I was elated to receive the film in the “Pirates of the Caribbean” series for Christmas. Though it’s silly to admit, I’ve bought into the pirate craze. I play pirates with my boys (we even dress up). I collect Jack Sparrow memorabilia. On September 19, “Talk Like a Pirate Day,” I ‘treated’ my classes to a day of pirate lore and language. Now, I’m educated enough to know that all this is myth and fancy, that pirates were swarthy at best and certainly not a people to celebrate. Nonetheless, I find myself, for lack of a better word…hooked.
However, as smitten as I may be in my mainmast, there’s a form of piracy I have no truck with: plagiarism. This is vastly different from robbing and pillaging fellow vessels at sea. Plagiarism is the theft of ideas, and the very idea of it shivers me timbers.
I am an instructor of English Composition II, and in that capacity, I teach responsible use of credible source material. I spend hours on finding and evaluating resources, and we spend even more time insuring that all material is adequately incorporated and documented—giving a nod to the original source and inspiration of the student’s research paper. We cover other material in that course, but I consider this my greatest contribution to a student’s academic future, for they will be writing papers throughout college and then engaging in professional writing all their lives. It is my greatest contribution and also my highest duty to equip people to find good support and use it correctly.
All that said, every semester I find students who operate quite contrary to everything I hold dear. These individuals, well-versed in attributing material to its source and very well-aware of the consequences of not doing so, still cheat. I am most amazed and perturbed with those who cut and paste entire web pages to word processor, then submit the work as their own (without the least bit of editing or attention to detail). In academia, this is roughly equivalent to those “stupid criminal” reports and Darwin awards. In my class room, it is absolutely unforgivable and results in a failure in the course.
As astonishing as this may seem, students are not especially disinclined toward cheating. A recent survey reported 78% of high school students had engaged in copying, submitting others’ work as their own, or resorting to some new-fangled, high tech form of cheating employing text messaging or mobile phone photography. 75% of students in traditional classes admit they have cheated (Rowe, Cheating in Online Student Assessment: Beyond Plagiarism, 2004). Schools nationwide are finally ramping up to cope with this epidemic by recasting policy and procedure. Never one to think legislation or regulation is the answer, I am fishing for what truly may be a good fix.
To me, it seems to be a cultural issue. Not too long ago, illegal file sharing was in the news, for millions of songs were being shared via download without any royalties (the rough equivalent of acknowledgement in general) returning to the artists or industry. Even after being bombarded on the news with cases of individuals being fined and imprisoned, the practice of pirating music and other files runs rampant. People shrug it off, saying it’s no big deal and the likelihood of getting caught is minimal. I know one individual who brags that he has ‘ripped’ over 300 feature films off the Internet. One of my relatives claims to have over a gigabyte of illegally downloaded music on his mp3 player.
Even at play, our culture seems to vilify cheating. Over the holiday, I played a new board game based on a popular television show. Built right into the game were two versions of cheating, namely copying and peeking. Of course, media has always glamorized the criminal element, (like, oh, say…pirates) but when this gets so very close to the class room, and therefore my line of work, I become very attentive.
If it is a cultural phenomena, like childhood obesity, road rage, and abuse of mobile phones, then I feel it should first and best be addressed in the home. It surely should not be something that is neglected until college. Students who ‘get away with’ these practices for 20 years should not suddenly be brought to task. That makes no more sense to me than legislating the drinking age.
Education on plagiarism should begin, in my opinion, with young children. It should likely start with property rights and ownership, then progress to the ownership of ideas. Somewhere there, it seems, we all just turn a blind eye. Anyone with a patent or copyright, however, will be quick to tell you that an idea is in some ways tangible and in every way something that can be owned (and therefore stolen).
I suppose I should begin by lecturing my kids while we watch Captain Jack Sparrow stealing ships from the British Navy. I should wag a finger and nag my boys on ownership and honesty.
Maybe I will, after I watch it a few more times for fun.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
Christmas Eve
WOW was the forecast whacked or what!? (See previous blog on weathermen and their "accuracy") We have had an estimated 6 inches of snow over the weekend. I was out in western Kansas driving literally through a blizzard. I had to take a back road to avoid a highway closing, and on that back road, two semi's and two cars were stranded...but by and by we made it to my mother's farm, and now we're all tucked in back at my farm north of Wichita.
My mom used to collect what she called, 'Twas poems. Maybe I should write one for her. That used to really make her happy. (It's these strange little things that seem to matter.) She smoked like a chimney in the pickup on the way here, 5 hours on the road. If anyone is unfamiliar, I quit smoking again just last May, so it was something like wagging a raw steak in front of a dog all day long. Added to my frustration, my poor two year old had to gasp for air now and again. (It's not all that bad, she did crack the window...and I grew up with a cabin full of smoke always, everywhere we travelled...but I don't like exposing my boys to such things in such concentrations.) My mom has to smoke outside, in the 6 inches of snow, when she visits my place.
I have a picture of the family all sitting smoking on the couch at some holiday. All of them are dead now, save my mother.
I don't have anything against smoking. It's anyone's right to do things to their bodies as they please. I sometimes have issue with those who have issue with public smoking, all the second hand smoke scare. My argument used to be a wave of the hand and some statement about how it's gone on for generations...however, sometimes I wonder what concentrations of chemicals, what alien substances, etc. are in modern day cigs. If everyone grew and rolled their own, I would still have little issue with it.
But, back to this holiday. . . a personal perspective from my family. I was once married to a 'serious Christian' who's family more-fully appreciated and celebrated a faith-based Christmas, a Christ mass. That was a very different experience than the commercialized one I grew up with and that is being perpetuated for my boys. I'm none-too-sure I'm sold on either way of celebrating, but I'm all about having a celebration. If nothing else, it's family time and I'm not grading papers!
It was a good time to get together, but as the matriarchs pass on, it seems families are doing more insular, more immediate holidays. I miss the celebrations featuring 40 people. I miss a lot of things, but then, I'm getting older.
This is the most random post I've made here, much more in the style of my lesser-site posts at xanga, etc. Sorry.
My mom used to collect what she called, 'Twas poems. Maybe I should write one for her. That used to really make her happy. (It's these strange little things that seem to matter.) She smoked like a chimney in the pickup on the way here, 5 hours on the road. If anyone is unfamiliar, I quit smoking again just last May, so it was something like wagging a raw steak in front of a dog all day long. Added to my frustration, my poor two year old had to gasp for air now and again. (It's not all that bad, she did crack the window...and I grew up with a cabin full of smoke always, everywhere we travelled...but I don't like exposing my boys to such things in such concentrations.) My mom has to smoke outside, in the 6 inches of snow, when she visits my place.
I have a picture of the family all sitting smoking on the couch at some holiday. All of them are dead now, save my mother.
I don't have anything against smoking. It's anyone's right to do things to their bodies as they please. I sometimes have issue with those who have issue with public smoking, all the second hand smoke scare. My argument used to be a wave of the hand and some statement about how it's gone on for generations...however, sometimes I wonder what concentrations of chemicals, what alien substances, etc. are in modern day cigs. If everyone grew and rolled their own, I would still have little issue with it.
But, back to this holiday. . . a personal perspective from my family. I was once married to a 'serious Christian' who's family more-fully appreciated and celebrated a faith-based Christmas, a Christ mass. That was a very different experience than the commercialized one I grew up with and that is being perpetuated for my boys. I'm none-too-sure I'm sold on either way of celebrating, but I'm all about having a celebration. If nothing else, it's family time and I'm not grading papers!
It was a good time to get together, but as the matriarchs pass on, it seems families are doing more insular, more immediate holidays. I miss the celebrations featuring 40 people. I miss a lot of things, but then, I'm getting older.
This is the most random post I've made here, much more in the style of my lesser-site posts at xanga, etc. Sorry.
Monday, December 17, 2007
My modem's so slow...
How slow is it?
It's so slow, my coffee went cold while IE opened.
It's so slow, I watched a spider form a web while IE found Blogger.
It's so slow, I had time to think of all this and do a load of laundry while Blogger logged me in.
It's so slow, I grew a beard while it downloaded a file.
It's so slow, we conceived and birthed a baby before my online course opened.
(Give me a break, I'm normally pretty creative at this hour, but I've been mired in grading, complicated by non-compliant software, computers, etc.)
But seriously folks, I am on a satellite modem, not dial up. The company claims to be 30X faster than dial up. If that is true, I pity anyone on dial up. I spend hours a day on this, teaching online, and my beloved plans to become a virtual assistant. We'd better rethink such things if we cannot get better Internet access. DSL and cable have yet to thread their way to the hinterlands. Maybe HughesNet or one of the other providers of satellite access might be better? Maybe I need to have a test conducted on ours to see if there's a glitch? (Maybe I just need to quit complaining and be patient?)
Not so many years ago I sat in front of a monochromatic display of text only, teasing out articles and information from the Internet before it was so user friendly. Back then I did not mind a 10 minute lag; it gave me hang time. Maybe I should just pace myself around this primitive modem speed. Slow down and enjoy life a little.
*sigh*
That didn't help. I have grades due. The LMS for the online courses I teach shuts off at noon today, even though we have until tomorrow to submit grades! Nuts. I'd better get back to work.
It's so slow, my coffee went cold while IE opened.
It's so slow, I watched a spider form a web while IE found Blogger.
It's so slow, I had time to think of all this and do a load of laundry while Blogger logged me in.
It's so slow, I grew a beard while it downloaded a file.
It's so slow, we conceived and birthed a baby before my online course opened.
(Give me a break, I'm normally pretty creative at this hour, but I've been mired in grading, complicated by non-compliant software, computers, etc.)
But seriously folks, I am on a satellite modem, not dial up. The company claims to be 30X faster than dial up. If that is true, I pity anyone on dial up. I spend hours a day on this, teaching online, and my beloved plans to become a virtual assistant. We'd better rethink such things if we cannot get better Internet access. DSL and cable have yet to thread their way to the hinterlands. Maybe HughesNet or one of the other providers of satellite access might be better? Maybe I need to have a test conducted on ours to see if there's a glitch? (Maybe I just need to quit complaining and be patient?)
Not so many years ago I sat in front of a monochromatic display of text only, teasing out articles and information from the Internet before it was so user friendly. Back then I did not mind a 10 minute lag; it gave me hang time. Maybe I should just pace myself around this primitive modem speed. Slow down and enjoy life a little.
*sigh*
That didn't help. I have grades due. The LMS for the online courses I teach shuts off at noon today, even though we have until tomorrow to submit grades! Nuts. I'd better get back to work.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Snow Envy
WELL!
I guess I'll just have to start ignoring the weather reports. Earlier this week they forecast an inch of ice, which did not happen here. Then last night they were sure we'd get 7 inches of snow, and we barely have 3.
I can't say I envy those poor souls in Hutchinson who were layered with ice and now 7 or more inches of snow. I am glad I have my electricity and my tree limbs, too...
However, I surely do envy my buddy in Hays, KS, where they are reporting 13 inches of snow. All my remaining work for the college is at my side or online, so I say, let it snow! (I do, I suppose, have a fickle internet sat. receiver, and I might have to climb the roof with a broom if it snowed much...hmmm...)
My father used to report some impressive snowfall from his youth. He said it snowed over the cars so deeply one could only find them by the antenna...which, now that you mention it, would be a problem for many models these days w/the windshield-imbedded antenna. He claimed there were drifts so high one could sled right off the roof of the house, down a drift to the ground. Now that's some snow I could deal with.
This powderpuff stuff is just an annoyance, especially since it's virtually been promised by weathermen that it will all be gone well-before Christmas. (Which, given their track record, should mean we'll have a white Christmas!)
Back to grading. I want to get it all done so I can build snowforts with the boys in a couple days.
I guess I'll just have to start ignoring the weather reports. Earlier this week they forecast an inch of ice, which did not happen here. Then last night they were sure we'd get 7 inches of snow, and we barely have 3.
I can't say I envy those poor souls in Hutchinson who were layered with ice and now 7 or more inches of snow. I am glad I have my electricity and my tree limbs, too...
However, I surely do envy my buddy in Hays, KS, where they are reporting 13 inches of snow. All my remaining work for the college is at my side or online, so I say, let it snow! (I do, I suppose, have a fickle internet sat. receiver, and I might have to climb the roof with a broom if it snowed much...hmmm...)
My father used to report some impressive snowfall from his youth. He said it snowed over the cars so deeply one could only find them by the antenna...which, now that you mention it, would be a problem for many models these days w/the windshield-imbedded antenna. He claimed there were drifts so high one could sled right off the roof of the house, down a drift to the ground. Now that's some snow I could deal with.
This powderpuff stuff is just an annoyance, especially since it's virtually been promised by weathermen that it will all be gone well-before Christmas. (Which, given their track record, should mean we'll have a white Christmas!)
Back to grading. I want to get it all done so I can build snowforts with the boys in a couple days.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Advent Conspiracy: Spend less, Worship more
Regardless of your faith, you may find this engaging...I'd like to strip the holiday of consumerism!
Monday, December 10, 2007
Snow Day
I dread the dawn, and yet I cannot wait…literally, I can not wait—I went out a while ago with a flashlight to look at the ice sculptures. I’ve been amazed at tornado devastation and I’ve been belittled by sweltering heat waves. Living in Kansas, I’ve experienced most of weather’s wonders. None, however, are as marvelocious as the results of an ice storm. At once both beautiful and (for trees and travelers) deadly, these ice storms we’ve had at about 3 year intervals are quite the phenomena. I have hundreds of photos of ice art, and yet I’ve logged hundreds of hours picking up downed branches and helping people displaced by power outages. There’s little else in life so simultaneously malawesome, vileutiful, and grimorgeous. (Wordsmiths help me, I cannot quite peg this. There must be a word, or we must make one, that can embrace these extremes.)
I brace for how many branches will break.
Snow days are like February 29th or that mysteriously precious hour somewhere between springing forward and falling back. I am at once grateful, yet also adrift as if the atomic clock stopped tomming. The stark white reality of a whole day off, unexpected and uncharted, pinpricks my pupils—I squint at the awe of it. Like the blank page, it is yet unwritten, unspoken, un-done…in some ways overwhelming and yet there’s a just-rightness to it, too.
A day of grace. I am the condemned man, set to smolder in the electric chair, sated from my last hearty meal, smiling when the power goes out. I am the terminally ill patient who sloughs off my bedclothes for one more dance. I am the teacher who now can sleep, for I don’t have to make deadline to return 40 essays at dawn. (Whew)
I brace for how many branches will break.
Snow days are like February 29th or that mysteriously precious hour somewhere between springing forward and falling back. I am at once grateful, yet also adrift as if the atomic clock stopped tomming. The stark white reality of a whole day off, unexpected and uncharted, pinpricks my pupils—I squint at the awe of it. Like the blank page, it is yet unwritten, unspoken, un-done…in some ways overwhelming and yet there’s a just-rightness to it, too.
