Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Upcoming news
A faculty advisor of mine has called to say he has good news for me but won't elaborate any further. I am dying to hear from him. I've left two messages for him but I've missed him at home. Hopefully I will have something exciting to say here soon.
Monday, March 2, 2009
A Prolonged Absence
I've been slacking on updating the blog and found it whispering my name as I prepared for another bar shift. Things have been hectic over the last couple of days. The job I thought would never be has reasserted itself and with a deadline looming only two weeks away. I'm in the process of chasing down reference letters, teaching philosophies and trying to formulate a class syllabus. All of this is in the midst of my classes handing in their first graded assignment. I only have 11 essays left to grade and then I am free to focus.
I find myself sinking down into a kind of calm that belies my current obligations. It is the advent of creation. I can feel it. The juices have been stewing under the surface and are about to spring forth. I can't wait. I know that I will get home tonight and set to it, fingers to keyboard, searching for that entrance into what can only be expressed as joy finding a voice.
I find myself sinking down into a kind of calm that belies my current obligations. It is the advent of creation. I can feel it. The juices have been stewing under the surface and are about to spring forth. I can't wait. I know that I will get home tonight and set to it, fingers to keyboard, searching for that entrance into what can only be expressed as joy finding a voice.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Newport
The sun made a rare February appearance on Friday as Tracy and I made our way to Newport, OR for the annual Seafood and Wine Festival there. We had our Mapquest printout of directions but found a small sign with the name "Waldport" on it. We were staying in this small town a few miles south of Newport and we decided we would try it out. We were alone, only the two of us, and the day was open before us. The idea of travelling a road we'd never seen was a pleasant one and the gamble totally paid off.
Highway 34 cuts southwest out of Philomouth, OR and makes its way through high hills alongside the Alsea River. There were two and a half towns on the entire 70 or so mile stretch. Otherwise it was mossy forests and winding riverbanks. It was the middle of the afternoon, Tracy had taken the day off, so the sun was high in the sky and the trimmed grass of open meadows delighted us.
The CD was Ryan Montbleau, a solo musician we had seen recently in Portland, and his bluegrass/folksy rhythms made my knee bounce in time and a smile spread over my face as I watched the scenery change outside my window.
We arrived in Waldport around 2 in the afternoon and found our TINY condo soon afterward. My brother and a group of his friends were staying in a larger house nearby but Tracy and I wanted sanctuary, time away from all others, where we could read, talk, and, well, be a married couple without intrusion or embarrassment. We didn't have Shea, our two year old, for this trip and we were hoping to reconnect through some alone time.
The couple staying below us seemed friendly at first and, outwardly, they were. Although we quickly learned they argued fiercely behind closed doors, dropping all kinds of profanity on each other. It was an awkward situation but it only happened twice the entire weekend. That first afternoon we thought it was the television.
We settled in, stocked the fridge, dropped our bags into corners and settled in. It didn't take long before we found each other coupled in the bedroom. The passion of the moment overwhelmed me. It was like we had only been dating a short time. It cast me that far back into our relationship. I realized it had been a while and the last couple of times were stolen moments during Shea's nap and not the long, languorous, self-indulgent escapades of the newly dating, or the newly married.
Afterward, we lay in each other's arms, breathing, trying to regain our bearings and our voice. When our eyes locked, we both smiled, uninhibited, joyous, unashamed...in love. This was only the first day of what was turning out to be a perfect getaway for us.
Highway 34 cuts southwest out of Philomouth, OR and makes its way through high hills alongside the Alsea River. There were two and a half towns on the entire 70 or so mile stretch. Otherwise it was mossy forests and winding riverbanks. It was the middle of the afternoon, Tracy had taken the day off, so the sun was high in the sky and the trimmed grass of open meadows delighted us.
The CD was Ryan Montbleau, a solo musician we had seen recently in Portland, and his bluegrass/folksy rhythms made my knee bounce in time and a smile spread over my face as I watched the scenery change outside my window.
We arrived in Waldport around 2 in the afternoon and found our TINY condo soon afterward. My brother and a group of his friends were staying in a larger house nearby but Tracy and I wanted sanctuary, time away from all others, where we could read, talk, and, well, be a married couple without intrusion or embarrassment. We didn't have Shea, our two year old, for this trip and we were hoping to reconnect through some alone time.
The couple staying below us seemed friendly at first and, outwardly, they were. Although we quickly learned they argued fiercely behind closed doors, dropping all kinds of profanity on each other. It was an awkward situation but it only happened twice the entire weekend. That first afternoon we thought it was the television.
We settled in, stocked the fridge, dropped our bags into corners and settled in. It didn't take long before we found each other coupled in the bedroom. The passion of the moment overwhelmed me. It was like we had only been dating a short time. It cast me that far back into our relationship. I realized it had been a while and the last couple of times were stolen moments during Shea's nap and not the long, languorous, self-indulgent escapades of the newly dating, or the newly married.
Afterward, we lay in each other's arms, breathing, trying to regain our bearings and our voice. When our eyes locked, we both smiled, uninhibited, joyous, unashamed...in love. This was only the first day of what was turning out to be a perfect getaway for us.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tired
The manager of the bar where I work is gone to Hawaii so I was left with the closing shift on Wednesday night. My first Thursday class starts at 9:40. With an hour commute and leaving myself the proper time to settle in and prepare for the class, this means I must wake at 7 am. I am here in my office on campus but I can feel the downward tug of my eyelids like sandbags tied to my lashes. I have a five hour break between classes. I may sleep in my car.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Awkward
Once again I am riddled with doubt as to whether or not I am doing my students a service or disservice with my lectures. I am riddled with self-doubt and insecurity as I stand before them. I love my job. I do. I simply wish there was a manual for this process. I can imagine it.
