http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2007/10/19/entertainment/e190351D69.DTL
I just read this article in the SF Chronicle. At a lecture/reading, JK Rowling outed Albus Dumbledore. While I have yet to read the final book and, therefore, don't know about the character she is talking about, I am very excited to see that this great literary character is all the more real and complex. Really, I am glad because this is another way that acceptance and respect will become part of the cultural discourse.
While there is still a long way to go in the fight to bring the rights of gays, lesbians, and transgendered people to where they should be---the same level as us straight folks---I think the public view of homosexuality is improving. I have noticed that since pop culture has embraced gay characters (Northern Exposure, Ellen, Will and Grace, Ugly Betty, etc), there has been a marked shift in norms. This is especially apparent at the high school, where there are quite a few openly gay kids. When I went to the high school, it was an unwelcoming place for gay students. While "gay" is still used as a derogatory statement, as in, "That movie was so gay!" meaning "That movie was so bad," kids are much more accepting and willing to befriend other kids of other sexual orientations.
This move by Rowling will help that much more. Yet another generation will see a strong, good, loving gay character with whom they can relate, as opposed to the over-the-top stereotypes of the past. Of course, this will give the radical Christian right one more reason to not like the book, as the article states, but, really, who cares? They are becoming increasing irrelevant with every passing day. They can't stop change. They aren't magic, after all...
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I shouldn't be writing now
I am swamped! I am going crazy! My students have let me down! I am not happy! I am far too busy to write...
But here I am. For some reason, I decided that right now I needed to return to blogging, that nothing mattered more to me than writing. I don't know why. I don't even have anything to say. Perhaps I just needed a little pontification to clear my mind...
At the English department meeting today, one of my colleagues related a story of a workshop on adapting lessons to fit the needs of English language learners at which the presenter told the group that language isn't necessary for thought. On hearing this, Mark left the meeting. (This act of defiance could have put him into some hot water, but he felt he had to leave in the face of such idiocy.) Her statement has made me wonder.
Language is so ingrained into us that I cannot conceive of the world with out. Literally. Of course, it is possible to see mental pictures, but I defy most people to shift complete away from the mental electricity of language. It is what we run on; our synapses firing would be little more than a jump start without the words to run the vehicle. Or would our lives be that dim without language?
As an English teacher, I have been conditioned to think that words our necessary to life. Perhaps they are. Perhaps not. They are for me. I am a word-lover. Learning new words thrills me. I like word games. I am especially crazy about etymology, which must drive my students crazy because I kind of force it down their throats. I often catch myself thinking deeply, perhaps a little too deeply, about a certain phrase or word, dwelling on them. Beyond all of my fancy for words is the necessity of words. They are our thoughts. As often as I can, I belabor a point Margaret Atwood made: writing is telepathy. In other words, the only way to get the contents of my mind to that of my audience is through these crazy sounds (or, in the case of writing, this arbitrary squiggles that stand for sounds), and, indeed, that is really how I access my information when it is inside of my head.
But I have begun to wonder about all of this. Is it true?
A few years ago (before I went to Japan?), I watched a program about a woman who works with cattle. She is a scientist who designs more humane ways to herd and slaughter animals. While I may take issue with the slaughter, I applaud her efforts to make them more humane. Anyway, her particular talent for this pursuit comes from the fact that as an autistic person, she claims to see in pictures. Lately, I stumbled upon her work again in the Ukiahi library. Her name is Dr. Temple Grandin. She says that her memories, her mind are not made up of words, but rather pictures that constantly run (and can be rerun) like a movie. This allows her to "replay" her thoughts and reexamine them from the cow's point of view. I am sure I am grossly understating this seemingly fantastic ability, but it is very intriguing to me.
I have no way of knowing if it is true. How could we? No one can go into another's mind, and precisely because of this, I can't even conceive of what Dr. Grandin means. My world is so bound and tied with words that thinking only (or mostly) in pictures is unfathomable to me. Surely we all have visual memory, but to have it dominate would represent a bold difference in my life. I am going to have to check out Dr. Grandin's book Thinking in Pictures.
This all brings me to wonder what my job is really about. Indeed, most humans are language-based thinkers, so my charge is to teach the young people of my community how best to use this vital tool. However, I wonder how much is necessary? How much is too much? Not that I want to change it, but could we change this language-heavy paradigm which very literally dominates our thinking, or is Dr. Grandin a reminder of some former epoch in human life when words were a smaller part of the thinking process? Clearly, if language is more socially created, as this question implies, it won out, probably, I would wager, due to its efficiency, but if language is/was social, could we go back (or, perhaps, more appropriately, switch our focus)? And if we could, would there be benefits from our changed perspective? Language, though, has components hardwired into the human psyche (as Chomsky & others), but, continuing the metaphor, when did that "upgrade" occur?
To get to the main question: why teach language if there are other thought processes out there that may (or may not) have important benefits. Do word lovers like me just push our language-centered world on others?
http://www.templegrandin.com/
But here I am. For some reason, I decided that right now I needed to return to blogging, that nothing mattered more to me than writing. I don't know why. I don't even have anything to say. Perhaps I just needed a little pontification to clear my mind...