A day of grace. I am the condemned man, set to smolder in the electric chair, sated from my last hearty meal, smiling when the power goes out. I am the terminally ill patient who sloughs off my bedclothes for one more dance. I am the teacher who now can sleep, for I don’t have to make deadline to return 40 essays at dawn. (Whew)
100
Who would have thunk it?
Have I really had 100 moments to blog?
I think quitting smoking has given me more time for such things; then again, I am 7 postings behind from last year's count (still have a couple weeks to address that).
When I cruise over my entries, I am not impressed, but neither am I embarrassed, which was what I expected to feel when I first took up public blogging...then again, I have a very limited readership, so it's not so public...
As I have now managed 100 posts, I am going to now pledge to be a better blogger, a better member of the blogosphere. In that aim, I'm going to, say, write back. I'm going to post more comments. I'm going to be more engaged. Maybe I'll even get nervy enough to try a carnival or two.
If I'm going to put myself out here, I had just as well quit lurking and shirking. It's time to embrace cyberspace.
Have I really had 100 moments to blog?
I think quitting smoking has given me more time for such things; then again, I am 7 postings behind from last year's count (still have a couple weeks to address that).
When I cruise over my entries, I am not impressed, but neither am I embarrassed, which was what I expected to feel when I first took up public blogging...then again, I have a very limited readership, so it's not so public...
As I have now managed 100 posts, I am going to now pledge to be a better blogger, a better member of the blogosphere. In that aim, I'm going to, say, write back. I'm going to post more comments. I'm going to be more engaged. Maybe I'll even get nervy enough to try a carnival or two.
If I'm going to put myself out here, I had just as well quit lurking and shirking. It's time to embrace cyberspace.
"Negligible senescence"
I failed a Gullibility Test over at the Museum of Hoaxes this morning...one of the stumpers was related to Turtles...the question (# 5) was simply: Do turtles die of old age? The answer is, no, they do not! Their feedback to my mistaken answer included the following insights, which I have fact-checked with my biologist office mate (and he has a PhD!).
Turtles exhibit what is known as 'negligible senescence.' In other words, unlike humans, they do not continue to age once their bodies reach maturity. (This, compared to many people, who reach maturity in their bodies, though their brains never do.) In theory, they might be able to live forever, though in practice this would never happen. Injury, predation, or disease eventually kill them. But turtles have been known to live beyond 150 years without exhibiting any signs of old age. Fish and amphibians also share this enviable characteristic.
I've been around nearly 1/2 a decade, and yet I've never known of this...that's what I get for nodding off in Biology. It reminds me of all the fantasy novels I've read, where some wizard or crone is 100's of years old--not so fanciful anymore, eh? I wonder if scientists have been trying to figure out a way to isolate/capture this trait, so that we might live longer/better lives? Surely so. I wonder if, as a side effect, one would smell fishy? Would it be worth it--to stink, be covered in scales, live in muck--if it meant 'eternal life' or at least a longer life? I've always shunned the healthy lifestyle crowd, since I've always been under the assumption that even the cleanest livin' can't twart old age.
If we can figure out what makes the turtle tick, however...
Turtles exhibit what is known as 'negligible senescence.' In other words, unlike humans, they do not continue to age once their bodies reach maturity. (This, compared to many people, who reach maturity in their bodies, though their brains never do.) In theory, they might be able to live forever, though in practice this would never happen. Injury, predation, or disease eventually kill them. But turtles have been known to live beyond 150 years without exhibiting any signs of old age. Fish and amphibians also share this enviable characteristic.
I've been around nearly 1/2 a decade, and yet I've never known of this...that's what I get for nodding off in Biology. It reminds me of all the fantasy novels I've read, where some wizard or crone is 100's of years old--not so fanciful anymore, eh? I wonder if scientists have been trying to figure out a way to isolate/capture this trait, so that we might live longer/better lives? Surely so. I wonder if, as a side effect, one would smell fishy? Would it be worth it--to stink, be covered in scales, live in muck--if it meant 'eternal life' or at least a longer life? I've always shunned the healthy lifestyle crowd, since I've always been under the assumption that even the cleanest livin' can't twart old age.
If we can figure out what makes the turtle tick, however...
Sunday, December 09, 2007
What is it with KINGS?
What could be more unsettling than being awakened (or rolling over to face) the Burger King? I find this whole presence disturbing. I know he's a pop icon, a marketing sensation, an unforgettable image...in fact, I have a bobble head of him at my desk, right now.
Nonetheless, I find him to be creepy. I found a mask of the King at Walgreens this fall, and I almost purchased it. What would I have done with it, you may ask? I don't really know...mount it on the wall? Wear it in bed to freak out my wife? Commit crimes in it to defame the character of the King? Parade around all day expecting to be worshipped? (Er...scratch that....that's every day.)
I missed my chance to blog on this around Halloween, when all-things-creepy are in vogue. I suppose it came back to mind since I am in grading mode, for this is a peculiar time of year when everything creepy seems to haunt me. I get a bit edgy, giddy, and some say grumpy about this time of the academic year.
Nonetheless, I find him to be creepy. I found a mask of the King at Walgreens this fall, and I almost purchased it. What would I have done with it, you may ask? I don't really know...mount it on the wall? Wear it in bed to freak out my wife? Commit crimes in it to defame the character of the King? Parade around all day expecting to be worshipped? (Er...scratch that....that's every day.)
I missed my chance to blog on this around Halloween, when all-things-creepy are in vogue. I suppose it came back to mind since I am in grading mode, for this is a peculiar time of year when everything creepy seems to haunt me. I get a bit edgy, giddy, and some say grumpy about this time of the academic year.Think of the other Kings we've been exposed to in marketing... wasn't there some cereal king? I remember King Vitamin, but was that a cereal or something else?
We shall close our day feeling royal.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Beat It, Just Beat It
I just watched a video on Drum Therapy which reminded me of all the ways I have benefitted from drumming. Though I may not have autism, dyslexia, or ADD, I do have my issues, and 'tis true: drumming seems to soothe the savage beast.
This time of year, for example, when money is tight, tensions are high, spirits are low, and grading is overwhelming--THIS is prime time for me to break out my drums and flail away. My boys love to pound on drums, sing, and dance, so I think I've made myself a resolution for this week...not only to blog daily (anyone noticed?) but also to drum daily. Maybe that will help me overcome some of what ails me this holiday.
I'll report back on this, in January.
This time of year, for example, when money is tight, tensions are high, spirits are low, and grading is overwhelming--THIS is prime time for me to break out my drums and flail away. My boys love to pound on drums, sing, and dance, so I think I've made myself a resolution for this week...not only to blog daily (anyone noticed?) but also to drum daily. Maybe that will help me overcome some of what ails me this holiday.
I'll report back on this, in January.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Oceanfront property in Arizona...
I am seeking ways to capitalize on my property--that's right, I'm ready to whore out 11 acres to the most lucrative offer. This is, if you know me, contrary to my nature. I was always one to think that our most treasured possessions do not have a price. I valued my privacy, my space, my "land."
Well, I am ready to sunset such thoughts in favor of more profitable performance metrics. In other words, I've recently joined the fiscally challenged and now know I must survive.
I am eager to find any and every way to make a buck from some ground. I have 4 acres of untouched pasture, and I have another 4 acres of what seems to be ready-for-crop (like hay). I am mostly considering something like an orchard, but I know that takes eons for a return on investment.
If you are considering making a suggestion, realize that I do live in central Kansas, where the weather is unpredictable, the seasons moderate, and the soil is about average.
I told the wife it would be most profitable to raise some herb, or poppies maybe, but she just gave me that look.
I don't want to completely sell out, turning my acres into a trailer park or a puppy mill. I wish I could find some environmentally friendly and responsible ways to turn a buck. There's got to be some website with "ideas for your acres" but I've yet to find it.
Again, in the words of Stanley Johnson, "Somebody help me."
Well, I am ready to sunset such thoughts in favor of more profitable performance metrics. In other words, I've recently joined the fiscally challenged and now know I must survive.
I am eager to find any and every way to make a buck from some ground. I have 4 acres of untouched pasture, and I have another 4 acres of what seems to be ready-for-crop (like hay). I am mostly considering something like an orchard, but I know that takes eons for a return on investment.
If you are considering making a suggestion, realize that I do live in central Kansas, where the weather is unpredictable, the seasons moderate, and the soil is about average.
I told the wife it would be most profitable to raise some herb, or poppies maybe, but she just gave me that look.
I don't want to completely sell out, turning my acres into a trailer park or a puppy mill. I wish I could find some environmentally friendly and responsible ways to turn a buck. There's got to be some website with "ideas for your acres" but I've yet to find it.
Again, in the words of Stanley Johnson, "Somebody help me."
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Reality Checker
Sometimes I act more like an anthropologist than a parent.
I find the interaction between my kids and their environment to be amazing. It's equally marvelous watching them interact with one-another.
There are times, however, when I must intervene. One of them will be jumping up and down on the other's stomach, or they will be torturing the beagle, or they may get a little crazy with the Christmas lights...it's a daily challenge.
For me, the challenge is to step up and be the parent.
I really am torn on this. I notice how my 5 yr old is radically different than he was at 2 or 4, and I realize often that I've influenced his changes. He will sit quietly until a commercial now, when before he had no regard for television programming. He apologizes for farts, burps and other bodily functions that he used to revel in. He is introspective and self-loathing sometimes; other times he instructs his brothers in the ways of the world--ways I wish no one had to learn, like to beware of bullies in the play place or to question the department store Santa.
I wish I was not in the role of parent, for I often regret having enlightened my sons. I really do wish we could talk with animals or fly to the moon. I wish uncle would come play for unlimited hours and that we would not need to sleep--ever. I wish it was possible to live on a diet of pop and PBJ's.
Alas, I am all-too-often the voice of sensibility, the harbinger of hard times, bringing the reality check. "No, you can't eat the Play-dough; it might make you sick."
If I stop and think about it for too long, I can get VERY GLOOMY. To chronicle and catalog every instance of dampening their spirits--now that's depressing.
Of course, there seems no alternative. If I did not remind them to put on their shoes, they might catch cold outside. If I were to let them believe everyone on earth will love and befriend them, then sooner or later, they'll get their noses bloodied. It's my job to 'look out' for them and give them direction and advice.
It's the toughest job I've every had.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
What's the Greatest Invention of all-time?
I know this has been done before, that the question is likely old as the Internet, but I'm seeking nominations/explanations for what might be considered the greatest invention of all-time.
Play by the rules. A good working definition of "invention" from American Heritage dictionary, for starters: Invention: 1. The act or process of inventing: used a technique of her own invention. 2. A new device, method, or process developed from study and experimentation: the phonograph, an invention attributed to Thomas Edison. 3. A mental fabrication, especially a falsehood.
Note also that the timeframe is "all-time." The "greatest" is completely up for grabs; does this mean the greatest for mankind (like the beer launching refrigerator) or for the planet, or should one employ a more esoteric "greatest"? That, my friends, is up to you.
Whet your whistle with what some seventh graders thought...ideas range from spear tips to 'marrying a princess.' (A spirited discussion follows in the comments, there, too.) Need more inspiration? Check out this site, Patent Silly, which keeps an on-going record of patents that make you go, "huh?"
I will reply to this post, myself, since I don't know the "below the fold" fancy way to manage my postings yet--with the intention of not jading your response, I may even wait a few days.
Play by the rules. A good working definition of "invention" from American Heritage dictionary, for starters: Invention: 1. The act or process of inventing: used a technique of her own invention. 2. A new device, method, or process developed from study and experimentation: the phonograph, an invention attributed to Thomas Edison. 3. A mental fabrication, especially a falsehood.
Note also that the timeframe is "all-time." The "greatest" is completely up for grabs; does this mean the greatest for mankind (like the beer launching refrigerator) or for the planet, or should one employ a more esoteric "greatest"? That, my friends, is up to you.
Whet your whistle with what some seventh graders thought...ideas range from spear tips to 'marrying a princess.' (A spirited discussion follows in the comments, there, too.) Need more inspiration? Check out this site, Patent Silly, which keeps an on-going record of patents that make you go, "huh?"
I will reply to this post, myself, since I don't know the "below the fold" fancy way to manage my postings yet--with the intention of not jading your response, I may even wait a few days.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Seven things about me
I am constantly disclosing too much here, anyway, but I'm going to go ahead and respond to Blog Meridian's all-call for 7 random things.
1. Multiple personality/career inventory assessments in high school (even college) suggested that I become a barber. I did consider it, but I did not want to stand up all day long.
2. I spent a sleepless night sharing a motel bed with a felon once in Limon, Colorado. (Some other blog, maybe I'll recount the whole story.) In short, I was stranded, rooming with two deputized ranchers from Utah who were returning this gent from Florida (where he had fled) to Utah for sentencing. Throughout the night I had no idea what his crime had been--murder? rape? some heinous act of violence?
3. On the timeline of my life, times and choices, the bankruptcy of our family farm in 1980 was likely the biggest turning point/crisis (next to deaths of loved ones) I have ever faced. It changed everything.
4. One of my all-time favorite films is a goofy movie, "My Favorite Year," starring Peter O'Toole and Mark Linn-Baker. One scene late in the film, when Alan Swan (O'Toole) has lost his resolve, is always a tear-jerker for me (this, in a comedy). Benji Stone, (Linn-Baker) essentially tells Swan that heroes, even sensationalized silver screen ones, are essential. He says something like, "I need my heroes as big as they come."
5. As I was writing this blog post, we had a false-alarm fire drill. They do that in this building, for it is attached to a high school.
6. I spent just enough time in a coal mine (one afternoon) to conclude that it was not the job for me--Mina Esmerelda, in Mexico. We were fully-rigged out, from coveralls to those cool miner's hats with lights (they really DO come in handy), and we toured deep within a mine. Back at the surface, it took literal days to wash all the coal dust from my pores, eyes, etc. Memorable!
7. I used to eat onions like apples. We had a truck farming operation and would swap loads of cantaloupes for other fruit/vegetables raised in Texas. One winter we had a truck load of onions in our outbuilding and I developed a taste for the yellow onion. (I have since lost that taste!)
This is a good exercise; try it yourself and pass it on. Let me know where yours is posted.
1. Multiple personality/career inventory assessments in high school (even college) suggested that I become a barber. I did consider it, but I did not want to stand up all day long.
2. I spent a sleepless night sharing a motel bed with a felon once in Limon, Colorado. (Some other blog, maybe I'll recount the whole story.) In short, I was stranded, rooming with two deputized ranchers from Utah who were returning this gent from Florida (where he had fled) to Utah for sentencing. Throughout the night I had no idea what his crime had been--murder? rape? some heinous act of violence?
3. On the timeline of my life, times and choices, the bankruptcy of our family farm in 1980 was likely the biggest turning point/crisis (next to deaths of loved ones) I have ever faced. It changed everything.
4. One of my all-time favorite films is a goofy movie, "My Favorite Year," starring Peter O'Toole and Mark Linn-Baker. One scene late in the film, when Alan Swan (O'Toole) has lost his resolve, is always a tear-jerker for me (this, in a comedy). Benji Stone, (Linn-Baker) essentially tells Swan that heroes, even sensationalized silver screen ones, are essential. He says something like, "I need my heroes as big as they come."
