Cette fois que tu m'embrasse, au bout de notre rue Les lampes de gaz nous allumiere... (Valentine Moon)
The moon is rising, she said, and we bundled the kids up in blankets and scarves, loaded them together on to the runner sled for a haul up to the meadow.
Six months since we settled, and our first under our backyard trees postdusk. The path was unfamiliar, almostdark. Under cover of pinebranch the pristine snow obscured still-unfamiliar roots. Our boots slipped and filled with snow. The sled tipped twice. The infant first faced with snow faced it face first.
And though the slog was strenuous, our feet were light. For there, in the middle of it all, just a hundred yards and a million miles from our own warm stoves and couches, the world opened up all-of-a-wow.
The meadow was a revelation, startlingly open to the night sky. And there on the horizon, bracketed by cloud, rose the moon.
What's that? asked Cassia. Moon, we told her. Pretty moon, she replied, and we agreed.
At my feet Willow laughed, pushed glowsticks into the snow, making doubleyous.
Across a pure sheet of reed-broken white, the meadow glowed in streaks from the treebroken moonlight.
We smiled at each other in the halflight, just long enough to make forever.
And then we disappeared into the dark, separate but together, warm in our hearts, children in our arms.
You can have your flowers, your chocolate, your cards. For Valentine's Day this year my wife brought me the bright moon, the stars, the crisp clear night air; bakyard adventure and the family to share it with.
Slashdot reports on recent research which determines that I've only a 50-50 chance of ascertaining the tone of any e-mail message. The study also shows that people think they've correctly interpreted the tone of e-mails they receive 90 percent of the time.
(In true Slashdot fashion, the toneless thread then beats it to death, pre-empting most expansion herein.)
No clarity on whether the emoticon counts for much, plus or minus, in the original study. But the coinflip odds for interpretation suggest that tonality is truly absent from purely textual, one-shot e-speech, though surely context and design/typographic cues can make some difference in more real-world cases, especially when we're talking about ongoing dialog or more mediarich examples of textographic communication.
That said, we'll still file this under a phenom common to all human behavior -- that of thinking that we're better at most interpretive tasks than we actually are. Interesting to see hard numbers, though.
Had so much fun polishing the children's story I'm thinking of writing another one this summer instead of, say, a novel. Or maybe I'll just shop this one around for a while.
Serious consideration given tonight to dropping the formality of my commitment to literary bibliography (but not the commitment itself) a la Some Books in Some Weeks. It's not that I'm not reading the good stuff; it's that the Sunday night stress is getting to me.
Two and a half feet of snow, twenty miles to commute, and I'm just worried about getting out of the driveway tomorrow. At least the garage keeps the cars cleared.
Finally got the video, though the camera battery died seven seconds in. We'll have it in the shop this week to get the battery case open; in the meantime, enjoy a short clip of this year's indoor olympics courtesy of YouTube.
Other Olympic events today included "walking in two feet of snowpowder with Willow" and "one-and-a-half man long-distance driveway sledding". Who needs TV when there's snow?
Snow overnight: 7 inches since the first dusting long after midnight and it's still falling, white and fluffy as a snowglobe.
Up with the baby at dawn to see: an hour on the floor, while her sister and Mama slept late, set the tone for a snuggly day-to-come of hot chocolate and household laziness.
At ten months she's come alive anew. I tried to catch some video of her "walking", tiny hands clutching the small stuffed sheep on wheels as she pushes herself along, but the battery case of our camera is stuck shut; I gave up before the day could sour.
If you could see it, there'd be chickadees and nuthatches, a few solo junkoes flutter from laden tree to seedfeeder and back again, their light bodies causing avalanches on each branch as they land anew.
In the big picture windows the wind blows sporadic, sending squalls across the window. Each gust blurs out the universe, making our cozy indoor haven more real by comparison.
Here in the home the family slowly comes to morning. As I write, Willow struggles with a fresh pair of feet pajamas; infant Cassia heads up for a nap with Mama, tired after a morning's play and wonder with Daddy. The senses fill beyond the camera capturable: light jazz on the Sunday radio; warm fire in the pellet stove; the sweet sounds of rustling cereal boxes, a household full of tiny female wakewhispers.
Somewhere under these heavy white blankets green shoots are dying. One day, these memories will be all we have.
[Update 9:59 am: Not enough battery for video, but I did manage to squeeze a few pix off before the camera went dead. Click on pix below for larger images and access to the whole underutilized album, courtesy of flickr.