At the English department meeting today, one of my colleagues related a story of a workshop on adapting lessons to fit the needs of English language learners at which the presenter told the group that language isn't necessary for thought. On hearing this, Mark left the meeting. (This act of defiance could have put him into some hot water, but he felt he had to leave in the face of such idiocy.) Her statement has made me wonder.
Language is so ingrained into us that I cannot conceive of the world with out. Literally. Of course, it is possible to see mental pictures, but I defy most people to shift complete away from the mental electricity of language. It is what we run on; our synapses firing would be little more than a jump start without the words to run the vehicle. Or would our lives be that dim without language?
As an English teacher, I have been conditioned to think that words our necessary to life. Perhaps they are. Perhaps not. They are for me. I am a word-lover. Learning new words thrills me. I like word games. I am especially crazy about etymology, which must drive my students crazy because I kind of force it down their throats. I often catch myself thinking deeply, perhaps a little too deeply, about a certain phrase or word, dwelling on them. Beyond all of my fancy for words is the necessity of words. They are our thoughts. As often as I can, I belabor a point Margaret Atwood made: writing is telepathy. In other words, the only way to get the contents of my mind to that of my audience is through these crazy sounds (or, in the case of writing, this arbitrary squiggles that stand for sounds), and, indeed, that is really how I access my information when it is inside of my head.
But I have begun to wonder about all of this. Is it true?
A few years ago (before I went to Japan?), I watched a program about a woman who works with cattle. She is a scientist who designs more humane ways to herd and slaughter animals. While I may take issue with the slaughter, I applaud her efforts to make them more humane. Anyway, her particular talent for this pursuit comes from the fact that as an autistic person, she claims to see in pictures. Lately, I stumbled upon her work again in the Ukiahi library. Her name is Dr. Temple Grandin. She says that her memories, her mind are not made up of words, but rather pictures that constantly run (and can be rerun) like a movie. This allows her to "replay" her thoughts and reexamine them from the cow's point of view. I am sure I am grossly understating this seemingly fantastic ability, but it is very intriguing to me.
I have no way of knowing if it is true. How could we? No one can go into another's mind, and precisely because of this, I can't even conceive of what Dr. Grandin means. My world is so bound and tied with words that thinking only (or mostly) in pictures is unfathomable to me. Surely we all have visual memory, but to have it dominate would represent a bold difference in my life. I am going to have to check out Dr. Grandin's book Thinking in Pictures.
This all brings me to wonder what my job is really about. Indeed, most humans are language-based thinkers, so my charge is to teach the young people of my community how best to use this vital tool. However, I wonder how much is necessary? How much is too much? Not that I want to change it, but could we change this language-heavy paradigm which very literally dominates our thinking, or is Dr. Grandin a reminder of some former epoch in human life when words were a smaller part of the thinking process? Clearly, if language is more socially created, as this question implies, it won out, probably, I would wager, due to its efficiency, but if language is/was social, could we go back (or, perhaps, more appropriately, switch our focus)? And if we could, would there be benefits from our changed perspective? Language, though, has components hardwired into the human psyche (as Chomsky & others), but, continuing the metaphor, when did that "upgrade" occur?
To get to the main question: why teach language if there are other thought processes out there that may (or may not) have important benefits. Do word lovers like me just push our language-centered world on others?
http://www.templegrandin.com/
Friday, June 22, 2007
Yann Martel VS Stephen Harper: The Battle for the North American Mind
For the past 8 weeks or so I have been following writer Yann Martel's (The Life of Pi) subtle, sarcastic and scrumptious toying with Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper. You can learn about this battle royale at Martel's site ( ) for yourself, but here is a quick summary. A few months ago, Martel and 49 other Canadian artists and recipients of arts grants helped celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Canadian Council for the Arts. Well, as it turned out the celebration was not so celebratory; for his description of the event, it seemed more perfunctory. The biggest slap in the face was the seeming disinterested to the Dubya of the North, Mr. Harper, who didn't even pay attention, much less speak at the ceremony.
Yann Martel is now set on proving a point. To draw attention to the lack of funding for, interest in, and passion for the Arts in North America, he has faced off against the inattentive PM by sending him a notable piece of writing every second Monday. So far, he has sent Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilych, Orwell's Animal Farm, Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Smart's By Grand Central Station I sat Down and Wept, and, most recently, the Indian holy text, The Bhagavad Gita. Martel has chosen this list of 5 books because they engender a sense of "stillness." I'm not sure exactly why he thinks these 5 seemingly disconnected lot hold the essence of stillness, but, instead, it seems he is saying ANY type of book, or, more generally, any type of art makes the consumer be still. To appreciate Art, we need to stand (or sit) back and let it flow over us. (Most television, however, doesn't seem to create stillness though because of its crazy-making pace and its connection to the advertisement and selling products.) A book, a paint, a symphonic piece requires the consumer to focus while simultaneously letting go.