5. As I was writing this blog post, we had a false-alarm fire drill. They do that in this building, for it is attached to a high school.
6. I spent just enough time in a coal mine (one afternoon) to conclude that it was not the job for me--Mina Esmerelda, in Mexico. We were fully-rigged out, from coveralls to those cool miner's hats with lights (they really DO come in handy), and we toured deep within a mine. Back at the surface, it took literal days to wash all the coal dust from my pores, eyes, etc. Memorable!
7. I used to eat onions like apples. We had a truck farming operation and would swap loads of cantaloupes for other fruit/vegetables raised in Texas. One winter we had a truck load of onions in our outbuilding and I developed a taste for the yellow onion. (I have since lost that taste!)
This is a good exercise; try it yourself and pass it on. Let me know where yours is posted.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Why bother?
This year, I wish there were no holiday--no xmas music, no lights, no decorations, no gifts...
I would like the time off, but otherwise, just forget about it.
I know it's good for kids to get all giddy about Santa and toys and that it's wholesome to celebrate with family. I know the whole Christian aspect of the celebration of the birth of Jesus. Considering all that, I'm sure I'll get out-voted in my household, but for me, who cares.
I'm still in my annual funk over my dad's premature death (4 yrs ago, Thanksgiving) and then I'm also swamped with grading the work of people who just want an "A" and don't care otherwise. There are finanical unmentionables that are more burdensome than all that, even, which seem to be leading to the loss of my little farm. *sigh* So while everyone else may be whistling "Deck the Halls" and guzzling eggnog, I say, I'd rather punt.
I would like the time off, but otherwise, just forget about it.
I know it's good for kids to get all giddy about Santa and toys and that it's wholesome to celebrate with family. I know the whole Christian aspect of the celebration of the birth of Jesus. Considering all that, I'm sure I'll get out-voted in my household, but for me, who cares.
I'm still in my annual funk over my dad's premature death (4 yrs ago, Thanksgiving) and then I'm also swamped with grading the work of people who just want an "A" and don't care otherwise. There are finanical unmentionables that are more burdensome than all that, even, which seem to be leading to the loss of my little farm. *sigh* So while everyone else may be whistling "Deck the Halls" and guzzling eggnog, I say, I'd rather punt.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Balance
There seems endless applications of this video to life--especially MY life about now. Watch and share!
Saturday, December 01, 2007
What matters most
I once thought the most valuable commodity was comic books. I traded my entire collection for cash, which I then spent on a locket for a girl who I had never spoken to (she had her friend give it back to me). Through that one episode, my value system was challenged, and the quake has never settled. I feel reverberations now and again, whenever I am surprised at what passes for the commodity of value de jur.
Money seemed to be the tool of trade. If I saved enough pop bottles to trade in, I could have money to buy stuff. If I gave hours of my life to riding on a tractor, I could buy the ubiquitous “stuff” that everyone else had. If I got a good price for the wheat on my acreage, I could buy a new car. It seemed to be a liquid system of value and trade, and it seemed ideal…That was, at least, until I learned it was simply paper and tokens representing value. Ah, then I discovered credit, and with that, I built empires on the sands of shifting values.
Much later, I discovered that money and credit are both just manifestations of the trade of real, tangible goods. The barter system that commerce and capitalism were built on was a trade of true goods, physical things. In my journey, I soon came to understand that reality was the stock n’ trade of a true down-to-earth value system. Some real things we depended on were becoming scarce. I had always valued (like everyone else) gold and diamonds. I thought they were rare, but eventually I learned that diamond brokers keep the stock of diamonds bottlenecked, to simulate scarcity and drive up the price.
Now it appears people are starting to do the same with other true natural resources, and at the same rate as the diamond merchants. Take oil, for example—through an ever-increasing dependence on oil, we have come to see it as an essential. You cannot eat or drink oil, but we consider it just as vital as food or water. This value system has been manipulated to the point that we now pay $100 per barrel of oil; I’ve seen it triple in my short years. The truth is, we don’t really need oil nor diamonds nor gold. We need the essentials, like food, shelter, air and water.
It is slow coming, but the attentive will realize that even these are beginning to be rationed out and attributed with cash value. As the ‘green movement’ becomes more and more vocal, so will the value system’s appreciation for air and water. Consider taxes assessed against those who pollute air; pro-rate the cost of a bottle of water to a gallon of gasoline. See? It’s already underway.
Now, this has been the long way around, but I would offer that the thinking man, the man stripped to little-more than conscience, might well even exist without any of the above, or at least with a very Spartan amount, provided he had time.
To me, or in keeping with this theme, ‘for my money,’ there is no resource to be held of a higher value than time. Again, though it may be cumbersome, I’m going to take the time here to set aside a few misconstructions. The time I am referring to is not that silly little metronomic “tick-tocking” measure we associate with clocks. Throw everything you know about these out the window, from sundials to atomic clocks—gone. The clock, and all it measures for that matter, are just our own primitive ways of trying to track time, to wrap our heads around it. Likewise, all the ridiculous ways we think we are manipulating time, from a time-out to a time change—these are not what I am referencing at all.
It’s worth noting, however, that the money changers have been drooling over time for some time. Consider the humble parking meter, doling out time for coin. I would wager that every conceivable association has been made to making time commercial, from punishing people by restricting their time in jail to prolonging one’s lifetime through exuberantly overpriced medical practices.
Philosophers and historians have had a heyday with time, offering some truly mind-bending and unanswerable questions. Was there, for instance, time before history? Can there be a history of the future? One definition cites time as the future passing through the present into the past. Once I begin to dwell on all these things, I think I maybe chose the wrong major a couple decades ago. Addressing all that philosophizing is beyond me, here and now, but worth a mental bookmark.
I would simply suggest that time, maybe “lifetime,” to keep it manageable, is something taken for granted. I foresee it as becoming more and more the object of our corporate affection (and affectations) as the baby boomers bust. As I age, a byproduct of time, I realize the value of time more and more. Now that I have my own kids, that all seems to build compound interest for me. Time cannot be contained—I know this from my toe-dip into the time continuum, the philosophies of time, and the struggles I’ve had with time management. What one can do, however, is to “bend” time.
There are theories on the hard science of the reality of this, from worm holes to quarks, but I am using my own slang here when writing of bending time. You might call it nostalgia or reflection, meditation, scrapbooking or simply remembering. To me, to bend time is to be hyper-conscious of it. Then one can almost play out a moment in slow motion, view it from multiple angles, even stop action. I am, of course, making allusions to the film industry and DVD playback features. (An aside, but a good one—see Adam Sandler’s movie Click, for it is an entire movie toying with the bending of time, and it has a great message, too.) To bend time is to acknowledge it, then also to appreciate it. Take an intentional, forced “time-out” of your own volition. See time for what it is.
I am not recommending hallucinogenic drugs nor Salvidor Dali, here. There’s no need to strum a guitar, sing Kumbaya, or spark up the hookah here. Put the needle to some vinyl and put on an old cardigan sweater, for all I care. Sing Christmas medleys with Bing Crosby, if that works for you.
I am just urging us all (myself included) to “take some time” this holiday season, appreciate one-anothers’ presence as much as the presents. Take an extra picture or two, maybe have some family time to remember days-gone-by. At a personal level, I highly recommend a visit to futureme.org, where you can send yourself an email, to be delivered to yourself at some time you designate in the future.
Bend some time, sometime, and you’ll think you lived longer, at least for a moment.
Money seemed to be the tool of trade. If I saved enough pop bottles to trade in, I could have money to buy stuff. If I gave hours of my life to riding on a tractor, I could buy the ubiquitous “stuff” that everyone else had. If I got a good price for the wheat on my acreage, I could buy a new car. It seemed to be a liquid system of value and trade, and it seemed ideal…That was, at least, until I learned it was simply paper and tokens representing value. Ah, then I discovered credit, and with that, I built empires on the sands of shifting values.
Much later, I discovered that money and credit are both just manifestations of the trade of real, tangible goods. The barter system that commerce and capitalism were built on was a trade of true goods, physical things. In my journey, I soon came to understand that reality was the stock n’ trade of a true down-to-earth value system. Some real things we depended on were becoming scarce. I had always valued (like everyone else) gold and diamonds. I thought they were rare, but eventually I learned that diamond brokers keep the stock of diamonds bottlenecked, to simulate scarcity and drive up the price.
Now it appears people are starting to do the same with other true natural resources, and at the same rate as the diamond merchants. Take oil, for example—through an ever-increasing dependence on oil, we have come to see it as an essential. You cannot eat or drink oil, but we consider it just as vital as food or water. This value system has been manipulated to the point that we now pay $100 per barrel of oil; I’ve seen it triple in my short years. The truth is, we don’t really need oil nor diamonds nor gold. We need the essentials, like food, shelter, air and water.
It is slow coming, but the attentive will realize that even these are beginning to be rationed out and attributed with cash value. As the ‘green movement’ becomes more and more vocal, so will the value system’s appreciation for air and water. Consider taxes assessed against those who pollute air; pro-rate the cost of a bottle of water to a gallon of gasoline. See? It’s already underway.
Now, this has been the long way around, but I would offer that the thinking man, the man stripped to little-more than conscience, might well even exist without any of the above, or at least with a very Spartan amount, provided he had time.
To me, or in keeping with this theme, ‘for my money,’ there is no resource to be held of a higher value than time. Again, though it may be cumbersome, I’m going to take the time here to set aside a few misconstructions. The time I am referring to is not that silly little metronomic “tick-tocking” measure we associate with clocks. Throw everything you know about these out the window, from sundials to atomic clocks—gone. The clock, and all it measures for that matter, are just our own primitive ways of trying to track time, to wrap our heads around it. Likewise, all the ridiculous ways we think we are manipulating time, from a time-out to a time change—these are not what I am referencing at all.
It’s worth noting, however, that the money changers have been drooling over time for some time. Consider the humble parking meter, doling out time for coin. I would wager that every conceivable association has been made to making time commercial, from punishing people by restricting their time in jail to prolonging one’s lifetime through exuberantly overpriced medical practices.
Philosophers and historians have had a heyday with time, offering some truly mind-bending and unanswerable questions. Was there, for instance, time before history? Can there be a history of the future? One definition cites time as the future passing through the present into the past. Once I begin to dwell on all these things, I think I maybe chose the wrong major a couple decades ago. Addressing all that philosophizing is beyond me, here and now, but worth a mental bookmark.
I would simply suggest that time, maybe “lifetime,” to keep it manageable, is something taken for granted. I foresee it as becoming more and more the object of our corporate affection (and affectations) as the baby boomers bust. As I age, a byproduct of time, I realize the value of time more and more. Now that I have my own kids, that all seems to build compound interest for me. Time cannot be contained—I know this from my toe-dip into the time continuum, the philosophies of time, and the struggles I’ve had with time management. What one can do, however, is to “bend” time.
There are theories on the hard science of the reality of this, from worm holes to quarks, but I am using my own slang here when writing of bending time. You might call it nostalgia or reflection, meditation, scrapbooking or simply remembering. To me, to bend time is to be hyper-conscious of it. Then one can almost play out a moment in slow motion, view it from multiple angles, even stop action. I am, of course, making allusions to the film industry and DVD playback features. (An aside, but a good one—see Adam Sandler’s movie Click, for it is an entire movie toying with the bending of time, and it has a great message, too.) To bend time is to acknowledge it, then also to appreciate it. Take an intentional, forced “time-out” of your own volition. See time for what it is.
I am not recommending hallucinogenic drugs nor Salvidor Dali, here. There’s no need to strum a guitar, sing Kumbaya, or spark up the hookah here. Put the needle to some vinyl and put on an old cardigan sweater, for all I care. Sing Christmas medleys with Bing Crosby, if that works for you.
I am just urging us all (myself included) to “take some time” this holiday season, appreciate one-anothers’ presence as much as the presents. Take an extra picture or two, maybe have some family time to remember days-gone-by. At a personal level, I highly recommend a visit to futureme.org, where you can send yourself an email, to be delivered to yourself at some time you designate in the future.
Bend some time, sometime, and you’ll think you lived longer, at least for a moment.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
...And I shall name him "Drew"
Some while back I admitted to naming my PC's after game show hosts. Upon my return to campus this fall, now some 15 weeks ago, I was rewarded with a new computer (this, part of the 3 year cycle of replacement hardware). Alarming as it is to just now realize it, I have never gotten around to naming this new, swank model.
Let it be now known, my computer shall henceforth be named Drew, and by the name of Drew shall it be known. This, of course, is in honor of a newly anointed and quite talented game show host, Drew Carey, who has been host of not only "Who's Line Is It, Anyway," "The Power of Ten," and most recently "The Price Is Right."
Let it be now known, my computer shall henceforth be named Drew, and by the name of Drew shall it be known. This, of course, is in honor of a newly anointed and quite talented game show host, Drew Carey, who has been host of not only "Who's Line Is It, Anyway," "The Power of Ten," and most recently "The Price Is Right."
Readin'
I wrote the following for a little newspaper editorial column, some time back, but was inspired to post it here after reading this report of a study by the NEA on reading.
I have learned something astonishing: a person can read something, even under the pressure of reading aloud to peers, and not comprehend it. What must be happening is roughly equivalent to sounding out notes but missing the whole song.
This has happened frequently in my class. Initially, I just worried that I was assigning too much homework. It seemed people could just be coming off of a reading assignment, even a small in-class one, and when tested, they demonstrated no more knowledge of the work than would someone who had never read the material! That led me to critiquing my test, assuming that surely the fault must be my own. Was I asking for something too obscure? Were my questions too vague? I even adapted an assignment where I had students raise their own questions over a current reading—I would compile the questions, issue them as a comprehension test and--? Remarkably, even on questions they had generated themselves, the scores were less-than-flattering.
A few who know this column might attribute such a curiosity to the student body of a community college…this was, however, happening in a 400 level engineering course I taught at Kansas State University some time back.
At my present institution, I’ve gone to more in-class, out loud readings. I often model these myself, to demonstrate good inflection and delivery. I may even assign a reading for students to do at home before they are to be read aloud, hoping that their practice would make for improved in-class performance. Sadly, all-too-often what is read sounds as if it is coming from text-to-speech conversion software.
What has happened to our state of education when college students cannot comprehend what they are reading? Is it because the textbook dzn’t rd lk text messaging?
I make an effort to explain to everyone just how complicated our system of communication is. I teach them to realize that we are straining to put thought into words; then these written words are merely sound symbols organized in a way to reflect speech patterns and phonemes we all agree on in a given language. I advise them that there are discrepancies in spelling—this happens any time a language has more sounds than symbols. I demonstrate that punctuation is underrated by sharing two nearly identical texts punctuated differently and thus generating completely different messages. I generally attempt to prime the pump on an assigned reading by issuing thought questions or some other motivational trickery to get them to be attentive readers.