Cassia Jade: ten months old and already a morning person.
After a year sans television reception I've discovered You Tube, and it is good addictive. From Family Guy clips to the oddest of homevideos, pre-filtered, commercial-free, and tiny for your viewing enjoyment!
First dental appointment for the 3 year old today, and what a wonderful pace-setting experience it was: big cheery rooms, a preschool-toned Dental aide who helped Willow handle and explore everything from chair to spitsink before use, just the right toys and games during the breaks, and a thousand compliments on her perfect dentition went a long way towards making us all feel right at home. Even the heavy Barney and Barbie themes in the aftervisit stickers and take-home book -- often a turn-off for us -- were overwhelmed by the genuine heartfelt tone.
If you live near or around the Springfield/Chicopee area and are looking for a kids-only dentist, I highly recommend the family practice of Drs. Quinn and Quinn; not sure which one we saw, but the whole place was just so kidfriendly it hardly matters. Hoorah for a health plan that includes preventative dental for kids under twelve, especially when it's accepted by such a thoughtful practice.
The infant, too, becomes toothier by the day; though she was a bit cranky today after yesterday's polio shot, any day populated by so many two-top, two-bottom wideyed grins is a good one in my book. Just don't stick your fingers in that tiny mouth -- her bite is exclusively reactive right now, but it remains a hundred times worse than her bark.
Usually I try to respect brands wherever possible, but two egregious examples today seem entirely deserving of public ridicule.
1. Yet another proud "dear community" email from the ex-employer, this time asking me to acknowledge and celebrate a changing of the guard on the same trustees chairship which made the call to consolidate -- and cost me my job. Slightly better than the email which invited me to pay for the priviledge of celebrating that selfsame consolidation just after it happened, but still far beyond the bounds of good taste and good judgment.
Hint to those who would survive in the cutthroat world of the prep school: if you fire rightsize someone, it's generally considered polite to leave them the hell alone, not add their names to your alumni mailings. Keep asking them to celebrate the company that treated them so poorly, on the other hand, and you're liable to end up facing bad blood, bad sportsmanship, and a bad reputation.
2. If I Had 1,000,000 on the instore speakers at the Ocean State Job Lot tonight, a sorry coincidence of parodic commercialist dream and pre-dented reality which lent just the right tough of despair to a meander through the pasteboard dregs of the offbrand world. Still unclear myself on how two otherwise entirely familiar three-letter words combine to mean "cheap stuff other stores couldn't sell."
Updated sidebar this evening: new poemlinks for poems new and naive; recalibrated "coming soon" and "year ago" sections heavy on the personal, the anti-PC. Wander at your leisure; maybe you'll learn something.
Also: a comprehensive removal of the albatross that was the 52 Books in 52 Weeks section. I'm still reading -- am halfway through Doctorow's Eastern Standard Time as we speak -- it's just that blogging about books turned out to be someone else's cuppa. Different parts of the brain or something.
I'm in too deep to know for sure how much of the hilarity springs from my own geekitude. But from here, two guys, a noob manager, and their upstairs boss manage to pin down the spectrum of corporate IT with slapstick perfection to rival Red Dwarf. The dumb only makes it smarter. Or something like that.
Busy week, at home and at work, so of course I'll be blogging about it instead of working. Insert rueful-yet-smiley emoticon here.
Fairly, I earned some "me time" yesterday. Breezed through my first of two yearly school principal teaching obervations thanks to some great kids and a fun curricular unit (googlemastery, with superbowl trivia as searchsubject), but prep for the day was still serious work.
Now procrastinating: prep for this afternoon, where the yearbook crowd's penultimate meeting before deadline promises to be totally unproductive despite being 22 pages away from readiness. Note to self: If you take on yearbook advisor next year, organize the whole thing differently.
On the home front, three kinds of company to clean for and a tendency to fall asleep in my daughter's bed at the end of our bedtime ritual have exacerbated my lack of preparedness on the above. Waking up late for work, miles from the alarm clock, has become a constant concern.
Also in the way, though worth it: taking cars into the shop this week for brakes and inspection to avoid a much more serious meaning to today's blogtitle. Turns out the recent sluggish performance of the Mercury was due to mice in the engine block, which led to chewholes and flammability all over the wiring.