Martel's gentle prodding at the Western mind by way of his famous target is reminiscent of another event a few weeks ago in which a small Mom-and-Pop used bookshop owner burned a warehouse full of books because no one would take them. The owner had too many books for his store, so he kept them in a large warehouse. Because book sales were going down, though, he was forced to get rid of some inventory. He tried to give the perfectly good used books to various agencies, charities and schools, but no one would take them. The bookseller decided to get a little Fehrenheit 451 and make a statement by destroying the books to point out just how little American (and, evidently, Canadian) culture cares for the Arts and for stillness.
It is sad that fewer people read for fun. Fewer people appreciate the Arts, which are now more accessible to the populace than ever. It makes me see that my job is that much more important, and as time wears on and the television drains its viewers minds, I have to make a special effort to help my kids see that Art--including books--is just as exciting, sexy, fun as TV but with something more...the still and beauty that Martel is trying to get Harper, and all of us, to see.
As a postscript; Harper has gotten back to Martel (3 or 4 weeks later) through his secretary. He (or rather she) sent a brief and insincere (?) thank you to the writer. The wording goes well with Harper's smug smile on the front page of Martel's site.
http://whatisstephenharperreading.ca/
Yann Martel is now set on proving a point. To draw attention to the lack of funding for, interest in, and passion for the Arts in North America, he has faced off against the inattentive PM by sending him a notable piece of writing every second Monday. So far, he has sent Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilych, Orwell's Animal Farm, Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Smart's By Grand Central Station I sat Down and Wept, and, most recently, the Indian holy text, The Bhagavad Gita. Martel has chosen this list of 5 books because they engender a sense of "stillness." I'm not sure exactly why he thinks these 5 seemingly disconnected lot hold the essence of stillness, but, instead, it seems he is saying ANY type of book, or, more generally, any type of art makes the consumer be still. To appreciate Art, we need to stand (or sit) back and let it flow over us. (Most television, however, doesn't seem to create stillness though because of its crazy-making pace and its connection to the advertisement and selling products.) A book, a paint, a symphonic piece requires the consumer to focus while simultaneously letting go.
Martel's gentle prodding at the Western mind by way of his famous target is reminiscent of another event a few weeks ago in which a small Mom-and-Pop used bookshop owner burned a warehouse full of books because no one would take them. The owner had too many books for his store, so he kept them in a large warehouse. Because book sales were going down, though, he was forced to get rid of some inventory. He tried to give the perfectly good used books to various agencies, charities and schools, but no one would take them. The bookseller decided to get a little Fehrenheit 451 and make a statement by destroying the books to point out just how little American (and, evidently, Canadian) culture cares for the Arts and for stillness.
It is sad that fewer people read for fun. Fewer people appreciate the Arts, which are now more accessible to the populace than ever. It makes me see that my job is that much more important, and as time wears on and the television drains its viewers minds, I have to make a special effort to help my kids see that Art--including books--is just as exciting, sexy, fun as TV but with something more...the still and beauty that Martel is trying to get Harper, and all of us, to see.
As a postscript; Harper has gotten back to Martel (3 or 4 weeks later) through his secretary. He (or rather she) sent a brief and insincere (?) thank you to the writer. The wording goes well with Harper's smug smile on the front page of Martel's site.
http://whatisstephenharperreading.ca/
Finally some time...
After more than a month away from writing here, I have finally found some time to get back to it. I am glad to be back. Please look for more posts in the near future.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Who am I?
It is a strange feeling having multiple identities.
I am not me, of course. The way I see myself is, most definitely, not what most people see. I will never really know what it is like to know myself from the outside; no can. The tiny universe I hold within my bubble of perception is only mine. The "me's" outside of me belong to the group that define them.
I have, at least, four "me's" outside my own private Me.
I was first "Christopher," the family me. This is the person defined, mostly by my parents and sister. This is the one know to my grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins and people known through my family. I feel comfortable with me, especially around my most immediate family. It is the me I have been for the longest. The one most clearly defined. A few friends also know this me, but not many. People who know me through my parents or sister or, even, my extended family know me as "Christopher."
I was, next, the friend and student, "Chris." My mom, I have been told, tried to kill this me when he first raised his head in Kindergarten. My teacher called me "Chris" on the first day of school, but my mom said, "His name is Christopher." But the family Christopher my mom tried to import into this setting couldn't last long in that alien environment. A new me, the one Mr. Zensen helped into life with his naming, was necessary and important. I am comfortable as "Chris," too. He is my main face. When I introduce myself, it is with this name. It is funny that when my family calls me by this name, by body physically reacts. I think, "I am not Chris to you..."
Of course, we all go through this process of the expanding self. We are all many people. We are all different in different situations, but my job has opened a new and strange facet of my person: Mr Douthit.
My students all know my first name, but they don't call me that. I am not just another guy to them; they have conferred on me some kind of respect. I don't know how I feel about this. The fact that I am their "Mr. Douthit," who they depend on for knowledge and, in a certain respect, protection is disconcerting. I am their model for a responsible adult, how to act and what to do. Being called "Mr. Douthit" has forced me to realize how separate my persons are.