None of the above really matters, for the most part. People read what they are interested in, and at the college level, I often doubt we can force active, attentive reading skills on anyone. This is a pity, for students miss out on some exposure to keen ideas (even when reading aloud to class, they often miss the point). What I find even more defeating is when a student reads his/her own work aloud with the same lackluster, mindless monotone. It’s as if all the personality were extracted from the work read and from the soul of the reader.
I personally find reading to be a very special and peculiar enterprise. I experience it as an act of voyeurism—as a reader, I’m processing whatever the writer put into print…I’m seeing into his/her mind. I approach reading as vicariously experiencing whatever the writer put forward, whether it’s a swashbuckling adventure or a diatribe on teen drinking.
Too often, I find people are reading merely as a task. They are reading every word, but they are only doing so as a chore and with the sole objective of getting to the other side, the end of the chapter. When executed in this fashion, yes, they have laid eyes on every word, but they have not contextualized nor applied those words to any cognitive hooks in their heads. Reading is, from my vantage point, an associative skill. That is to say, one learns by associating new ideas to ones already on file in the mind. When either the mind has empty file cabinets or the mindset of the reader is muddy and less-than-eager to make associations—to say nothing of the myriad distractions surrounding us when making the transaction—then comprehension is forfeited.
In the days before print media, retention and comprehension were accomplished in two potent ways: story telling and song. While my students cannot seem to make heads nor tails of Jonathan Swift, they can decipher and repeat back endless rap lyrics. Those lyrics are memorable because they are rhythmic and because their content has some immediate relevance to the listener. They bounce off my deaf ears in the same way an audio rendition of “A Modest Proposal” might be largely missed by my students. When a message is wrapped in a parable, or for modern audiences, a movie, then it may likely be remembered and better understood.
Chalk it up to laziness or apathy. I will not again point the finger to multi-media making us into passive consumers of information. I will offer this, however: we need to reclaim the art and skill of reading. We need to press it, practice it, and promote it. I am seeing enjoying the written word fade from prominence in my own little lifetime. Some day it will be an antiquated luxury to engage one’s imagination in the written word. It may be likened to making one’s coffee from grinding one’s own beans or harvesting produce from one’s own garden. Why bother, when we can get it all canned?
Why indeed.
Behold!
Changes in punctuation can complete invert meaning:
Dear John,
I want a man who knows what love is all about. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. People who are not like you admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me for other men. I yearn for you. I have no feelings whatsoever when we’re apart. I can be forever happy—will you let me be yours?
Gloria
Dear John,
I want a man who knows what love is. All about you are generous, kind, thoughtful people who are not like you. Admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me. For other men, I yearn. For you, I have no feelings whatsoever. When we’re apart, I can be forever happy. Will you let me be?
Yours,
Gloria
I have learned something astonishing: a person can read something, even under the pressure of reading aloud to peers, and not comprehend it. What must be happening is roughly equivalent to sounding out notes but missing the whole song.
This has happened frequently in my class. Initially, I just worried that I was assigning too much homework. It seemed people could just be coming off of a reading assignment, even a small in-class one, and when tested, they demonstrated no more knowledge of the work than would someone who had never read the material! That led me to critiquing my test, assuming that surely the fault must be my own. Was I asking for something too obscure? Were my questions too vague? I even adapted an assignment where I had students raise their own questions over a current reading—I would compile the questions, issue them as a comprehension test and--? Remarkably, even on questions they had generated themselves, the scores were less-than-flattering.
A few who know this column might attribute such a curiosity to the student body of a community college…this was, however, happening in a 400 level engineering course I taught at Kansas State University some time back.
At my present institution, I’ve gone to more in-class, out loud readings. I often model these myself, to demonstrate good inflection and delivery. I may even assign a reading for students to do at home before they are to be read aloud, hoping that their practice would make for improved in-class performance. Sadly, all-too-often what is read sounds as if it is coming from text-to-speech conversion software.
What has happened to our state of education when college students cannot comprehend what they are reading? Is it because the textbook dzn’t rd lk text messaging?
I make an effort to explain to everyone just how complicated our system of communication is. I teach them to realize that we are straining to put thought into words; then these written words are merely sound symbols organized in a way to reflect speech patterns and phonemes we all agree on in a given language. I advise them that there are discrepancies in spelling—this happens any time a language has more sounds than symbols. I demonstrate that punctuation is underrated by sharing two nearly identical texts punctuated differently and thus generating completely different messages. I generally attempt to prime the pump on an assigned reading by issuing thought questions or some other motivational trickery to get them to be attentive readers.
None of the above really matters, for the most part. People read what they are interested in, and at the college level, I often doubt we can force active, attentive reading skills on anyone. This is a pity, for students miss out on some exposure to keen ideas (even when reading aloud to class, they often miss the point). What I find even more defeating is when a student reads his/her own work aloud with the same lackluster, mindless monotone. It’s as if all the personality were extracted from the work read and from the soul of the reader.
I personally find reading to be a very special and peculiar enterprise. I experience it as an act of voyeurism—as a reader, I’m processing whatever the writer put into print…I’m seeing into his/her mind. I approach reading as vicariously experiencing whatever the writer put forward, whether it’s a swashbuckling adventure or a diatribe on teen drinking.
Too often, I find people are reading merely as a task. They are reading every word, but they are only doing so as a chore and with the sole objective of getting to the other side, the end of the chapter. When executed in this fashion, yes, they have laid eyes on every word, but they have not contextualized nor applied those words to any cognitive hooks in their heads. Reading is, from my vantage point, an associative skill. That is to say, one learns by associating new ideas to ones already on file in the mind. When either the mind has empty file cabinets or the mindset of the reader is muddy and less-than-eager to make associations—to say nothing of the myriad distractions surrounding us when making the transaction—then comprehension is forfeited.
In the days before print media, retention and comprehension were accomplished in two potent ways: story telling and song. While my students cannot seem to make heads nor tails of Jonathan Swift, they can decipher and repeat back endless rap lyrics. Those lyrics are memorable because they are rhythmic and because their content has some immediate relevance to the listener. They bounce off my deaf ears in the same way an audio rendition of “A Modest Proposal” might be largely missed by my students. When a message is wrapped in a parable, or for modern audiences, a movie, then it may likely be remembered and better understood.
Chalk it up to laziness or apathy. I will not again point the finger to multi-media making us into passive consumers of information. I will offer this, however: we need to reclaim the art and skill of reading. We need to press it, practice it, and promote it. I am seeing enjoying the written word fade from prominence in my own little lifetime. Some day it will be an antiquated luxury to engage one’s imagination in the written word. It may be likened to making one’s coffee from grinding one’s own beans or harvesting produce from one’s own garden. Why bother, when we can get it all canned?
Why indeed.
Behold!
Changes in punctuation can complete invert meaning:
Dear John,
I want a man who knows what love is all about. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. People who are not like you admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me for other men. I yearn for you. I have no feelings whatsoever when we’re apart. I can be forever happy—will you let me be yours?
Gloria
Dear John,
I want a man who knows what love is. All about you are generous, kind, thoughtful people who are not like you. Admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me. For other men, I yearn. For you, I have no feelings whatsoever. When we’re apart, I can be forever happy. Will you let me be?
Yours,
Gloria
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
I'm finally an American
According to most statistics encountered, the average American is something like $8000 in debt on credit cards, owes too much on a mortgage, is head-over-heels on car loans, and in general, cannot make ends meet. No wonder so many people are on medication for depression. Due to a major change in our income stream, I've been feeling a bit like Stanley Johnson, the "I'm in debt up to my eyeballs" character from Lending Tree commercials.
Fortunately, there are many at work at reversing this crisis. One notable folk hero is Rev. Billy, who has just enough flim in his flam to mesmerize me. One of my regrets in life is that I have yet to see him and his choir in person, in action....and I missed them on tour in 2005 as close as Lawrence.
Fortunately, there are many at work at reversing this crisis. One notable folk hero is Rev. Billy, who has just enough flim in his flam to mesmerize me. One of my regrets in life is that I have yet to see him and his choir in person, in action....and I missed them on tour in 2005 as close as Lawrence.
He is the leader of the Church of Stop Shopping. They hold rallies nationwide to protest consumerism, gluttony, etc. They have a good time modelling after the fire and brimstone charismatic church, all-the-while delivering what I consider to be a potent message.
Likewise, there are campaigns to stop shopping that I admire and participate in (whenever my wife does not undermine it) like Buy Nothing Day, celebrated of course on black Friday. I encourage everyone to get involved by doing absolutely nothing. :)
All the campaigning in the world seems to be moot, for I have the feeling we're on an irreversible downward spiral. So much of our identity, our culture, even our politics--all about the Benjamins.
*sigh*
I struggle with my family, hoping to reverse this awful urge so that they might not end up the same way. Unfortunately, even my boys are barraged with TV commercials and other ads, with people buying them worthless things, with happy meal toys, with their beloved cartoon characters on product boxes and labels...What hope do they have?
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Revived! On Mobile Phones
Back to public blogging after a month off--I'd blame it on grading, but I've found virtually every creative way around that. Most of my blogging has been sophomoric venting on my other, personal blog(s) that I have set to private.
What, you might ask, brings me back to Musement Park?
CELL PHONES, or more accurately, mobile phones.
What better to muse over than what it might be that's so damn important?
I spent over 40 years of my life without an electronic leash. I will admit, I went through phases and fads, from the CB radio in my Grand Prix to those mall-walker walkie-talkies...in fact, my first mobile communication device was a walkie talkie on the farm, a shoebox-sized thing that we would use to relay the progress of irrigation from the tail to the head of the furrow.
However, I have never been so into my mobile phone that I've, say, had a car wreck, walked into the wrong classroom by mistake, etc. In just the last year I've witnessed some very bizarre mobile phone behavior that bears mention here. Muse over this: What conversation could be so compelling that a girl could go into the men's room, complete her whole transaction there, talking all-the-while, and not even notice she was in the wrong place until she was on her way out? What urgent news must be causing these student's phones to ring throughout a 50 minute class period? What would be so very important to a student that they would risk the potential humiliation and public ridicule I might subject them to for using their mobile device to text or talk during my class? How connected does one need to be?
These people are not working on the stock exchange. They are not (usually) landing big contracts or drug deals. I don't really think any of them are in such great demand for their wit or wisdom...
...and isn't it unhealthy, and just a bit creepy, to be so very up the ass or in the ear of your friends and family? Sometimes a little distance is a good thing. Absence can make the heart grow fonder, you know. I am not suggesting anything outrageous, just that a person might conduct their business for the span of a bowel movement without being needed or needy. It would be nice (and I think sane) to be able to survive 50 minutes or even a 3 hr class block without being 'in touch' with whomever is on the other end of the connection.
What ever happened to paying for the air time? That would solve this whole problem, by damn, and it would make the mobile providers RICH, too. Maybe I'm just old school, but I wish we could return to those times when a call had to be precious, or at least a person had to mince and measure every minute.
Recently a young woman was sitting in the hall at work (at this college o'mine) speaking on her phone with her significant other. The discussion had become heated. In just the length of time I passed her, I heard her saying, "Okay, then. If that's what you need, I'll just cut [out of class] and come hump [editor's euphemism] you. 'That make you happy?" Now, to me, this would be a rather private conversation, but she was shouting it out in a public hallway with no mind to anyone overhearing her. This is not the only instance of such content I've heard in passing. (Mind you, I am not even TRYING to eavesdrop, one of my favorite hobbies...these folks are just laying it out there for all the world to hear.)
I think, somehow, people think their conversations are self-contained in little bubbles around their heads. They seem to really think no one other than the intended party is listening (or can even hear). I cannot explain this thinking, but it seems to prevail.
Don't they realize that not only are those in their immediate surroundings hearing their end of the call, but also the entire conversation is likely monitored by our friendly Big Brothers of the Patriot Act ilk? One false slip of the tongue, one tripped up "I got bombed" to sound like "I got bombs" and then where would our little cell phone conversationalist be? It is, sadly, a creepy world when our calls can be monitored electronically as well as simply overheard.
I have read recently of some paint with metal fibers that can thwart any mobile phone's signal. I would like to coat every classroom, office, hallway...hell, the world...with this stuff.
Mobile phones are rumored to cause cancer, too!
Oh, and do not get me started on the hands-free 'bluetooth' devices!
Rant out.
What, you might ask, brings me back to Musement Park?
CELL PHONES, or more accurately, mobile phones.
What better to muse over than what it might be that's so damn important?
I spent over 40 years of my life without an electronic leash. I will admit, I went through phases and fads, from the CB radio in my Grand Prix to those mall-walker walkie-talkies...in fact, my first mobile communication device was a walkie talkie on the farm, a shoebox-sized thing that we would use to relay the progress of irrigation from the tail to the head of the furrow.
However, I have never been so into my mobile phone that I've, say, had a car wreck, walked into the wrong classroom by mistake, etc. In just the last year I've witnessed some very bizarre mobile phone behavior that bears mention here. Muse over this: What conversation could be so compelling that a girl could go into the men's room, complete her whole transaction there, talking all-the-while, and not even notice she was in the wrong place until she was on her way out? What urgent news must be causing these student's phones to ring throughout a 50 minute class period? What would be so very important to a student that they would risk the potential humiliation and public ridicule I might subject them to for using their mobile device to text or talk during my class? How connected does one need to be?
These people are not working on the stock exchange. They are not (usually) landing big contracts or drug deals. I don't really think any of them are in such great demand for their wit or wisdom...
...and isn't it unhealthy, and just a bit creepy, to be so very up the ass or in the ear of your friends and family? Sometimes a little distance is a good thing. Absence can make the heart grow fonder, you know. I am not suggesting anything outrageous, just that a person might conduct their business for the span of a bowel movement without being needed or needy. It would be nice (and I think sane) to be able to survive 50 minutes or even a 3 hr class block without being 'in touch' with whomever is on the other end of the connection.
What ever happened to paying for the air time? That would solve this whole problem, by damn, and it would make the mobile providers RICH, too. Maybe I'm just old school, but I wish we could return to those times when a call had to be precious, or at least a person had to mince and measure every minute.
Recently a young woman was sitting in the hall at work (at this college o'mine) speaking on her phone with her significant other. The discussion had become heated. In just the length of time I passed her, I heard her saying, "Okay, then. If that's what you need, I'll just cut [out of class] and come hump [editor's euphemism] you. 'That make you happy?" Now, to me, this would be a rather private conversation, but she was shouting it out in a public hallway with no mind to anyone overhearing her. This is not the only instance of such content I've heard in passing. (Mind you, I am not even TRYING to eavesdrop, one of my favorite hobbies...these folks are just laying it out there for all the world to hear.)
I think, somehow, people think their conversations are self-contained in little bubbles around their heads. They seem to really think no one other than the intended party is listening (or can even hear). I cannot explain this thinking, but it seems to prevail.
Don't they realize that not only are those in their immediate surroundings hearing their end of the call, but also the entire conversation is likely monitored by our friendly Big Brothers of the Patriot Act ilk? One false slip of the tongue, one tripped up "I got bombed" to sound like "I got bombs" and then where would our little cell phone conversationalist be? It is, sadly, a creepy world when our calls can be monitored electronically as well as simply overheard.