Step One: Get them to engage with writing on a personal level.
Step Two: Show them examples of excellent prose.
Step Three: Allow them the freedom to mess up.
Step Four: Teach them how to revise to eliminate said "mess ups."
This is what I'm trying to do but I can't believe the level of disconnect I feel from them. I have this one woman in my morning class. She's nice, or appears to be, but as the class rolls on I can see her staring at the chalkboard on the side wall of the class. Not even out the window. The chalkboard is more interesting than the information I am trying to give her.
I didn't have alt-woman in my class this morning. She's a creative writing major and I can already tell that she is disenfranchised from the material. She believes herself to be above it, beyond the scope of what I am teaching. I've read her writing...she's not. I'm not for Christ's sake. All of my lessons have reverberations in my own writing. I'm learning right alongside these guys.
I can't tell if it is simply the new class blahs or if there is something more worrisome happening here, but I'm determined to reach them. I will come back day after day to make sure that they don't give up on this process and that each of them leaves my class a better writer.
Step One: Get them to engage with writing on a personal level.
Step Two: Show them examples of excellent prose.
Step Three: Allow them the freedom to mess up.
Step Four: Teach them how to revise to eliminate said "mess ups."
This is what I'm trying to do but I can't believe the level of disconnect I feel from them. I have this one woman in my morning class. She's nice, or appears to be, but as the class rolls on I can see her staring at the chalkboard on the side wall of the class. Not even out the window. The chalkboard is more interesting than the information I am trying to give her.
I didn't have alt-woman in my class this morning. She's a creative writing major and I can already tell that she is disenfranchised from the material. She believes herself to be above it, beyond the scope of what I am teaching. I've read her writing...she's not. I'm not for Christ's sake. All of my lessons have reverberations in my own writing. I'm learning right alongside these guys.
I can't tell if it is simply the new class blahs or if there is something more worrisome happening here, but I'm determined to reach them. I will come back day after day to make sure that they don't give up on this process and that each of them leaves my class a better writer.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Lesson Plans
I'm three hours early to work and take the corner booth. I set up my computer, pull out papers to be graded, the anthology I have to read, and set to work on preparing my lesson for Tuesday. I don't feel like I've connected with my classes yet and I really want to come prepared on Tuesday with something practical they can wrap their minds around. I believe I've found it.
Authority. Author-ity. No more hedging and qualifying. These students need to learn the art of stating what they mean without worrying if they got it all wrong. Say what you mean. No more "in my opinion," "could," "possibly," "maybe," etc. The list is long but the lesson will allow them to have a checklist they can use, along with Word's "Find" function, to instantly tighten up their writing and become confident writers who can state things clearly and succinctly without the timidity I find in almost EVERY paper.
I'm excited.
Also, tomorrow I will begin class with one of my favorite poems for undergraduate students. "Introduction to Poetry" by Billy Collins. This poem expresses the sentiment I have often felt in literature classes and my students have expressed to me. Sometimes poetry needs to be read not to analyze but enjoy, to allow the words to wash over you for the sheer experience of hearing them, reading them, absorbing them as a whole.
Yeah, I'm excited.
Authority. Author-ity. No more hedging and qualifying. These students need to learn the art of stating what they mean without worrying if they got it all wrong. Say what you mean. No more "in my opinion," "could," "possibly," "maybe," etc. The list is long but the lesson will allow them to have a checklist they can use, along with Word's "Find" function, to instantly tighten up their writing and become confident writers who can state things clearly and succinctly without the timidity I find in almost EVERY paper.
I'm excited.
Also, tomorrow I will begin class with one of my favorite poems for undergraduate students. "Introduction to Poetry" by Billy Collins. This poem expresses the sentiment I have often felt in literature classes and my students have expressed to me. Sometimes poetry needs to be read not to analyze but enjoy, to allow the words to wash over you for the sheer experience of hearing them, reading them, absorbing them as a whole.
Yeah, I'm excited.
Another Day Down
The mirror shows the changes I have been slow to realize. I find my eyes darkened around their lower edge, the puffiness apparent, the wrinkles etching deeper than I can remember. I see it in my hands as well, the dryness, thin lines creasing the fleshy bit between thumb and forefinger, a redness at the knuckles and a paleness of the smoother plains.
I'm getting older.
It may be that my schedule has something to do with it. Averaging six hours of sleep a night, spending long hours focused solely on work, and finding less and less time doing anything that has to do with recreation, entertainment, or travel, I find myself fatigued. Sleep calls to me often, the morning comes too quickly and blank hours in the day while Shea sleeps find me lying down, closing my eyes, beckoning the oblivion of sleep.
Day is a demanding space; its responsibilities are apparent in the light; its schedules defined as the edge of shadow where the morning sun breaks through the gap in the curtains; it lets me know that I should rise again; rise and look in the mirror; take a look at the toll of another morning; realize the obligations that have run through my head like a dream since the moment I laid my head down on the pillow the night before.
I'm getting older.
It may be that my schedule has something to do with it. Averaging six hours of sleep a night, spending long hours focused solely on work, and finding less and less time doing anything that has to do with recreation, entertainment, or travel, I find myself fatigued. Sleep calls to me often, the morning comes too quickly and blank hours in the day while Shea sleeps find me lying down, closing my eyes, beckoning the oblivion of sleep.
Day is a demanding space; its responsibilities are apparent in the light; its schedules defined as the edge of shadow where the morning sun breaks through the gap in the curtains; it lets me know that I should rise again; rise and look in the mirror; take a look at the toll of another morning; realize the obligations that have run through my head like a dream since the moment I laid my head down on the pillow the night before.
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