a significant difference in the quality of their finals. I'm giving them a page and a half worth of peer review questions they will have to answer (single spaced) and I'm giving them until next Wednesday to complete the final.
I have to do this. Something has to give. The class I'm doing this with has received my feedback on six different occasions. That only includes major essay assignments and not the blog assignment or other prewriting activities.
I know this post is a giant justification. It's me working past my guilt. I'm hoping it works.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Sleep
My love affair with sleep is a tumultous one. We are lovers in the latin sense: fiery, passionate, unpredictable. We can spend hours together in bed one day and then not be on speaking terms the next. Our ups and downs are conflicts of legend, battles between good and evil, mythic conquests where I, the hero, try to tame the beast, to control its elusive powers through domination and force of will.
Other times, I am the sycophant, the pleading worshipper, begging for attention, desperate for its return. I am the sailor's wife on the widow's walk overlooking the sea wishing for my lover's safe return. I am desperate with worry that I won't be reunited.
I am the worried parent in the night, ear pressed to the monitor, listening to the sick child's rasping, the sputtering and coughs through the night, the low moans and whistles, the sickness percolating in her lungs, a science project gone awry.
Other times, sleep is the void. It is emptiness and nothingness. It is the moment after world's end. It is the moment before creation, it is absence and blackness.
I think sleep and I need couple's counseling.
Other times, I am the sycophant, the pleading worshipper, begging for attention, desperate for its return. I am the sailor's wife on the widow's walk overlooking the sea wishing for my lover's safe return. I am desperate with worry that I won't be reunited.
I am the worried parent in the night, ear pressed to the monitor, listening to the sick child's rasping, the sputtering and coughs through the night, the low moans and whistles, the sickness percolating in her lungs, a science project gone awry.
Other times, sleep is the void. It is emptiness and nothingness. It is the moment after world's end. It is the moment before creation, it is absence and blackness.
I think sleep and I need couple's counseling.
Superfan
I watched Superman again tonight. It's been a long time since I've seen it but I was immediately transported to that place and time, to being a child. The movie was a formidable one for me. I was familiar with the character from Saturday morning cartoons and from the old black and white television show that used to air on Sunday mornings, but I'd never seen anything quite like Richard Donner's work.
My love for all things comic might have been solidified at this point. I'd always loved the cartoons, the campy Batman show, but Donner's version of Superman gave a maturity and complexity to that world that I didn't realize could exist.
It would be years before I was re-introduced to the comic book and all the lovely forms it can take, but there is something about that first Superman movie that goes beyond simply my fan boy craze for flying superheroes that shoot lasers out of their eyes (which is still cool, I don't care who you are). It felt good to be a boy.
My love for all things comic might have been solidified at this point. I'd always loved the cartoons, the campy Batman show, but Donner's version of Superman gave a maturity and complexity to that world that I didn't realize could exist.
It would be years before I was re-introduced to the comic book and all the lovely forms it can take, but there is something about that first Superman movie that goes beyond simply my fan boy craze for flying superheroes that shoot lasers out of their eyes (which is still cool, I don't care who you are). It felt good to be a boy.
Monday, October 18, 2010
A Moment
"217 is a parking lot," my wife says over the phone.
I'm sitting on the floor of my daughter's room, stroking her hair to get her to wake up. "What?"
"217 is a parking lot. One of the ladies just got here and she said there was an accident and the highway is backed up both ways. You might want to go the back way."
"Okay," I say, "thanks." Shea rolls over on her side and embraces my forearm, gives me a kiss on the back of my hand. "Good morning," I say in my morning sing-song.
"Morning," she mumbles. My mother has already arrived to watch her and is standing behind me.
"I have to go to work, sweetheart. You gonna be good for Noni?"
"Uh-huh," she says and turns her face into her pillow. I kiss her on the cheek and again by her ear. I don't get to snuggle this morning as is our usual custom. We let Shea sleep in as she didn't feel well the night before and was restless all through the night.
I apologize to my mother for taking off so abruptly, but she says she understands and sets about gathering together an outfit for Shea.
As I drive south out of Oregon City toward Canby, I don't expect much from the commute. As I press past Canby into Aurora, I begin to feel myself relax a bit. I'm not driving freeways but small highways with open fields on both sides. The morning fog is still sleeping in the folds of hills and in the low marshy places. The trees are lit with yellow and orange. I'm not consciously paying attention, but rather I am sipping my coffee and taking it all in without noticing as much.
By the time I get to the west side of Newberg, I am agape at the beauty of the morning. The fog has been reduced to small rivulets and fingers of smoke in the low lying areas and, amidst the jade evergreen, the leaves have taken on the flash and sparkle of amber, of ruby, and tiger's eye.
The road is near empty, as is my coffee, and I cruise through the banking corners with what feels like balletic grace. I'm on my way to those commitments that wearied me only days ago, but somehow, out here, out amongst the color and the open air, somewhere in the ambient hum of my engine, I find a space to breathe. I find the space to relax, breathe deep and take in the crisp morning fog that must enter my lungs like smoke, or maybe, if I'm lucky, like spirit.
I'm sitting on the floor of my daughter's room, stroking her hair to get her to wake up. "What?"