I am both raunchy, joking "Chris," but I am also, much to my surprise even though I knew it was coming, "Mr. Douthit," with all that means. I am an adult, a respected adult, AND, at the same time, the boy that I will never stop being.
Strange. I know that "Christopher," "Chris," and "Mr. Douthit" will all live and thrive as long as there are people who call me these names, and I also know that I will also be new names someday: Dad, Grandpa....
I am not me, of course. The way I see myself is, most definitely, not what most people see. I will never really know what it is like to know myself from the outside; no can. The tiny universe I hold within my bubble of perception is only mine. The "me's" outside of me belong to the group that define them.
I have, at least, four "me's" outside my own private Me.
I was first "Christopher," the family me. This is the person defined, mostly by my parents and sister. This is the one know to my grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins and people known through my family. I feel comfortable with me, especially around my most immediate family. It is the me I have been for the longest. The one most clearly defined. A few friends also know this me, but not many. People who know me through my parents or sister or, even, my extended family know me as "Christopher."
I was, next, the friend and student, "Chris." My mom, I have been told, tried to kill this me when he first raised his head in Kindergarten. My teacher called me "Chris" on the first day of school, but my mom said, "His name is Christopher." But the family Christopher my mom tried to import into this setting couldn't last long in that alien environment. A new me, the one Mr. Zensen helped into life with his naming, was necessary and important. I am comfortable as "Chris," too. He is my main face. When I introduce myself, it is with this name. It is funny that when my family calls me by this name, by body physically reacts. I think, "I am not Chris to you..."
Of course, we all go through this process of the expanding self. We are all many people. We are all different in different situations, but my job has opened a new and strange facet of my person: Mr Douthit.
My students all know my first name, but they don't call me that. I am not just another guy to them; they have conferred on me some kind of respect. I don't know how I feel about this. The fact that I am their "Mr. Douthit," who they depend on for knowledge and, in a certain respect, protection is disconcerting. I am their model for a responsible adult, how to act and what to do. Being called "Mr. Douthit" has forced me to realize how separate my persons are.
I am both raunchy, joking "Chris," but I am also, much to my surprise even though I knew it was coming, "Mr. Douthit," with all that means. I am an adult, a respected adult, AND, at the same time, the boy that I will never stop being.
Strange. I know that "Christopher," "Chris," and "Mr. Douthit" will all live and thrive as long as there are people who call me these names, and I also know that I will also be new names someday: Dad, Grandpa....
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
An Exciting Day for a Nerd
Yesterday was a good day. The new Michael Chabon book, The Yiddish Policmen's Union, came out, and, being the nerd that I am, I reserved my copy (after checking various bookstores for the release date) and got it as soon as I possibly could.
I have only read a bit of it, but so far so good. I can't wait to have a little time to read some more.
After looking at it for a bit (and missing it a couple of times), I found that the book is a special signed copy. Cool! Now I have three signed books by Mr. Chabon...
I said I was a nerd, didn't I?
Monday, April 30, 2007
Feeling Sorry for the Dead
A few days ago, my wife told me, for the millionth time, how strange I am. What prompted her to again reiterate my uniqueness was that I said I felt sorry for Robert Louis Stevenson.
Robert Louis Stevenson is, as you may know, the famous author of such stories as The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Kidnapped, Treasure Island, and a small library of others. What many don't know about the man was that he spent nearly his entire life searching for a place where he could have good health. He was born sickly, as many people in the late 19th century were, and suffered, scholars think, from pneumonia and tuberculosis until his death in 1894. He was 44. (While they may have weakened him and led, indirectly, to his death, he did not die of these diseases. He died after straining to open a bottle of wine, which caused, most probably, a cerebral hemorrhage.)
I feel for him in his illness and how it drove him from his home. He loved Scotland very much, I have read, and he longed to go back to it as he neared death. It was the seat of his heart. I feel for how his illness confined him to a bed for a large percentage of his life. I see paintings and photographs of him. He looks so thin and fragile. I think, no one deserves such a life, such a sickness.
My wife says I am strange because, she claims, I often feel bad for people so distant from me.
I don't think that is why my sympathy for Stevenson makes me weird. My sympathy seems completely natural to me because I feel sadness about his illness. The thing that makes me weird, in this case, is that, really, he is everything I want to be despite his illness...
Robert Louis Stevenson was a writer, not only of renown but of great skill. He was not merely a romance writer, as many believe, but a man of sincere dedication to his craft and a keen observer of the everyday, especially in his later work. He was a world traveller, who chased his dreams and his desire to know, see, and experience life--even while being pursued by his illness and death. He focused his life on what was important to him and poured himself into his art. He stood up for what he thought was right and did his best to see that it happened.
I have traveled. I have written. I have, on occasion, stood up for what is right and good. But I have not dedicated my life to any of these things. I want to. I fear I never will. So, my desire to emulate Stevenson and embrace his romantic, lusty way of living perverts itself in my mind, and I fumble into the safest alternative emotion: sympathy.