Long-term solution, if this ever happens to you, is to tape mothballs under the hood, and in the fenders. Not sure how to stop envisioning mice running on little wheels -- a new sort of hybrid -- when I drive, though.
Interestingly, the CNN obit on Friedan ref'd above is gorgeously and appropriately detailed, putting Wikipedia's entry to shame; if anyone feels like taking a crack at the entry, a generation of thirdwave feminists would appreciate the crackage. CNN loses points, however, for how quickly her obit fell off the CNN front page, especially as the Lewislink stuck around until this evening.
Bussed it into Boston yesterday for a trip to the new Ikea bluebox with Dad, which beat the New Haven store for sheer synchronized commercialistic experience to an overwhelming degree. Careful behavioral management kept us teetering but still in the zone for a good four hours, though. Hints for those who plan to go nordic include zen-centering snackstops both upon arrival and between floors, and competing with fellow travelers to find the goofiest product name -- potential winners this trip included a blue vase named fragil, another vase of clear cubed glass named rektangel, groggy the hipflask, and a kitchen handheld of dubious usevalue called, simply, produkt.
Arrived home in a borrowed Lexus to discover the Crayola stain removal site floating unattended on the laptop and the water rushing upstairs; climbed up to find a startlingly cerulean-streaked three year old splashing proudly after an evening romp dipping marker in the sink and then smearing the startlingly deep and potent result over every inch of her body. We managed to scrub her face down just enough to turn her into a fourteen year old goth, light on yesterday's eyeshadow and pale as a ghost. The blue hairstreak and the arms thick with blueveiny lines complete the look; it's a good thing she's only three feet tall, else strangers would mistake her for a true teen.
Lent Lexus, by the way, will allow us to rotate our own cars through a much needed shopvisit: brakes, overdue inspections, and oil changes for both are on the table. The Grand Marquis, a powder blue couch-on-wheels oldguymobile which once belonged to my Floridian grandparents, will go in tomorrow, with the darker blue familycar to follow in turn. Thanks to Mom for letting us live in luxury for a while.
I was going to post Joni Mitchell's Blue and a cover of I'm Blue by some random german faux-1930s cabaret megaphone guy to transcend the usual topical trifecta, but I seem to have been shut out of any and all past-possible webstorage spaces. The resultant 3 out of four explains the cryptic reference to time signature in today's blogtitle. Quelle horrible. Blue indeed.
2. If you love versions in general and a particular original both, mashups provide major music mileage. Best mashup, hands down: Green Day vs. Oasis over at Party Ben. His Fugazi vs. Destiny's Child is pretty solid, too. Still looking for Snoop Dogg vs. Crowded House, if anyone's got it.
3. Over at new find berkeleyplace, Ekko is ponying up a free CD to folks willing to propose a) a coversong for The Exit, and b) the ultimate fantasy cover. My submission: Hole's "Doll Parts" or Ryan Adams "La Cienega Just Smiles" for The Exit, and wouldn't it be totally sweet if Evan Dando and Juliana Hatfield slowed down "Don't Let's Start" by They Might Be Giants? Steal my sunshine, if you dare.
5. Afterthought shoutout to those who listened to my coversongs mini-cast on the Blogexplosion chat this evening: The Kidzbop cover of Green Day's Boulevard of Broken Dreams, three covers of Wonderwall (Cat Powers, Ryan Adams, and Paul Anka), the mashup of the two from #2 above, and a Hindu Rodeo skacover of "I'm Only Sleeping". Could it be I've got a radio audience again? Tune in tomorrow night, and we'll see...
I've been getting 403 errors over at the groupblog, though as a blogadmin I don't see anything obviously wrong. Pity, as things were getting interesting over there. Assuming the link works eventually, feel free to check out my recent paean to driveway ice chipping, blogged to the tune of If I Had A Hammer.
Increasingly proud of my work over at the Teaching with Technology blog I write for my middle school teachers, though last week's entry was made moot by a full-scale Internet outage. This week's topic: Teaching Without a Net, a McLuhanesque, somewhat anti-webquest treatise on remixing materials for the particular needs of your students rather than merely leaning on the vast wide web.
On a more lengthy-yet-topical medialit note: in a matter of months, Blogexplosion's diversified their service far beyond the old traffic exchange model, adding everything from open-voting blogbattles-for-traffic to a multitude of games and lottery-esque point-gathering activities.