I have read recently of some paint with metal fibers that can thwart any mobile phone's signal. I would like to coat every classroom, office, hallway...hell, the world...with this stuff.
Mobile phones are rumored to cause cancer, too!
Oh, and do not get me started on the hands-free 'bluetooth' devices!
Rant out.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Paternity
There once was a time when the simple owning-up-to-donating-sperm-toward-a-life, biological paternity, would have sent me into a frenzy. Now, fatherhood--parenthood--is my passion. Once I worried about my legacy--perhaps in print, prison records, or some heinous artistic expression--and I watched my P's and Q's accordingly (sometimes attending far too much to my pints and quarts, but that's another entry). Now, my legacy is my family, and I often double think what I say, write, and do in relation to how they may be molded by it now or how they may interpret it after I'm gone.
Yesterday, my 3 sons helped us paint interior rooms of our home. "Us" included a guy named Kyle, who was once (8-10 years ago) my little brother from Big Brothers/Sisters...and Kyle's wife. Several times I chided and joked with my boys, even called one a dork now and again, and I've since thought about that...are they going to have a complex, am I belittling them, when we are all joking and playing and one of these less-than-flattering words is bandied about?
On the otherhand, they are getting to paint with us. When my dad remodeled our home, even though I was a teenager for part of it, I was not invited and did not participate in any way in any aspect of the work. My boys have been swinging hammers (sometimes at each other, I admit) since they could heft them. Yesterday, though their work was not "finish work" per se, they did contribute meaningfully and they did have fun.
I think about what my boys have done with me that I have no memory of doing with my father, and the list is very long. It includes, but is not limited to: painting, cooking, computer games, go-cart driving, "big adventures," trips to the hardware store...
I guess I could be doing worse.
Yesterday, my 3 sons helped us paint interior rooms of our home. "Us" included a guy named Kyle, who was once (8-10 years ago) my little brother from Big Brothers/Sisters...and Kyle's wife. Several times I chided and joked with my boys, even called one a dork now and again, and I've since thought about that...are they going to have a complex, am I belittling them, when we are all joking and playing and one of these less-than-flattering words is bandied about?
On the otherhand, they are getting to paint with us. When my dad remodeled our home, even though I was a teenager for part of it, I was not invited and did not participate in any way in any aspect of the work. My boys have been swinging hammers (sometimes at each other, I admit) since they could heft them. Yesterday, though their work was not "finish work" per se, they did contribute meaningfully and they did have fun.
I think about what my boys have done with me that I have no memory of doing with my father, and the list is very long. It includes, but is not limited to: painting, cooking, computer games, go-cart driving, "big adventures," trips to the hardware store...
I guess I could be doing worse.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Edutainment
"Edutainment (also educational entertainment or entertainment-education) is a form of entertainment designed to educate as well as to amuse....The noun edutainment is a neologistic portmanteau coined by Bob Heyman while producing documentaries for the National Geographic Society" ...so says Wikipedia.
Guilty as charged. I have long known that I had a tendency to hype class up a bit, that it was as much the thrill of entertaining as the product of enlightenment that kept me coming back to the classroom. I did not have a word for it, before now, and even armed with this word, I cannot decide quite how to come to terms with this...issue.
On the one hand, I feel guilty, like an entertainer who will work extra hard for applause--in that respect my instructional delivery might be deemed a self-serving opportunity to perform for a captive audience.
On the other hand, not only is there a word for it, there is an entire pedagogy developing around the thought that learning can be fun. Acknowledging the education field is full of -isms and ideologies, this one more, new stratagem can't be any worse than, say, "brain-based learning."
I wish I could take myself and my subject so seriously that I would deliver content more droll and monotonous than Ben Stein could ever muster--yet it would be so full of truth and be so very valuable that people would knock down my door to enroll in my classes. That would be some content! Instead, realizing that some people have a predisposition against my field, I tend to joke around and make the content as viable, current, and entertaining as possible. The outcome may be that I'm a goofy clown, or it may be that students learn more--I lack the skill to assess that and the ability to distance myself from my delivery. (I do know, however, that I hate watching myself on tape!)
Debate on edutainment branches far beyond the classroom. Recently I took my boys to Exploration Place, a children's museum. There was an exhibit of giant, motorized bugs on display--sure to make an impression. The literature, staff, and signage were excellent at clarifying that the scorpion was 28 times actual size, etc...but I wonder how many little kids really grasp that. Will they live in fear of a praying mantis looming over their bed? Will they grow up with a complex, never able to secure a big-enough fly swatter? I think the sensationalism that museums are now being forced to pump out has to be tempered with fact and clarified repeatedly once the clientele is in the door gawking at the life-sized woolly mammoth, etc.
It is the same, I think, with class. So long as the truth, the facts, the writing styles and models are shared fairly, I am inclined to say that it can be conveyed by someone with a rainbow colored afro and a red bulbous nose. Consider how, say, Patch Adams was able to build better rapport with patients through the use of humor. Consider how we all remember the little "Conjunction Junction" ditty. Yes, I think edutainment has its place, and I admit to being a practitioner of said pedagogy...but I'm still somewhat ashamed of it and always curious as to the effectiveness of it.
It's as old as parables, yet modernization allows one to incorporate online interactivity, YouTube and even SecondLife. I've been scheming up a design for offering a communications course inside SecondLife, and my avatar lives on an Education Island as I write.
One of my best friends, however, suggests I live my life and practice my profession as if there were no technological bells and whistles. He says the day will come when it will be revealed that all this technology was mere smoke and mirrors. He forecasts that this revelation will come all-too-late for those of us in the biz of edutainment. Old school profs, like himself, will carry the torch while folks like me will be dumbstruck with the harsh realities of the fleshworld.
I hope I'm not that consumed with bells and whistles. I hope he's wrong, too, that we can co-exist without bursting anyone's bubble. I guess until his gloomy forecast comes true, I will poke around and do my best.
Guilty as charged. I have long known that I had a tendency to hype class up a bit, that it was as much the thrill of entertaining as the product of enlightenment that kept me coming back to the classroom. I did not have a word for it, before now, and even armed with this word, I cannot decide quite how to come to terms with this...issue.
On the one hand, I feel guilty, like an entertainer who will work extra hard for applause--in that respect my instructional delivery might be deemed a self-serving opportunity to perform for a captive audience.
On the other hand, not only is there a word for it, there is an entire pedagogy developing around the thought that learning can be fun. Acknowledging the education field is full of -isms and ideologies, this one more, new stratagem can't be any worse than, say, "brain-based learning."
I wish I could take myself and my subject so seriously that I would deliver content more droll and monotonous than Ben Stein could ever muster--yet it would be so full of truth and be so very valuable that people would knock down my door to enroll in my classes. That would be some content! Instead, realizing that some people have a predisposition against my field, I tend to joke around and make the content as viable, current, and entertaining as possible. The outcome may be that I'm a goofy clown, or it may be that students learn more--I lack the skill to assess that and the ability to distance myself from my delivery. (I do know, however, that I hate watching myself on tape!)
Debate on edutainment branches far beyond the classroom. Recently I took my boys to Exploration Place, a children's museum. There was an exhibit of giant, motorized bugs on display--sure to make an impression. The literature, staff, and signage were excellent at clarifying that the scorpion was 28 times actual size, etc...but I wonder how many little kids really grasp that. Will they live in fear of a praying mantis looming over their bed? Will they grow up with a complex, never able to secure a big-enough fly swatter? I think the sensationalism that museums are now being forced to pump out has to be tempered with fact and clarified repeatedly once the clientele is in the door gawking at the life-sized woolly mammoth, etc.
It is the same, I think, with class. So long as the truth, the facts, the writing styles and models are shared fairly, I am inclined to say that it can be conveyed by someone with a rainbow colored afro and a red bulbous nose. Consider how, say, Patch Adams was able to build better rapport with patients through the use of humor. Consider how we all remember the little "Conjunction Junction" ditty. Yes, I think edutainment has its place, and I admit to being a practitioner of said pedagogy...but I'm still somewhat ashamed of it and always curious as to the effectiveness of it.
It's as old as parables, yet modernization allows one to incorporate online interactivity, YouTube and even SecondLife. I've been scheming up a design for offering a communications course inside SecondLife, and my avatar lives on an Education Island as I write.
One of my best friends, however, suggests I live my life and practice my profession as if there were no technological bells and whistles. He says the day will come when it will be revealed that all this technology was mere smoke and mirrors. He forecasts that this revelation will come all-too-late for those of us in the biz of edutainment. Old school profs, like himself, will carry the torch while folks like me will be dumbstruck with the harsh realities of the fleshworld.
I hope I'm not that consumed with bells and whistles. I hope he's wrong, too, that we can co-exist without bursting anyone's bubble. I guess until his gloomy forecast comes true, I will poke around and do my best.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Observed
What with all the hubbub lately over Senator Larry Craig, I may be a bit more aware of bathroom etiquette than usual...but I've sure seen some strange things this week.
Write your name in feces! Why would someone do anything with their waste but flush it? Maybe I'm conservative or old school on this one, maybe repressed in my upbringing or something, but it seems a bit odd to me. Above all else, why would one be so proud as to ascribe their name on the stall wall, and yet do it with poop?
Tall voyeurs lurk. (Women may not be able to relate to this one...) Toilet stalls are in men's rooms for work to be done sitting down. Other acts should be done at the urinal. I know some people have bashful bladder and need the security of a stall to accomplish their tasks; however, it's just creepy when especially tall men choose to urinate in an adjacent stall. All too often there is some uncomfortable exchange, "Hey, how's it goin'" when eye contact is made over the top of the stall. Why are they standing over there, and why are they looking down here? It's just odd.
Mobile Phone madness. Not only have I heard people regularly converse while in a stall doing their business, but I've also heard those conversations punctuated with grunting, panting, and other sounds that accompany the work to be done in the stall. I would not want to be on the phone with someone thus engaged. Why do people insist on talking on their mobile phones while they are otherwise so busy?
....and today, the most peculiar observation of late...
I had to make a visit to the high school "BOYS" restroom, for the one in my building was out of commission. This alone brought back eerie memories of fighting, of pissing contests, and of many unmentionables that ever-haunt a fellow. Anyway, while in the boy's room, I was at the urinal (as anyone should be when executing the function I was involved in). Nearby, some young man was in a stall, sitting there with his pants around his ankles. He was not overly consumed with his biological function therein; however, he was totally consumed with flipping two coins. He would flip the pair, then grumble or comment under his breath, then pick them up and do it again, and again, and again...this continued through my follow-up hand washing, my attention to good grooming, and likely long after I left. He was, at one time, apparently pleased with the outcome of the coin flipping, commenting, "Finally!" (though this could have been something related to his other purpose in the stall, I guess). I am supposing that he was testing statistics, attempting to note (perhaps in human excrement tally marks inside the stall) whenever the two were coming up the same side up--but I will never know.
Keep an eye out, there are always strange things afoot.
Write your name in feces! Why would someone do anything with their waste but flush it? Maybe I'm conservative or old school on this one, maybe repressed in my upbringing or something, but it seems a bit odd to me. Above all else, why would one be so proud as to ascribe their name on the stall wall, and yet do it with poop?
Tall voyeurs lurk. (Women may not be able to relate to this one...) Toilet stalls are in men's rooms for work to be done sitting down. Other acts should be done at the urinal. I know some people have bashful bladder and need the security of a stall to accomplish their tasks; however, it's just creepy when especially tall men choose to urinate in an adjacent stall. All too often there is some uncomfortable exchange, "Hey, how's it goin'" when eye contact is made over the top of the stall. Why are they standing over there, and why are they looking down here? It's just odd.
Mobile Phone madness. Not only have I heard people regularly converse while in a stall doing their business, but I've also heard those conversations punctuated with grunting, panting, and other sounds that accompany the work to be done in the stall. I would not want to be on the phone with someone thus engaged. Why do people insist on talking on their mobile phones while they are otherwise so busy?
....and today, the most peculiar observation of late...
I had to make a visit to the high school "BOYS" restroom, for the one in my building was out of commission. This alone brought back eerie memories of fighting, of pissing contests, and of many unmentionables that ever-haunt a fellow. Anyway, while in the boy's room, I was at the urinal (as anyone should be when executing the function I was involved in). Nearby, some young man was in a stall, sitting there with his pants around his ankles. He was not overly consumed with his biological function therein; however, he was totally consumed with flipping two coins. He would flip the pair, then grumble or comment under his breath, then pick them up and do it again, and again, and again...this continued through my follow-up hand washing, my attention to good grooming, and likely long after I left. He was, at one time, apparently pleased with the outcome of the coin flipping, commenting, "Finally!" (though this could have been something related to his other purpose in the stall, I guess). I am supposing that he was testing statistics, attempting to note (perhaps in human excrement tally marks inside the stall) whenever the two were coming up the same side up--but I will never know.
Keep an eye out, there are always strange things afoot.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Total Tonality
Ever hear a high-pitched sound in the background?
Ever just gradually shut out sound after sound to find your own internal tone? This may 'sound' crazy, but it's been a sleeping secret of mine for decades. Whenever I find my mind to be too brain-busy to snooze, I can listen. Somehow, I narrow down and winnow away the ambient noises of life (air conditioner, cars passing, etc). I continue this listening to hear beyond my own breathing and heart beat, and eventually I wind up with a tone, I guess one would call it. It is just a constant beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep sounding out there beyond what one would normally attend to. Finding this pitch has always been a way to find my center and solace. I can almost always put myself to sleep by giving it my exclusive attention.
Or, I can carry on. Sometimes, I've found myself just dipping into my head to see if that sound is still there--and it always is--then continuing about my day.
One time it tends to be obvious is when true hearing is momentarily impaired, like right after a very loud explosion. Then I can hear my tone and nothing else. When I am startled awake, listening hard for what woke me, I have a hard time hearing around the tone.
Another occurrence of the tone, and this is the subject of this post, is when I am so beyond exhausted that I seem to have less control of my attention. I am hearing said tone even now, in spite of hallway traffic, the tip-tapping of my keyboard, etc. At times like this, the tone is annoying, a keen keening that rents my head. I don't have a headache, and I'm not especially distracted, but I do have this noticeable, ever-present pitch making itself known, embedded in every auditory experience of my day, an aural intruder. I can no more shut it out or turn it down than I could unplug my own pulse.
I wonder about the tone. I wonder if, perhaps, everyone has their own frequency...and maybe, do kindred spirits have harmonious tones whether they know it or not? I wonder if one is truly dead when his/her tone dies out, rather than brain waves or vital signs. Maybe The Tone is the ultimate vital sign.
...or maybe I'm just hearing things.