I don't want to deny the feelings I have about Master Stevenson's illness, plight, and premature death; they are true and good. I also recognize, though, that they are linked to something deeper in myself: a drive wishing to be realized and acted upon in my life. A drive to dedicate myself to something I may never be great at, but that I love. A drive to leave caution behind and drive into the exotic parts of the world and my mind. A desire to leave fear behind.
My feelings about this topic have been complicated as tonight I looked over the myspace sites of some old friends and acquaintances who seem to be living their dreams, who have become moderately famous, who have become skilled craftspeople and artists. I feel that while I have done what some find impossible and reached many of my dreams, I am still struggling to find myself in the midst of my life. I am still swimming against the current as a writer who never writes, a teacher who is unsure of himself and his knowledge, and a man whose daily actions are at odds with the deepest desires of his heart and soul.
Someday I might learn what I really need to do to accomplish my next set of dreams. Or, more accurately, maybe someday I will find the courage to do what I already know I need to do, but am too scared/weak/unable to do. Maybe someday I will stop feeling sorry for the dead and myself, and I will actually move forward.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Experiments in Time
Two Mondays ago, I really felt the weight of the beginning the next work week. But like Atlas or Sisyphus, I accepted by burden and trudged forward. To my surprise, the day flew by, despite the tons upon my head. The next morning before classes, I met my friend and colleague, Kay, and I said to her, "It's already Tuesday!" As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I laughed and added, "That was a strange thing to say, wasn't it? Why would it 'already' be Tuesday? It's only the second day of the week!" I explained to her, as she smiled her always-benevolent smile, that I felt that as soon as we got through Tuesday, the week was felt as if it were over due to a strange half-day Wednesday we have at our school. She agreed. Then we decided to experiment. Throughout the week, we would check in and see if the week was really going as fast as we thought it was.
The week zoomed by.
On Friday after classes, we talked again. The week had gone by with incredible speed because we kept thinking and saying, "It's already..." This was the key. We weren't watching the pot boil, we were commenting on how it already had. I said, as I was leaving, "It's already summer!" We both laughed and joked about how we wished it were. Then, in my youthful impetuousness, I said, "It's already NEXT summer!" Kay, again with her angelic smile, said, "Not too fast. I'm old enough as it is." I laughed and walked out the door, thinking.
She was right. I was going too fast. It was like that stupid movie, Click, in which Adam Sandler's character moves ahead in his life and, in doing so, misses it. The movie was horrible, but the idea was correct, it seemed, from my real life application a similar concept. I walked back down to Kay's classroom (I have a habit of bothering my coworkers when they are trying to work), and explained all this to her. We talked and decided that the best course of action would be to take up an experiment in the opposite direction. Could we slow time as easily as we sped it? The next week we would try.
The week did creak by, but not in a bad way. Kay and I had decided the best way to keep things slow would be to enjoy and savor ever moment, to live in the now. We adopted a Zen mind in which the past was nothing more than what came before and the future was nothing but air in front of us. The NOW was the goal, the center, and the focus. It worked incredibly well. The week went by at a good pace...not too fast and, surprisingly, not too slow. By focusing on the now, it seemed that we were able to regulate time as we needed. The power of perception is an amazing thing.
I don't know if I will pay attention to time in the future as closely as I did last week. I don't know if I can handle the responsibility of working with time so closely. I feel almost as if I should go with the current of time--fast or slow--in any given situation instead of trying to work it. Perhaps that it just what we did l week because now, as I write, I realize that in the slow week, I didn't really pay all that much attention to the time, but rather just to the NOW. Maybe I can handle it, and I should. Maybe we all should.
It does seem to me, as I said here pondering the NOW, that the world would be a whole lot better if people weren't in such a hurry. If we could just enjoy this time to write, this time to eat a sandwich, this time to ___________. Perhaps I am in a place in my life now when/where I have stopped waiting for the next milestone, the next rite of passage, and I can just appreciate this place and how it looks, instead of trying to see over the horizon.
Wow. I think, that just now, I may have passed the biggest rite of passage of them all.
The week zoomed by.
On Friday after classes, we talked again. The week had gone by with incredible speed because we kept thinking and saying, "It's already..." This was the key. We weren't watching the pot boil, we were commenting on how it already had. I said, as I was leaving, "It's already summer!" We both laughed and joked about how we wished it were. Then, in my youthful impetuousness, I said, "It's already NEXT summer!" Kay, again with her angelic smile, said, "Not too fast. I'm old enough as it is." I laughed and walked out the door, thinking.
She was right. I was going too fast. It was like that stupid movie, Click, in which Adam Sandler's character moves ahead in his life and, in doing so, misses it. The movie was horrible, but the idea was correct, it seemed, from my real life application a similar concept. I walked back down to Kay's classroom (I have a habit of bothering my coworkers when they are trying to work), and explained all this to her. We talked and decided that the best course of action would be to take up an experiment in the opposite direction. Could we slow time as easily as we sped it? The next week we would try.
The week did creak by, but not in a bad way. Kay and I had decided the best way to keep things slow would be to enjoy and savor ever moment, to live in the now. We adopted a Zen mind in which the past was nothing more than what came before and the future was nothing but air in front of us. The NOW was the goal, the center, and the focus. It worked incredibly well. The week went by at a good pace...not too fast and, surprisingly, not too slow. By focusing on the now, it seemed that we were able to regulate time as we needed. The power of perception is an amazing thing.