"217 is a parking lot. One of the ladies just got here and she said there was an accident and the highway is backed up both ways. You might want to go the back way."
"Okay," I say, "thanks." Shea rolls over on her side and embraces my forearm, gives me a kiss on the back of my hand. "Good morning," I say in my morning sing-song.
"Morning," she mumbles. My mother has already arrived to watch her and is standing behind me.
"I have to go to work, sweetheart. You gonna be good for Noni?"
"Uh-huh," she says and turns her face into her pillow. I kiss her on the cheek and again by her ear. I don't get to snuggle this morning as is our usual custom. We let Shea sleep in as she didn't feel well the night before and was restless all through the night.
I apologize to my mother for taking off so abruptly, but she says she understands and sets about gathering together an outfit for Shea.
As I drive south out of Oregon City toward Canby, I don't expect much from the commute. As I press past Canby into Aurora, I begin to feel myself relax a bit. I'm not driving freeways but small highways with open fields on both sides. The morning fog is still sleeping in the folds of hills and in the low marshy places. The trees are lit with yellow and orange. I'm not consciously paying attention, but rather I am sipping my coffee and taking it all in without noticing as much.
By the time I get to the west side of Newberg, I am agape at the beauty of the morning. The fog has been reduced to small rivulets and fingers of smoke in the low lying areas and, amidst the jade evergreen, the leaves have taken on the flash and sparkle of amber, of ruby, and tiger's eye.
The road is near empty, as is my coffee, and I cruise through the banking corners with what feels like balletic grace. I'm on my way to those commitments that wearied me only days ago, but somehow, out here, out amongst the color and the open air, somewhere in the ambient hum of my engine, I find a space to breathe. I find the space to relax, breathe deep and take in the crisp morning fog that must enter my lungs like smoke, or maybe, if I'm lucky, like spirit.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Spiritually Exhausted
I'm having a hard time focusing on the papers I'm meant to grade right now. The last couple of weeks have left me feeling drained. It's not attributable to anything in specific but more like a perfect storm of conditions that seem to build and hit all at once.
At school I'm holding down an overtime load. I'm teaching four intensive writing courses which means stacks upon stacks of essays at any given time. I'm swimming in essays right now. I have about 90 in my bag right now that need to be graded. Add to that the individual student needs, extensions, concessions, guilt trips, whining, etc and you'll see where an abundance of my energy goes.
At home Tracy and I have had to shoulder the stress of a major medical appointment this week. Shea had to go in for an ultrasound appointment that might have led to major surgery involving her bladder and kidneys. While the appointment went well, no major surgery, it didn't go as we'd hoped. While she doesn't have to undergo major surgery she does have to have a small procedure that involves anaesthesia but doesn't involve opening her up. It's a small victory, but we were hoping that her reflux would have resolved itself and her kidneys would have grown at a regular rate. While we've been able to exhale a bit, my shoulders still ride high from some of the residual tension and worry that is wrapped up in her overall health.
Don't get me wrong. She's healthy. I don't want anyone to panic. It's just that there are a couple of things we need to "stay on top of" and those things carry residual anxiety, those of you who are parents will easily understand what I'm talking about.
Add to that the day to day obligations of family and extended family and you'll begin to be able to piece together why I'm riding a little low on energy these days. I just don't feel like I have much to offer anyone right now. It's hard to say "no" to family, friends, students, etc. At least it's hard for me. I don't ask people for things but I'm going to start asking for my energy back. I have to start protecting myself a little bit. It's a down cycle, I know, but these troughs of energy require that I set some boundaries.
Tonight, I'm playing cards with friends. I'm taking the night to myself. I'm hoping the free time will serve me well and find me rested tomorrow.
At school I'm holding down an overtime load. I'm teaching four intensive writing courses which means stacks upon stacks of essays at any given time. I'm swimming in essays right now. I have about 90 in my bag right now that need to be graded. Add to that the individual student needs, extensions, concessions, guilt trips, whining, etc and you'll see where an abundance of my energy goes.
At home Tracy and I have had to shoulder the stress of a major medical appointment this week. Shea had to go in for an ultrasound appointment that might have led to major surgery involving her bladder and kidneys. While the appointment went well, no major surgery, it didn't go as we'd hoped. While she doesn't have to undergo major surgery she does have to have a small procedure that involves anaesthesia but doesn't involve opening her up. It's a small victory, but we were hoping that her reflux would have resolved itself and her kidneys would have grown at a regular rate. While we've been able to exhale a bit, my shoulders still ride high from some of the residual tension and worry that is wrapped up in her overall health.
Don't get me wrong. She's healthy. I don't want anyone to panic. It's just that there are a couple of things we need to "stay on top of" and those things carry residual anxiety, those of you who are parents will easily understand what I'm talking about.
Add to that the day to day obligations of family and extended family and you'll begin to be able to piece together why I'm riding a little low on energy these days. I just don't feel like I have much to offer anyone right now. It's hard to say "no" to family, friends, students, etc. At least it's hard for me. I don't ask people for things but I'm going to start asking for my energy back. I have to start protecting myself a little bit. It's a down cycle, I know, but these troughs of energy require that I set some boundaries.
Tonight, I'm playing cards with friends. I'm taking the night to myself. I'm hoping the free time will serve me well and find me rested tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)