Ever just gradually shut out sound after sound to find your own internal tone? This may 'sound' crazy, but it's been a sleeping secret of mine for decades. Whenever I find my mind to be too brain-busy to snooze, I can listen. Somehow, I narrow down and winnow away the ambient noises of life (air conditioner, cars passing, etc). I continue this listening to hear beyond my own breathing and heart beat, and eventually I wind up with a tone, I guess one would call it. It is just a constant beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep sounding out there beyond what one would normally attend to. Finding this pitch has always been a way to find my center and solace. I can almost always put myself to sleep by giving it my exclusive attention.
Or, I can carry on. Sometimes, I've found myself just dipping into my head to see if that sound is still there--and it always is--then continuing about my day.
One time it tends to be obvious is when true hearing is momentarily impaired, like right after a very loud explosion. Then I can hear my tone and nothing else. When I am startled awake, listening hard for what woke me, I have a hard time hearing around the tone.
Another occurrence of the tone, and this is the subject of this post, is when I am so beyond exhausted that I seem to have less control of my attention. I am hearing said tone even now, in spite of hallway traffic, the tip-tapping of my keyboard, etc. At times like this, the tone is annoying, a keen keening that rents my head. I don't have a headache, and I'm not especially distracted, but I do have this noticeable, ever-present pitch making itself known, embedded in every auditory experience of my day, an aural intruder. I can no more shut it out or turn it down than I could unplug my own pulse.
I wonder about the tone. I wonder if, perhaps, everyone has their own frequency...and maybe, do kindred spirits have harmonious tones whether they know it or not? I wonder if one is truly dead when his/her tone dies out, rather than brain waves or vital signs. Maybe The Tone is the ultimate vital sign.
...or maybe I'm just hearing things.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Highly recommended
We recently took our kids, finding the place to be total pneumatic pandemonium, a good time was had by all.
I initially intended to read a book, sit on the sidelines--but once I got bouncing, there was no turning fuddy-duddy. It's a great workout, too.
Closure
Lately, the words "the end" have been more than I can bear. "Closed" and "Good-bye" are on the list, too. For some reason I've yet to cog, I cannot easily accept closures.
I am now turning the last 50 pages of the Harry Potter saga, and each leaf turned leaves an emptiness in the pit of my stomach.
Just last Friday, I took my boys to the auction of the Prairie Rose enterprise. For those who are unfamiliar, there once was a chuckwagon supper club, complete with true cowboy/wild west sing-alongs, etc...set in the countryside, featuring the Prairie Rose Wranglers (akin to Riders in the Sky). Unfortunately the PR was yet another casualty of the over-extension of one Mr. Thomas Etheridge, who put all his money, faith, credit, etc... into what was (for a month or two) Wild West World. Now, we bought the season pass to WWW, and we talked others into it, thinking it would be good to show our support for the state's premiere and one of the nation's only western themed theme parks. Alas, it went belly up.
Attending the auction only reminded me of one of my deepest scars--my own family farm auction, circa 1981. That event was more sorrowful for me than most funerals I've attended.
The closures don't end! The Palace on the east side of Wichita, the one which played small release, debut, independent films--closed this summer. Cowley College's Southside Center is to close next semester. Half of the food court at the Hutchinson Mall is vacant. I don't know why these things stick with me, but they do, like a burr in my saddle, and they chafe.
I am already anticipating that hollow feel of the end of a semester, and it's only week 2.
I am now turning the last 50 pages of the Harry Potter saga, and each leaf turned leaves an emptiness in the pit of my stomach.
Just last Friday, I took my boys to the auction of the Prairie Rose enterprise. For those who are unfamiliar, there once was a chuckwagon supper club, complete with true cowboy/wild west sing-alongs, etc...set in the countryside, featuring the Prairie Rose Wranglers (akin to Riders in the Sky). Unfortunately the PR was yet another casualty of the over-extension of one Mr. Thomas Etheridge, who put all his money, faith, credit, etc... into what was (for a month or two) Wild West World. Now, we bought the season pass to WWW, and we talked others into it, thinking it would be good to show our support for the state's premiere and one of the nation's only western themed theme parks. Alas, it went belly up.
Attending the auction only reminded me of one of my deepest scars--my own family farm auction, circa 1981. That event was more sorrowful for me than most funerals I've attended.
The closures don't end! The Palace on the east side of Wichita, the one which played small release, debut, independent films--closed this summer. Cowley College's Southside Center is to close next semester. Half of the food court at the Hutchinson Mall is vacant. I don't know why these things stick with me, but they do, like a burr in my saddle, and they chafe.
I am already anticipating that hollow feel of the end of a semester, and it's only week 2.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Weekend's here!
I don't know if I've ever been so relieved. I do say, "Yahoo! and all that." It's only the first week of work, but it's been lengthy, at times agonizing...not the workload or the student interface or even being boxed up in an industrial grade office full of florescent lighting. The hard part has been, as I predicted, being away from my farm and family. I want to go home, sit on the porch, pick ticks off my beagle until the rest of the family wakes up for the day.
*sigh*
On a related note--this weekend I am literally going home, to southwest Kansas. We're to attend a balloon festival in Garden City. I'm even bringing my mom.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Internet Confession
Recently at an instructor's meeting I confessed (as part of an ice breaking activity) that my secret passion was for the boundless world wide web. While not openly scoffed or scorned, I could feel others' evil eyes upon me. I could almost hear them plotting to have me removed from the room.
Maybe it wasn't the best venue to make such a confession. Others were passionate about Jane Austin or tagging butterflies.
Truly, I do find the Internet to be fascinating. I never tire of it. As it has evolved over the last ten years or so, I've been drawn in further and further, to the point I now feel lost without it. The latest discovery I have made which only enables my addiction is: google bookmarks. I had favorites and bookmarks on four different PC's, plus I'd saved them as a html file from other PC's that had crashed, etc... The bookmark tool allows me to compile them all in one handy spot, right on my igoogle page. (I'm sure this is not a new invention, that there are others on the market that may even be better, but it works very well for me!) Now I have full access to all my favorite sites.
I think one reason I like the web is that it is arranged something like I think. I know we all think by association, that there are linear connections and constructs, but folks claim I have this odd way of riding several tangents at a time. This is, similarly, how I poke around the Internet. Thank goodness for Firefox (and now IE) tabs, too, for I can have two or so browsers going, with several tabs each, and flip back/forth. These explorations of the Internet are beyond surfing, which seems so much like a surface sport; they are more like riding dividing torpedoes in the deep sea. I lose all track of time, and when I do surface, I get the bends.
Maybe it wasn't the best venue to make such a confession. Others were passionate about Jane Austin or tagging butterflies.
Truly, I do find the Internet to be fascinating. I never tire of it. As it has evolved over the last ten years or so, I've been drawn in further and further, to the point I now feel lost without it. The latest discovery I have made which only enables my addiction is: google bookmarks. I had favorites and bookmarks on four different PC's, plus I'd saved them as a html file from other PC's that had crashed, etc... The bookmark tool allows me to compile them all in one handy spot, right on my igoogle page. (I'm sure this is not a new invention, that there are others on the market that may even be better, but it works very well for me!) Now I have full access to all my favorite sites.
I think one reason I like the web is that it is arranged something like I think. I know we all think by association, that there are linear connections and constructs, but folks claim I have this odd way of riding several tangents at a time. This is, similarly, how I poke around the Internet. Thank goodness for Firefox (and now IE) tabs, too, for I can have two or so browsers going, with several tabs each, and flip back/forth. These explorations of the Internet are beyond surfing, which seems so much like a surface sport; they are more like riding dividing torpedoes in the deep sea. I lose all track of time, and when I do surface, I get the bends.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Back in the Saddle Again
'Tis the first day of school for the term for me. To sum up in a word: uncomfortable. I've not worn shoes regularly, and now I'm back to the full-on suit. Classes don't start for me for another hour yet, and I find myself chomping at the bit.
In the past, I would watch inspirational "teacher movies" before the term started. I would wander the school supplies aisle and revel. If possible, I would visit a grade school classroom (under the pretense of supervising a volunteer) just so I could whiff the floor wax, the plastic painting aprons, the crayons...olfactory nostalgia is potent!
I am over all that, but I remain a person who likes to mark an occasion. I like to celebrate the end of one thing, the start of another. This tendency has amplified with children, from cutting teeth to using the toilet, from outgrowing clothes to dispensing with baby-talk....This need to launch fireworks, to dance naked in a ticker-tape parade...it seems it's getting more prominent as I age. Celebrating, or at least noting, the turn of semesters and seasons is likely understandable...but having a ceremony for the end of USA network's summer season, hosting a party to mourn the last Harry Potter book...really!
It's not that events, epochs, turns of every thing are not noted in reflective writings. It's not that they go unnoticed by my wife's scrapbooking camera. Heck, I even voice my huzzahs and laments, constantly. (Ask my wife!)
It's so commonly a part of me now that even my 4yr old models it. He was hanging down his head recently, and when I asked him why, he sighed that he was getting too old for some toy. He was already cognizant of his age and of how he is on a continuum.
So, anyway, smack some champagne on my hull and let's get on with it.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Greensburg
The town that always had "A great big well-come for you."
The town was on my route home; it was my rest stop of choice. I spent many-an-hour in Davis Park, resting, smoking, eating, playing on the playground, changing diapers...I wonder if the park is still there?
Unlike ratings-starved media freaks, I'm not going to poke around Greensburg for a while. Someday yet this month, I'll pass through (or around, if it's still an issue) and I'll rubberneck like everyone else. For now, however, I'm going to leave those folk alone. Later, like I did after Andover and Hoisington, I'll rally up some student volunteers and we'll help where needed. For now, people need to find their own way a little.
Sure, the logistics of power, water, and policing are important. I know the government support and the well-meaning (though still rubbernecking, on volunteer vacation, disaster tourism) will be there to pick up and clean up and overall, provide. I know this because a tornado grazed our farmstead when I was a kid. A flood forced me to evacuate (though only for a day or two) when I lived in Arkansas City. Help will come. It is needed and even...well-come.
However, people need their space, too. Grieving over loss of one's home is not that different from grieving the loss of a family member. People appreciate the acquaintances and well-wishers from the community-at-large, but the first need family and friends. They will need to sort among the scattered waste with their own neighbors, sometimes chuckling over the fence that once separated what was once their respective properties. Homeowners will find their lots, and local folk (not national guardsmen with bulldozers) will return the barbecue grill the tornado 'borrowed' and did not return from 'cross town. People need to touch the remains of the foundation of the house their grandpa built. They need space and time to find their own stuff (artifacts, tokens, talismans, touchstones). They need to hold that horseshoe that hung over the back porch door, knock some mud off it, and pocket it for later.
I heard they're taking odds inVegas on whether or not Greensburg will rebuild. Here's an inside scoop for you gamblers: rebuild is a sure bet. The people of Greensburg are KANSANS. Tornado alley is populated with hearty folk.
The town was on my route home; it was my rest stop of choice. I spent many-an-hour in Davis Park, resting, smoking, eating, playing on the playground, changing diapers...I wonder if the park is still there?
Unlike ratings-starved media freaks, I'm not going to poke around Greensburg for a while. Someday yet this month, I'll pass through (or around, if it's still an issue) and I'll rubberneck like everyone else. For now, however, I'm going to leave those folk alone. Later, like I did after Andover and Hoisington, I'll rally up some student volunteers and we'll help where needed. For now, people need to find their own way a little.
Sure, the logistics of power, water, and policing are important. I know the government support and the well-meaning (though still rubbernecking, on volunteer vacation, disaster tourism) will be there to pick up and clean up and overall, provide. I know this because a tornado grazed our farmstead when I was a kid. A flood forced me to evacuate (though only for a day or two) when I lived in Arkansas City. Help will come. It is needed and even...well-come.
However, people need their space, too. Grieving over loss of one's home is not that different from grieving the loss of a family member. People appreciate the acquaintances and well-wishers from the community-at-large, but the first need family and friends. They will need to sort among the scattered waste with their own neighbors, sometimes chuckling over the fence that once separated what was once their respective properties. Homeowners will find their lots, and local folk (not national guardsmen with bulldozers) will return the barbecue grill the tornado 'borrowed' and did not return from 'cross town. People need to touch the remains of the foundation of the house their grandpa built. They need space and time to find their own stuff (artifacts, tokens, talismans, touchstones). They need to hold that horseshoe that hung over the back porch door, knock some mud off it, and pocket it for later.
I heard they're taking odds inVegas on whether or not Greensburg will rebuild. Here's an inside scoop for you gamblers: rebuild is a sure bet. The people of Greensburg are KANSANS. Tornado alley is populated with hearty folk.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Worms and Suds
Maybe it's due to end-of-term grading loads...maybe I'm really losing my mind and just finally starting to notice...but lately the world around me has offered some startling new degree of Presence, if not Insight. It's as if, suddenly, seeing a tree bud up close is somehow bringing me full circle from, "Oh, it's Spring." to the botanical comprehension of it all, then again through some cycle-of-life insight, and back again to just marveling at nature. (Likely this makes no sense to anyone but myself; that's why I'm sharing it.)
Example: this very morning, about 5am...it was STILL raining when I came in to work. Like always, I stopped at the back door of the building, fished out my key, and then--I noticed an earthworm. Yes, they come out when it's raining (something I'm now inspired to really grasp), but this particular worm had 'wormed' its way to the doormat of the college. (It is finals week, remember, and maybe I was lost in thought there about the mental state of worms and students, how this very worm (eager beaver) was waiting at the gates of higher learning, "First one here!"--but that did not last long.) That fleeting thought fled when I noticed something much more interesting...
The doormat is of the variety that features many, many little rubber 'nubbies' or thick hairs. They are about the diameter of a pencil lead, and they are less-than a 1/2 inch tall. The worm was working its way across the doormat, shimmying through these nubbies. Most of its body, then, was in a perfectly straight line; however, sometime prior to my arrival, something had compelled the worm to make a right hand turn, continue an inch or so, then a left turn, and it was in the process of another right. (I had never seen a worm do such a thing, something that seemed strikingly symetrical for a worm. If you can imagine, it created something of a question mark by design.)
Of course, the nubbies had guided the worm in forming such straight lines, but I will always wonder if the worm was raising a question. Was it just making its way through an unnecessarily complicated route? (It could have shot straight across the mat, after all, or just never bothered to go there in the first place!) Was it sending me a sign? Did the nubbies feel good, rubbing along its sides, or did the worm find them laborious and bothersome? Do I sometimes, like this worm, get so confounded by the nubbies that I cannot take my naturally wormy course?
Previously, maybe a week ago, I was driving across Wichita early one morning when I spied a white blob ahead, just over the hill. As I approached, it was becoming clear to me the blob was not simply a trash bag, as I had first assumed. Since I was going 45 or so, I closed on it rapidly. The few other vehicles on this same course had either stopped or swerved or taken some other detour when their drivers realized the blob was as big as a freight car...however, I did not waiver. In the instant I knew it to be suds, bubbles, what-have-you...I forged on through. (I drive a pickup, and thus, my untoward mentality.) It was great fun to plow through the foam, to look in my rear view mirror at how the blob had scattered in my wake. (The source of the blob, I also came to note, was some prankster dumping detergent in the waterfall element outside some swank housing development.)