I don't know if I will pay attention to time in the future as closely as I did last week. I don't know if I can handle the responsibility of working with time so closely. I feel almost as if I should go with the current of time--fast or slow--in any given situation instead of trying to work it. Perhaps that it just what we did l week because now, as I write, I realize that in the slow week, I didn't really pay all that much attention to the time, but rather just to the NOW. Maybe I can handle it, and I should. Maybe we all should.
It does seem to me, as I said here pondering the NOW, that the world would be a whole lot better if people weren't in such a hurry. If we could just enjoy this time to write, this time to eat a sandwich, this time to ___________. Perhaps I am in a place in my life now when/where I have stopped waiting for the next milestone, the next rite of passage, and I can just appreciate this place and how it looks, instead of trying to see over the horizon.
Wow. I think, that just now, I may have passed the biggest rite of passage of them all.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Poem In Your Pocket Day
April is National Poetry Month. To celebrate that, we have a little event at my school called Poem In Your Pocket Day. Throughout the day, we English teachers will accost students and ask them if they have a poem in their pocket. If they do, they can earn a little bit of extra credit. The poem can be a favorite they have read or something of their own creation. So, I will be carrying around my favorite poem today as well. It happens to be the source of my blog's title, so I thought that I would share it here...in my cyber pocket...as well.
"Ozymandias"
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said:—Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thank you, Mr. Shelley, for this gem.
And all you out there, why don't you slip a poem into your pocket, too, and even if no one asks to see it, you will know that you are carrying a little beauty with you all day long.
"Ozymandias"
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said:—Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thank you, Mr. Shelley, for this gem.
And all you out there, why don't you slip a poem into your pocket, too, and even if no one asks to see it, you will know that you are carrying a little beauty with you all day long.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The Environmentalist who is afraid of Nature
These past few days, I have been pulling ivy out of my backyard. My lovely wife started this project weeks ago, and while she was making headway, it was not going fast enough for her. To expedite things, she suggested we hire some of my students to come do it for a nominal fee. Being Mr. Cheap, I said, "Why don't I just start helping you? It will go twice as fast with two people." It has, and, frankly, I don't know why I wasn't helping before.
I like working in the yard, I have found. I often lose sight of that. But as I have been ripping and pulling the obnoxious, noxious weed from the ground, I have realized that I am scared of that which I hold as holy. I am afraid of Nature. Or, at least, I was.
I enjoy the feel the dirt on my hands and the sun on my back. The smell of freshly turned soil soothes me. The birds singing and wind rustling in the trees as I work is better than the sweetest music. I wonder at the sights as around me. However, as my senses thrill, I find my mind drawing them away from reverie and toward self-defense. I fear dropping ticks. I fear striking snakes. I fear the deadly bite of an unseen brown recluse. I fear the stealthy attack of a hungry mountain lion. These fears rush through me and drive away the enjoyment and serenity that being outdoors holds for most. Why?
1) Perhaps this is natural. Maybe my brain is reverting back to the survival mode of my ancestors. I mean, it isn't completely unhealthy to fear the beasts that lurk in the depths of the primordial woods. This fear is what brought our ancestors to a place where they could create the next generation. A dead man cannot reproduce. Indeed, nature and fear have a long documented history. Dante refers to the fear he feels in the woods in the beginning of the Divine Comedy. Before that, to the ancient Greeks, Nature was personified by the horned god Pan, whose name gives us the word "panic." There must be something to it.
2) Or perhaps this fear is the epitome of unnatural. Maybe I am just the product of the modern world in which humanity has cloistered itself indoors where it is safe, warm, and sterile. It is hard for Nature to kill someone who inhabits a world populated by TVs, DVD players and computers rather than spiders, snakes, and pumas. And I am not the worst case of the modernized man. I was raised in a rural area where I played and worked in the great outdoors. I romped in woods. I chopped wood in dense forests. I am not an urban boy who has never seen a tree. I have lived among them all of my life.
Why then am I afraid that nature will kill me at every step?
Perhaps it is what I have been exposed to. The media relates story of deadly puma attacks around the Bay Area and killer bees imported from Africa that will soon ravage the West Coast. They tell us of every danger that could possibly whisper fear into our ears. They build an Everest where only a hillock belongs, and I plant my flag in each and every peak in their fabricated range.
The point, I have learned, is that I need even more exposure to the real deal, not the image on the screen or the story on the page. The sensational, I need to remember, is what sells advertisements and increases circulation. Just by being out in the ivy, where spiders abound, I have come to be more at ease.
More than anything, I need to become comfortable with the fear that Nature instills, as it is, well, natural. The problem, exsacerbated by the media, is that Western society is so risk adverse. Everyone needs to hold someone accountable, but the fact is that no one can be held accountable for the acts of a dangerous world. I read an article recently about a girl who died on an Outward Bound trip in the wilds of Colorado or some other wild state. Her parents are now trying to sue the organization. I understand their rage and pain, but they (and the poor girl) must have known the risks involved with doing a trek through the middle of a wild desert in the summer. They can't hold Nature accountable, but should Outward Bound take the fall for the acts of the earth and the failings of a human body? I don't know.
I don't know, even, if I will ever stop fearing the world because, I guess, that is just who I am. However, the more I see that there is no way to stop the inevitable and that the more I go to the very heart of Nature--even if that nature is only my small plot of land, the more I will find my ease there. A relationship with anything needs to be cultivated and renewed.
I like working in the yard, I have found. I often lose sight of that. But as I have been ripping and pulling the obnoxious, noxious weed from the ground, I have realized that I am scared of that which I hold as holy. I am afraid of Nature. Or, at least, I was.
I enjoy the feel the dirt on my hands and the sun on my back. The smell of freshly turned soil soothes me. The birds singing and wind rustling in the trees as I work is better than the sweetest music. I wonder at the sights as around me. However, as my senses thrill, I find my mind drawing them away from reverie and toward self-defense. I fear dropping ticks. I fear striking snakes. I fear the deadly bite of an unseen brown recluse. I fear the stealthy attack of a hungry mountain lion. These fears rush through me and drive away the enjoyment and serenity that being outdoors holds for most. Why?
1) Perhaps this is natural. Maybe my brain is reverting back to the survival mode of my ancestors. I mean, it isn't completely unhealthy to fear the beasts that lurk in the depths of the primordial woods. This fear is what brought our ancestors to a place where they could create the next generation. A dead man cannot reproduce. Indeed, nature and fear have a long documented history. Dante refers to the fear he feels in the woods in the beginning of the Divine Comedy. Before that, to the ancient Greeks, Nature was personified by the horned god Pan, whose name gives us the word "panic." There must be something to it.
2) Or perhaps this fear is the epitome of unnatural. Maybe I am just the product of the modern world in which humanity has cloistered itself indoors where it is safe, warm, and sterile. It is hard for Nature to kill someone who inhabits a world populated by TVs, DVD players and computers rather than spiders, snakes, and pumas. And I am not the worst case of the modernized man. I was raised in a rural area where I played and worked in the great outdoors. I romped in woods. I chopped wood in dense forests. I am not an urban boy who has never seen a tree. I have lived among them all of my life.
Why then am I afraid that nature will kill me at every step?
Perhaps it is what I have been exposed to. The media relates story of deadly puma attacks around the Bay Area and killer bees imported from Africa that will soon ravage the West Coast. They tell us of every danger that could possibly whisper fear into our ears. They build an Everest where only a hillock belongs, and I plant my flag in each and every peak in their fabricated range.
The point, I have learned, is that I need even more exposure to the real deal, not the image on the screen or the story on the page. The sensational, I need to remember, is what sells advertisements and increases circulation. Just by being out in the ivy, where spiders abound, I have come to be more at ease.
More than anything, I need to become comfortable with the fear that Nature instills, as it is, well, natural. The problem, exsacerbated by the media, is that Western society is so risk adverse. Everyone needs to hold someone accountable, but the fact is that no one can be held accountable for the acts of a dangerous world. I read an article recently about a girl who died on an Outward Bound trip in the wilds of Colorado or some other wild state. Her parents are now trying to sue the organization. I understand their rage and pain, but they (and the poor girl) must have known the risks involved with doing a trek through the middle of a wild desert in the summer. They can't hold Nature accountable, but should Outward Bound take the fall for the acts of the earth and the failings of a human body? I don't know.
I don't know, even, if I will ever stop fearing the world because, I guess, that is just who I am. However, the more I see that there is no way to stop the inevitable and that the more I go to the very heart of Nature--even if that nature is only my small plot of land, the more I will find my ease there. A relationship with anything needs to be cultivated and renewed.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Response to Thang's post on the 100 mile diet
The beauty of the concept of eating locally is not what it limits, but what one gains from and gives to the community in which he or she may live. Indeed, I believe, more than anything, it is about creating a community through the most basic of human needs and desires. It builds community by safeguarding the environment in which we live, but also by supporting the local economy and reestablishing the connection to the earth that is being lost in the modern world. Fewer and fewer people know where their food comes from. Only 2% of Americans are farmers these days (as opposed to 20% fifty years ago). There is no progress in these numbers, only danger. Danger because the essence of life is now so foreign to many in the developed world and, most importantly, to young people. Eating locally protects this fragile link to the earth by, at the very least, letting people know where that last mouthful came from.
Over the last few years, I have tried to minimize my ecological footprint. I have become a vegetarian. I have tried to abstain from killing animals, which means, in turning, not buying leather or similar products. My vegetarianism is a product of various pieces of ethical reasoning, most important of which is that I think it is wrong to kill--anything. The second line of thinking is that it takes fewer resources to raise an acre of vegetables than it does to raise a beast for slaughter. If the world were better suited, this would mean that more people could eat. Of course, there are economic disparities that also stand in the way of such a plan coming to fruition, but I have made my metaphorical stand. I have also taken to transporting myself as much as possible under my own power; I am a proud cyclist. The next logical step is a combination of the two above changes: to somehow limit the amount of greenhouses pumped into the atmosphere in the conveyance of my food. The answer, simply put, must be to eat locally (as much as possible).