The blob of bubbles, the wall of suds, gained almost metaphysical proportion to me. I had persisted. I had burst through...when others had been wary, I was bold. Of course, this is silly, but then, charging through an opaque obstruction is also both silly and dangerous...I am just noting that such a thing had never crossed my path before, in nigh 40 years of driving. It still strikes me as something beyond peculiar, something...meaningful...but I've not yet figured it out. Like the lifespan of a bubble, whatever I should have taken with me from that instant just seems to have popped. Thus, I have had an epiphany with no piff. Something happened, but I do not know what it was (?)
These are but two of somewhere near a dozen "twilight zone" observations I've had in the last two weeks. Am I losing my mind? Opening my mind?...or am I just dazed and overworked?
We'll see.
Example: this very morning, about 5am...it was STILL raining when I came in to work. Like always, I stopped at the back door of the building, fished out my key, and then--I noticed an earthworm. Yes, they come out when it's raining (something I'm now inspired to really grasp), but this particular worm had 'wormed' its way to the doormat of the college. (It is finals week, remember, and maybe I was lost in thought there about the mental state of worms and students, how this very worm (eager beaver) was waiting at the gates of higher learning, "First one here!"--but that did not last long.) That fleeting thought fled when I noticed something much more interesting...
The doormat is of the variety that features many, many little rubber 'nubbies' or thick hairs. They are about the diameter of a pencil lead, and they are less-than a 1/2 inch tall. The worm was working its way across the doormat, shimmying through these nubbies. Most of its body, then, was in a perfectly straight line; however, sometime prior to my arrival, something had compelled the worm to make a right hand turn, continue an inch or so, then a left turn, and it was in the process of another right. (I had never seen a worm do such a thing, something that seemed strikingly symetrical for a worm. If you can imagine, it created something of a question mark by design.)
Of course, the nubbies had guided the worm in forming such straight lines, but I will always wonder if the worm was raising a question. Was it just making its way through an unnecessarily complicated route? (It could have shot straight across the mat, after all, or just never bothered to go there in the first place!) Was it sending me a sign? Did the nubbies feel good, rubbing along its sides, or did the worm find them laborious and bothersome? Do I sometimes, like this worm, get so confounded by the nubbies that I cannot take my naturally wormy course?
Previously, maybe a week ago, I was driving across Wichita early one morning when I spied a white blob ahead, just over the hill. As I approached, it was becoming clear to me the blob was not simply a trash bag, as I had first assumed. Since I was going 45 or so, I closed on it rapidly. The few other vehicles on this same course had either stopped or swerved or taken some other detour when their drivers realized the blob was as big as a freight car...however, I did not waiver. In the instant I knew it to be suds, bubbles, what-have-you...I forged on through. (I drive a pickup, and thus, my untoward mentality.) It was great fun to plow through the foam, to look in my rear view mirror at how the blob had scattered in my wake. (The source of the blob, I also came to note, was some prankster dumping detergent in the waterfall element outside some swank housing development.)
The blob of bubbles, the wall of suds, gained almost metaphysical proportion to me. I had persisted. I had burst through...when others had been wary, I was bold. Of course, this is silly, but then, charging through an opaque obstruction is also both silly and dangerous...I am just noting that such a thing had never crossed my path before, in nigh 40 years of driving. It still strikes me as something beyond peculiar, something...meaningful...but I've not yet figured it out. Like the lifespan of a bubble, whatever I should have taken with me from that instant just seems to have popped. Thus, I have had an epiphany with no piff. Something happened, but I do not know what it was (?)
These are but two of somewhere near a dozen "twilight zone" observations I've had in the last two weeks. Am I losing my mind? Opening my mind?...or am I just dazed and overworked?
We'll see.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Innocence
BILL MOYERS: Have you lost your innocence?
JON STEWART: What? Well, it was in 1981, it was at a frat party. Oh, I'm sorry. You know, I think this is gonna sound incredibly pat, but I think you lose your innocence when you have kids, because the world suddenly becomes a much more dangerous place. And you become much more — there are two things that happen. You recognize how fragile individuals are, and you recognize the strength of the general overall group, but you don't care anymore. You're just fighting for the one thing. See and then, you also recognize that everybody, then, is also somebody's child. It's I'm yeah, I mean it's-- tumultuous.
For the full transcript or video of the initial (brilliant!) episode of Bill Moyers Journal, go here.
JON STEWART: What? Well, it was in 1981, it was at a frat party. Oh, I'm sorry. You know, I think this is gonna sound incredibly pat, but I think you lose your innocence when you have kids, because the world suddenly becomes a much more dangerous place. And you become much more — there are two things that happen. You recognize how fragile individuals are, and you recognize the strength of the general overall group, but you don't care anymore. You're just fighting for the one thing. See and then, you also recognize that everybody, then, is also somebody's child. It's I'm yeah, I mean it's-- tumultuous.
For the full transcript or video of the initial (brilliant!) episode of Bill Moyers Journal, go here.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Harsh Realities
I've written many times how utterly admirable I consider the innocence, humor and honesty of children. I've related my moments of concern, a decade early, for when my boys become teens, etc.
Yesterday, I was musing over how harsh the world is...and how hard it would be to cope with a sudden exposure to all this harshness, all at once. Fortunately (I guess) bliss fades slowly as children become acclimated to reality. I am of the camp that wishes a)there was no reality, b)that acclimation might come as slowly as possible and c)I did not have to be the lead teacher in all-things-harsh-and-real.
Not so long ago, my son learned that adults fall down (when I tripped on a hike with him). He has since learned that we don't always keep our word (I fell asleep once instead of telling him his bedtime story, as promised). He is now learning the value(?) of money, being rewarded by people with change for various little tasks. All-too-soon, he will be exposed to the pains of love.
This all came to me when sitting in the bathroom. I discovered we had no conventional paper product to complete the mission...so I used baby wipes. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Lanolin enriched, smooth, cool baby wipes! That's when I was moved to epiphany: my boys have never felt the roughness of toilet paper, let alone the sandpaper found in public bathrooms or the strange waxpaper squares we had in school bathrooms...so very much harshness ahead.
I have a friend who suffered an aneurysm. She had to learn everything again, from walking and talking to her family and friends. She expressed to me that re-learning the hard, cruel nature of the world was the worst of her recovery.
At times when I've been impatient with my slow learning I long for some microchip implant or epiphany that will lead me to complete enlightenment. I wish I were, you know, smart! Reflecting on my friend's recovery and my boys' gradual exposure...I guess it's probably for the best that our brains are on simmer rather than microwave-enlightenment. I guess I'll just slow cook and bask in it all, day by day...and hopefully I'll be there (and be supportive) when my kids are exposed to some of the more harsh realities they'll face.
Yesterday, I was musing over how harsh the world is...and how hard it would be to cope with a sudden exposure to all this harshness, all at once. Fortunately (I guess) bliss fades slowly as children become acclimated to reality. I am of the camp that wishes a)there was no reality, b)that acclimation might come as slowly as possible and c)I did not have to be the lead teacher in all-things-harsh-and-real.
Not so long ago, my son learned that adults fall down (when I tripped on a hike with him). He has since learned that we don't always keep our word (I fell asleep once instead of telling him his bedtime story, as promised). He is now learning the value(?) of money, being rewarded by people with change for various little tasks. All-too-soon, he will be exposed to the pains of love.
This all came to me when sitting in the bathroom. I discovered we had no conventional paper product to complete the mission...so I used baby wipes. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Lanolin enriched, smooth, cool baby wipes! That's when I was moved to epiphany: my boys have never felt the roughness of toilet paper, let alone the sandpaper found in public bathrooms or the strange waxpaper squares we had in school bathrooms...so very much harshness ahead.
I have a friend who suffered an aneurysm. She had to learn everything again, from walking and talking to her family and friends. She expressed to me that re-learning the hard, cruel nature of the world was the worst of her recovery.
At times when I've been impatient with my slow learning I long for some microchip implant or epiphany that will lead me to complete enlightenment. I wish I were, you know, smart! Reflecting on my friend's recovery and my boys' gradual exposure...I guess it's probably for the best that our brains are on simmer rather than microwave-enlightenment. I guess I'll just slow cook and bask in it all, day by day...and hopefully I'll be there (and be supportive) when my kids are exposed to some of the more harsh realities they'll face.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Inconvenient....Truth(?)
I finally had a chance to see Gore's Inconvenient Truth last week at the 89th Annual Phi Theta Kappa convention. Afterward, a forum (of sorts) aired ideas from the crowd. I was astonished that a bunch of honor students seemed to take Gore's word for everything. The few dissenting voices (including one moderator) were scorned. It could have been a byproduct of Gore's personal appearance and presentation earlier in the day (star power drives the masses). It could have been that the film has a very ominous tone and fair credibility.
Whatever the case, I became only more disconcerted. In my opinion, mass hysteria spawned from the film's screening did not make it beyond the doors of the room in which it was screened. Informal follow-up discussions were even more disconcerting. The students were proud of their recycling, highway clean up projects, and of Phi Theta Kappa's Operation Green--but they did not seem to get the point. Should the flaming prophets of global warming truly be correct, world culture would need much more reform than hybrid cars.
Those idealistic students are to be admired, for at least they are somewhat sensitized and they do at least make a token effort towards cleaning up the environment. Young people are not so jaded; they are more receptive to a message (if not downright gullible at times). Social change can and has at times been driven by youth.
However, to affect change, we must go deeper than band-aid service and pats on the back.
I probed for student opinion on the following, but my queries were considered comical:
- So, what percentage of emissions are individually based versus industrially based?
- Ice core records clock 1/2 million years of C02, what of the millions of years prior to that?
- Would you give up cars, planes, plastic or air conditioning?
- Other than sweat equity service projects, what can you do to address core problems?
I am not much different. I know and own my disparities, so do I think that makes me any better? Nah. At least it allows me to amuse myself. If I ever hop on the environmental bandwagon, I'll make sure it's not propelled by petroleum. I'll be wearing hand-crafted natural fibers, too. I'll be living in an intentional community that's self-sustaining. Above all, and with every issue, I'll be questioning 'authorities' like Al Gore.
If the Honorable (former) vice-president and one time 'next future president' had his heart in the right place, he would not charge for his presentation. True prophets are not interested in profits, after all. Instead, rumor has it he charged our academic honorary an honorarium of $175,000 for his 1/2 hr rap. In the film, he stated that he had given the speech worldwide well-over 1,000 times...what a lucrative sermon!
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: when money's involved, sniff for sincerity.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Thoughts from the Play Place
I'm not uncomfortable getting on the floor and crawling around with my boys, pretending to be a horse or dragon or 'wrestling king.' I've been on many-a kiddie ride and playground, too, and I can find fun in all of it (with or without the kids, I admit).
Enter the Play Place
Enter the Play Place
From the road, the only intelligent vantage point, a play place seems something like an aquarium. It looks a bit like a new-in-the-box hamster maze, maybe. At this distance, it is only a quiet glass room tacked onto a tacky restaurant. This is the safe and sane distance I kept from such places for forty years. I did not have to go into one to know what was inside, for every time the door would open to the play place, I could hear the chaos, the screaming, the noise, noise, noise! I used to wonder what would lead a parent to subject their child to such a place.
I have since been able to confirm, on all counts, that these places are loud. On top of that, they may not be so sanitary, either. Once I saw a kid with a bulging diaper leave a brown streak down the slide. Another time, our son reported a pool of vomit. Sometimes kids crawl from the tunnels red-faced, panting, bleeding, crying...
...but most always, they emerge laughing. What I mistook for noise is the shrill laughter of crazed kids having a good time. While it might seem demeaning to put a child in this environment, I've witnessed some great play ground ethics and values in practice. Children are not generally just bumbling through the tunnels like rats; they are instead exploring, forming teams, playing hide and seek, racing...in short, they are playing.
Just yesterday (and not for the first time) I kicked off my shoes and followed my son inside. I studied his fascination with every turn and contour. I reveled with him over our ascension to the heights of the maze. I watched his face as he zipped down the slide on this belly, myself right behind him. Though he does not yet say much, he was loving every minute of it, and his laughter said it all.
I also was an intruder. Sure parents (myself included, once in a while) invade the play place to retrieve a child now and then. A rare few, like myself, might be found inside actually playing, but we are so rare that the kids don't quite know what to make of us.
Initially, I feel like Jane Goodall. I'm not sure if it's okay to make eye contact. I don't know their social norms. I cannot fit in, no matter how playful I become, for I am three times their size. Sometimes, due to my bulk, I cannot navigate the tubes as quickly as they do, and so I worry they will become annoyed with me. The squealing and laughter is amplified within the plastic tunnels, and it seems as if it is now an alarm sounding my presence. The constant thundering of knees and feet are now the beat of war drums in my ears.
Here's the interesting part: it's obvious that they are surprised to find me in their world. At first, they don't quite know what to say. It's only a moment, however, and then they are inviting me to chase them, asking me what's up ahead, wallowing past me...in general, accepting me. Like little ambassadors, they show me old french fries and holes in the walls of their den. They tell me all about their experiences at a variety of play places. A boy apologizes for not wearing socks.
Like all my encounters with children, I am again impressed by their civility and acceptance. I suppose someone on the street would see it as a herd of kids crawling over some hapless grownup trapped in the bowels of a hamster maze. From the street, or even in the restaurant proper, or even from the floor below--from any distance--one misses the whole thing. Being accepted and loved by them may involve a little slobber and sweat (and later, some aching muscles) but it is a whole and complete acceptance into their wacky world.
We could learn something from them.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
We, the sissies...
Okay, time for my conservative side.
Recess without dodge-ball? Red Rover? 'Tis true, some schools have regulations on recess (something of a paradox, governed/regulated free time), prohibiting activities that might be hurtful to a child's self image. If they've not already, I'm sure picking-of-teams is on the list of activities to be cut soon.
Extra-curricular activities reflect this cultural sensitivity, this hyperactive Politically Correct movement...just last week on the news I heard of little league teams which have outlawed all 'chatter' (unless it's positive). No more, "we need a pitcher, not a belly itcher," or anything so damning to the soul and tender self image. This is the same school of thought which brings us a trophy for every kid on the team, regardless of their performance or standing. Everyone is treated the same; no one is a loser.
What forced my hand, however, was the story I heard about rope-less jump rope for Physical Education class. Some students who were challenged by coordination, others who were overly taxed by gravity due to unavoidable girth (read: fat), others who stood out as awkward--complained enough that now even jumping rope is a hurdle too high. Some schools are now having children pretend to jump rope in P.E. I suppose this saves money on gym equipment, too.
This, to say nothing of grade inflation, academic negligence/malpractice suits, etc.
Anyone who regularly reads Musement Park knows I value my children above all, and the last thing I would want (in fact, something that I dread so very much I am considering homeschooling) would be for them to be bruised, beaten, belittled or in any way emotionally injured. Guess what? That's life. That's what I've learned and how I've been working through all my reservations and uber-parenting problems. We have all grown through the school of hard knocks. I was last to be picked for years. I was the target in dodgeball. I was pummeled in Red Rover, field hockey, etc...but I survived.