I have not reached my goal. Not by a long shot. I have grown accustom, like most of us in the developed world, to eating what I want when I want it. If I want a tomato in the dead of winter, goddamit I will have it. If I want a mango in the dead of winter, though no mango tree would survive in my environment let alone during the freezing winter, it will be mine. However, this is neither natural or beneficial. I all but negate the other choices I have made in life to sustain my need for out of season and exotic fruits and vegetables, not to mention the hundreds of other rare and foreign delicacies I ingest throughout the year.
Like all of my ecological (and thus spiritual) endeavors, the cultivation of my food must be as personal a matter as I can afford to make it. Therefore, Jenn and I have started a very small garden and laid the plans to expand it. We have also taken to buying organic food and WHEN POSSIBLE buying food from near our town. This is not always easy or possible. I still love mangos and bananas and other more tropical and exotic fare, but we are trying. This is the only thing that one can do.
I, with my limited expertise at automobile repair and construction, engineering, and fuel efficiency, cannot focus on creating a better means of transportation to help lessen the impact of foods' transport; all I can do is try to eat as consciously as possible. This includes thinking about the people out there in lands far from mine who toil on plantations and farms to harvest for a pittance. It is unreasonable to assume that anyone other than scientists specializing in these fields can make any headway in the complex task of mileage reform; to say otherwise, seems like a abdication of personal responsibility to me. It is all of our job, however, to monitor ourselves and our choices.
It is not regression that brings me to this point thinking. It is progress. I never thought of where my food came from three years ago. My thinking has matured and evolved. And I know that living in Northern California offers me many more dietary choices than someone in, say, Saskatoon at any given time, but, as I said, there is no hard rules about this in my mind. There is only an effort to be made.
Try to grow what you can. Try to buy what you can locally. Try to eat at home more. Try to cut processed food out of your diet. Just try. The trying is what makes the world a better place.
Over the last few years, I have tried to minimize my ecological footprint. I have become a vegetarian. I have tried to abstain from killing animals, which means, in turning, not buying leather or similar products. My vegetarianism is a product of various pieces of ethical reasoning, most important of which is that I think it is wrong to kill--anything. The second line of thinking is that it takes fewer resources to raise an acre of vegetables than it does to raise a beast for slaughter. If the world were better suited, this would mean that more people could eat. Of course, there are economic disparities that also stand in the way of such a plan coming to fruition, but I have made my metaphorical stand. I have also taken to transporting myself as much as possible under my own power; I am a proud cyclist. The next logical step is a combination of the two above changes: to somehow limit the amount of greenhouses pumped into the atmosphere in the conveyance of my food. The answer, simply put, must be to eat locally (as much as possible).
I have not reached my goal. Not by a long shot. I have grown accustom, like most of us in the developed world, to eating what I want when I want it. If I want a tomato in the dead of winter, goddamit I will have it. If I want a mango in the dead of winter, though no mango tree would survive in my environment let alone during the freezing winter, it will be mine. However, this is neither natural or beneficial. I all but negate the other choices I have made in life to sustain my need for out of season and exotic fruits and vegetables, not to mention the hundreds of other rare and foreign delicacies I ingest throughout the year.
Like all of my ecological (and thus spiritual) endeavors, the cultivation of my food must be as personal a matter as I can afford to make it. Therefore, Jenn and I have started a very small garden and laid the plans to expand it. We have also taken to buying organic food and WHEN POSSIBLE buying food from near our town. This is not always easy or possible. I still love mangos and bananas and other more tropical and exotic fare, but we are trying. This is the only thing that one can do.
I, with my limited expertise at automobile repair and construction, engineering, and fuel efficiency, cannot focus on creating a better means of transportation to help lessen the impact of foods' transport; all I can do is try to eat as consciously as possible. This includes thinking about the people out there in lands far from mine who toil on plantations and farms to harvest for a pittance. It is unreasonable to assume that anyone other than scientists specializing in these fields can make any headway in the complex task of mileage reform; to say otherwise, seems like a abdication of personal responsibility to me. It is all of our job, however, to monitor ourselves and our choices.
It is not regression that brings me to this point thinking. It is progress. I never thought of where my food came from three years ago. My thinking has matured and evolved. And I know that living in Northern California offers me many more dietary choices than someone in, say, Saskatoon at any given time, but, as I said, there is no hard rules about this in my mind. There is only an effort to be made.
Try to grow what you can. Try to buy what you can locally. Try to eat at home more. Try to cut processed food out of your diet. Just try. The trying is what makes the world a better place.
Not to be outdone
Well, I was reading my good friend Thang's blog today during my prep period at school, and I thought, "It isn't right that he is writing while I sit idly." That, of course, isn't exactly true. I am anything but idle. But if I am to be like my idols (Steinbeck, Stevenson, Chabon), I had better get writing. Hence the address of my little blog: finally writing something.
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