Boy in a Bubble--the future?
There seems no end to the regulatory, prophylactic measures our current culture deploys. If my child is to ride the bus to school, he may have to stand in a little out-house-like shelter until the bus arrives. On the bus, he may be enveloped in a protective shell around his individual assigned seat--wouldn't want unfavorable audibles to damage his sensitivities (to say nothing of spitballs). At school, he would have to march lockstep with his peers, all in uniform (so no one would feel left out or weird). School work would be play, and everyone would get a gold star every day...no scratch that, for gold stars are emblems of war...better give everyone a Wal-mart smiley face sticker. School is no longer a place for sports, music, forensics, debate or anything else that would distinguish a person as good/poor. After school, it's the same safe, secure transport back to the safe and secure hermetically sealed home.
How does this make sense?
While on the one hand, good-intentioned people are going to extremes to protect the delicate ego of the child. On the other, industry and commerce are working overtime to lure egos of all ages by any medium and by every variation of content (objectionable? maybe a generation ago--get with the times, bub!). Standards of decency, even of respect, are being recoded for our culture. So, it seems quite the quandary: protect children from any harm, but allow them to become omnivorous consumers without conscience.
Going south...
I'm digressing, and thus, I'll shut 'er down. I am just so very amazed at how things change! I don't have any answers, but I am alarmed and aware. I don't want my kids to be hurt, but neither do I want my boys to be a bunch of sissies!
Recess without dodge-ball? Red Rover? 'Tis true, some schools have regulations on recess (something of a paradox, governed/regulated free time), prohibiting activities that might be hurtful to a child's self image. If they've not already, I'm sure picking-of-teams is on the list of activities to be cut soon.
Extra-curricular activities reflect this cultural sensitivity, this hyperactive Politically Correct movement...just last week on the news I heard of little league teams which have outlawed all 'chatter' (unless it's positive). No more, "we need a pitcher, not a belly itcher," or anything so damning to the soul and tender self image. This is the same school of thought which brings us a trophy for every kid on the team, regardless of their performance or standing. Everyone is treated the same; no one is a loser.
What forced my hand, however, was the story I heard about rope-less jump rope for Physical Education class. Some students who were challenged by coordination, others who were overly taxed by gravity due to unavoidable girth (read: fat), others who stood out as awkward--complained enough that now even jumping rope is a hurdle too high. Some schools are now having children pretend to jump rope in P.E. I suppose this saves money on gym equipment, too.
This, to say nothing of grade inflation, academic negligence/malpractice suits, etc.
Anyone who regularly reads Musement Park knows I value my children above all, and the last thing I would want (in fact, something that I dread so very much I am considering homeschooling) would be for them to be bruised, beaten, belittled or in any way emotionally injured. Guess what? That's life. That's what I've learned and how I've been working through all my reservations and uber-parenting problems. We have all grown through the school of hard knocks. I was last to be picked for years. I was the target in dodgeball. I was pummeled in Red Rover, field hockey, etc...but I survived.
Boy in a Bubble--the future?
There seems no end to the regulatory, prophylactic measures our current culture deploys. If my child is to ride the bus to school, he may have to stand in a little out-house-like shelter until the bus arrives. On the bus, he may be enveloped in a protective shell around his individual assigned seat--wouldn't want unfavorable audibles to damage his sensitivities (to say nothing of spitballs). At school, he would have to march lockstep with his peers, all in uniform (so no one would feel left out or weird). School work would be play, and everyone would get a gold star every day...no scratch that, for gold stars are emblems of war...better give everyone a Wal-mart smiley face sticker. School is no longer a place for sports, music, forensics, debate or anything else that would distinguish a person as good/poor. After school, it's the same safe, secure transport back to the safe and secure hermetically sealed home.
How does this make sense?
While on the one hand, good-intentioned people are going to extremes to protect the delicate ego of the child. On the other, industry and commerce are working overtime to lure egos of all ages by any medium and by every variation of content (objectionable? maybe a generation ago--get with the times, bub!). Standards of decency, even of respect, are being recoded for our culture. So, it seems quite the quandary: protect children from any harm, but allow them to become omnivorous consumers without conscience.
Going south...
I'm digressing, and thus, I'll shut 'er down. I am just so very amazed at how things change! I don't have any answers, but I am alarmed and aware. I don't want my kids to be hurt, but neither do I want my boys to be a bunch of sissies!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Dogpaddling
How do they do it? Those single-parent, two-job, full-time students out there who also keep a clean house and feed their kids decent homecooked meals and still have time for friends, hobbies, and a life--they amaze me.
I am barely (just barely) keeping my head above water, and I can only do that by coming in to work at 5am or earlier. Even so, I cannot manage time well-enough for friends, housework, hobbies, etc... I'm not accomplishing much. I'm not working on my novel, my future plans, my home businesses, etc. I'm about the worst friend one can imagine!
GEEZ!
Great Odin's raven! Son of a bee sting! By the beard of Zeus!
I've done time studies on myself before, cumbersome yet revealing documenting of my every mintue of every day for a week--all in an attempt to find where the time goes and how to get more of the wasted moments. I've read of how many hours we spend over a lifetime opening mail, waiting at stoplights, etc... I know I am burning my clock right now, blogging instead of something others might find more constructive...but I just do not get it! I marvel at you, busy and productive people of the good life. I could learn a great deal from you.
I've written about time many times in this blog, mostly lamenting the inability to capture it, preserve it, rewind it a-la "Click." I've expressed concern that my boys are growing too fast and that mortality is sneaking up on me in cleated hiking boots. None of this has changed much of anything in my favor, however. I guess at the very least, I'm somewhat aware of what's happening, and as with most problems, awareness is a first step toward changing things.
It's not that I'm ambitious. I'd just like to be average.
Other folks have a job, family, clean home, life, friends, hobbies, etc. I want it, too!
I am barely (just barely) keeping my head above water, and I can only do that by coming in to work at 5am or earlier. Even so, I cannot manage time well-enough for friends, housework, hobbies, etc... I'm not accomplishing much. I'm not working on my novel, my future plans, my home businesses, etc. I'm about the worst friend one can imagine!
GEEZ!
Great Odin's raven! Son of a bee sting! By the beard of Zeus!
I've done time studies on myself before, cumbersome yet revealing documenting of my every mintue of every day for a week--all in an attempt to find where the time goes and how to get more of the wasted moments. I've read of how many hours we spend over a lifetime opening mail, waiting at stoplights, etc... I know I am burning my clock right now, blogging instead of something others might find more constructive...but I just do not get it! I marvel at you, busy and productive people of the good life. I could learn a great deal from you.
I've written about time many times in this blog, mostly lamenting the inability to capture it, preserve it, rewind it a-la "Click." I've expressed concern that my boys are growing too fast and that mortality is sneaking up on me in cleated hiking boots. None of this has changed much of anything in my favor, however. I guess at the very least, I'm somewhat aware of what's happening, and as with most problems, awareness is a first step toward changing things.
It's not that I'm ambitious. I'd just like to be average.
Other folks have a job, family, clean home, life, friends, hobbies, etc. I want it, too!
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Trimmed
The entire family visited the barber/hairdressers this week...but that's not the topic of this post. Thanks to two hard-working college laborers and two very-cooperative implements: the entire homestead is trimmed and fit.
By Wednesday, we'd mowed 8 acres, moved 5 pickup loads of downed limbs, and generally just picked up the place some. Thursday, after 7 hours, we were rained out, but only after another 5 pickup loads of limbs and about that many of 'space junk' and general debris left behind by former property owners. Things look pretty spiffy, and I'm ahead of the curve this year!
I know this is not a stimulating entry, but I wanted to document progress somewhere!
By Wednesday, we'd mowed 8 acres, moved 5 pickup loads of downed limbs, and generally just picked up the place some. Thursday, after 7 hours, we were rained out, but only after another 5 pickup loads of limbs and about that many of 'space junk' and general debris left behind by former property owners. Things look pretty spiffy, and I'm ahead of the curve this year!
I know this is not a stimulating entry, but I wanted to document progress somewhere!
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Spring Break Rain
The local weatherman was apologizing to the "kiddies" for the wet spring break. I was shouting to the television, "Why, back when I was young, we had a 1/4 inch of ice in a late winter storm once...they've nothing to whine about." (My grandmother used to do just that, argue aloud with the 'picture set' all the time. She also did not watch television, she would 'look' at TV now and then...but if I follow this one out, I'll be on another rant about television, so %&%$#@)
In all truth, spring rain is rejuvenating to me (and plant life). I grew up in the desert southwest of Kansas, and even after 25 years in this climate, I find it novel that it actually rains now and then. Sometimes I marvel at just how very much it can rain around here. Tuesday we had rain and showers all day, over an inch of rain! Today, it's supposed to fall again after noon.
I most enjoy this all O U T S I D E where I'm wandering around my property finding everything in bloom. In ways I feel like a child first discovering things, and in ways I am. (Where I'm from, there were no crocus, few fruit trees, etc...) It's especially fun, for as I'm learning, I'm also teaching my boys. I think, like a naturalist, I should start a hard copy, offline, illustrated study of 'things growing here.'
I keep looking things up on the Internet and in my gardening books, but I intend to beg the extension agent to visit soon. Maybe the agent will be like Mr. Kimball, of Green Acres...Kimball is the one on the far left, a humble and good natured fellow who couldn't identify anything!
I also have a cadre of acquaintances who know more about the outdoors than I do. Maybe I'll have them out all at once, sort of a field day, to see what mother nature's cookin' out here. I do know that I don't want to spray everything, if I can help it...for one, it just seems wrong, and for another, I've a well here I don't want to contaminate.
We'll see what may come of it all. Today it's to be dry enough I can get out there again, so I'm signing off.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
All is not lost
So, my hard-drive crashed and burned. It was extracted from my work PC and today I held it in my hand...a small brick of a thing not much bigger than a PopTart. I liken it to holding a beating heart or brain in my hand...a metaphysical encounter...and so very sad. "Alas, poor Woolery, I knew him well." (I name all my computers after game show hosts: Wink, Sajak, Vanna, etc...).
...and NO, I did not back things up well. I lost somewhere around 200 bookmarked sites I so loved. I lost all my creative writing (secretly done on company time, so 'serves me right!). I lost virtually every handout, lesson plan, submitted/graded assignment, etc...two years' worth of content/materials I'll be challenged to recreate.
*sigh*
The good news: we can rebuild him. (From the 6 million $ man)
Stronger, faster, more organized...that will be my new PC (at the moment, un-named). Already I've been constructing more logical folder names, improvements on "odd stuff" or "old" or "omniscience found here." I'm reloading the gadgets and gizmos and shortcuts and programs that have been helpful over the years, like Trillian and Impatica, Softchalk and a gradebook tool...I'm clamping down security and uploading (right now) every spyware/adware/virus protection gizmo I've come to trust. I've even figured out a way to automatically tack the file/path name to every document I generate from now on, so I won't waste time poking around in my PC hunting for a file.
Maybe this will even revolutionize my cyberself, altogether. Maybe, since my template for blogger has been lost, I'll revamp even this blog's look, sometime soon.
So, I've cycled through all the stages of grieving now. Yesterday wasn't pretty, but I'm coming around. Yesterday, for just an instant, I was so angry I wanted to destroy my PC, a la "Office Space." I came to depression over just how much I've lost, how many links I may never retrace...that's still resurfacing...I returned from a break in denial, though fleeting--and I'm camping somewhere on acceptance.
Gameshow host names are coveted, if any reader has a recommendation...
...and NO, I did not back things up well. I lost somewhere around 200 bookmarked sites I so loved. I lost all my creative writing (secretly done on company time, so 'serves me right!). I lost virtually every handout, lesson plan, submitted/graded assignment, etc...two years' worth of content/materials I'll be challenged to recreate.
*sigh*
The good news: we can rebuild him. (From the 6 million $ man)
Stronger, faster, more organized...that will be my new PC (at the moment, un-named). Already I've been constructing more logical folder names, improvements on "odd stuff" or "old" or "omniscience found here." I'm reloading the gadgets and gizmos and shortcuts and programs that have been helpful over the years, like Trillian and Impatica, Softchalk and a gradebook tool...I'm clamping down security and uploading (right now) every spyware/adware/virus protection gizmo I've come to trust. I've even figured out a way to automatically tack the file/path name to every document I generate from now on, so I won't waste time poking around in my PC hunting for a file.
Maybe this will even revolutionize my cyberself, altogether. Maybe, since my template for blogger has been lost, I'll revamp even this blog's look, sometime soon.
So, I've cycled through all the stages of grieving now. Yesterday wasn't pretty, but I'm coming around. Yesterday, for just an instant, I was so angry I wanted to destroy my PC, a la "Office Space." I came to depression over just how much I've lost, how many links I may never retrace...that's still resurfacing...I returned from a break in denial, though fleeting--and I'm camping somewhere on acceptance.
Gameshow host names are coveted, if any reader has a recommendation...
Monday, February 26, 2007
In the Garden
Why does it take someone 50 years to get back to their roots? I mean really, literal roots. Actually, I guess it was more like 30 years ago, when I was growing up, we raised a mighty-big garden for a few years...then, ever-after, nothing but a house plant now and then.
Underneath it all, behind the suit, tie and designer glasses, I'm just a country boy at heart. My values are much more consistent with Mother Earth News than Mother Jones. I have deep respect for sustainability and independence and all-things-natural...so why have I been so dreadfully disconnected?
This summer will mark my return to the earth. I will plant my feet in the soil and see what sprouts (maybe more hair...someone told me mine's getting thin). I've been amassing gardening books and tools. I've been plotting and planning all over my acreage. Soon I will break ground, then all hell will break loose. I really look forward to getting back to the earth!
My wife is worried, I think...readers of this blog know this too: I tend to go too far with such enterprises. I may likely plow the whole property and get very ambitious, then wither on the vine, so to speak, burning out before I get too far. She's also likely worried on another count...she's been with me to 100's of garage and estate sales, marveled at "little old people's gardening obsessions" and now her ol' man's about to pick up his plow.
Surely it's a sign of old age if not maturity.
Underneath it all, behind the suit, tie and designer glasses, I'm just a country boy at heart. My values are much more consistent with Mother Earth News than Mother Jones. I have deep respect for sustainability and independence and all-things-natural...so why have I been so dreadfully disconnected?
This summer will mark my return to the earth. I will plant my feet in the soil and see what sprouts (maybe more hair...someone told me mine's getting thin). I've been amassing gardening books and tools. I've been plotting and planning all over my acreage. Soon I will break ground, then all hell will break loose. I really look forward to getting back to the earth!
My wife is worried, I think...readers of this blog know this too: I tend to go too far with such enterprises. I may likely plow the whole property and get very ambitious, then wither on the vine, so to speak, burning out before I get too far. She's also likely worried on another count...she's been with me to 100's of garage and estate sales, marveled at "little old people's gardening obsessions" and now her ol' man's about to pick up his plow.
Surely it's a sign of old age if not maturity.
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