The results seem mixed -- for example, while the phenom of renting tiny screenshot-as-link boxes on other blogs seems popular, most net few linkbacks; similarly, replacing the front-page chatbox with a full audio-visual solospace makes for some hilarious late-night sessions watching drunken swedish bloggers sing showtunes, but seems to have reduced active chat participation to a static and miniscule crowd.
But it may be neither the once-removed nature of the newchat, nor the more intimate and in-crowd a/v group therein, to blame. How else to interpret the phrase some members simply hate surfing for credits in the midst of today's email describing two more new products?
Has the day of the traffic exchange passed? Or is this merely another example of deserting a good, basic business model for transparent bells and whistles? Sadly, though causality is not often so obvious, it's beginning to look like the end of blogexplosion either way.
There was a part of me that seems to have genuinely believed that I would never get sick again.
But here I am, just three weeks after quitting smoking, intellect alternately fighting and ignoring what seems to be a relatively functional but seriously affective cold.
Same swollen back keeping me up all night. Same swollen glands pushing at the swallow. The tickle at the back of the throat. The dry cough. And oh, the tired.
I crashed at nine last night, tossed and turned in pain, felt zombified when I awoke this morning in the dark. Made it through the day but lost control of every single one of my classes, a high risk and almost irreversable loss this early in the term. Couchnapped when I got home; up for a speechless supper with head on the table; fell asleep with Willow throughout our bedtime routine of three stories, a soft massage, a hundred counted sheep.
It's like I've got five good hours in me now, instead of the usual fourteen, and I need all eight for school.
I miss having my full self for my family.
I miss trusting my full mind at my disposal.
I miss cigarettes, damnit.
But not so much as yesterday.
And I suppose the sick symptoms were worse when exacerbated by periodic trips to the cold outerworld. And the athsmatic lung ache. And the rawness of the smokefilled maw.
A day that starts with a half-awake child pleading for you to stay home, daddy, please don't go to work, I don't want you to go away is both heartbreaking and completely, utterly fulfilling.
The bond had only deepened by lunch with family at the Friendly's flagship, where the fries and burgers are more real, more delicious, more perfectly adjacent to the company store and corporate offices. The sweet old couple at the next table over stared at our snuggly quartet throughout the meal, but in a good way, not a creepy way; they gave us a coupon for two bucks off a kids meal when they left, which made us all feel good.
I'd snuck out to meet the fam after yet another test-run of a local pre-school, this one just down the street from work. It fronts on a strip mall, but Darcie said it was otherwise, finally, a desirable placement for kidWillow: well-run, anti-commercial, grounded and environmentally centered, available two half days a week. Better: there's plenty of spots open. Best: no need to call it until Darcie checks out one last possibility next week.
On my "light schedule" at school I explained programming by hypothesizing, in turn, an electronic toaster, a monkey trained to dance, and a machine which turns fruit into other fruit (but not a machine that turns fruit into the same fruit, because that's a refrigerator, and I already have one of those).
In and around I spent an hour doing the best kind of holistic instruction and guidance with one teacher, another hour solving with creative intuition and handsoff talkthrough five difficult "just-in-time" peer user issues. Lent visible value to several parent/ kid/ teacher meetings. Planned three weeks of lab partnerships, juggled not enough technology to serve far too many wonderful, creative teachers eager to learn from me, and thus make me seem irreplacable. All in plain view, and each one a home run. I hardly minded leaving at 3:45.
Home; the girls happy to see me, the older focused so well for once that we were able to sustain a gentle balloon toss for much of her post-shower hour. Infant Cassia suddently sprouted baby signs, adds vocabulary every day, makes careful choices and communicates her preferences even as they change. She's learned to full-body hug. And her hair is getting redder, instead of fading out to blonde as mine did at her age.
Twenty days and counting since that last puff. Today I went entire minutes without thinking about cigarettes. Realized that saving that new cashmere peacoat until this week means it will never smell of that telltale smoke.
Thank you, oh Lord. For your bounty, and for your strength.
What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone’s heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone’s hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don’t really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn’t have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war
In order to keep from stressing over my new commitment to literary bar-raising, I'm letting the 52 Books in 52 Weeks come naturally. Other than a penchant to avoid field-specific nonfiction the blase approach seems to be working. Four weeks in, and I just finished book four without even realizing it was on the list.
I did promise myself to blog more about the books themselves, rather than letting them fade into the mass consciousness. But Jonathan Safran Foer's second novel is so gorgeous it leaves me speechless.
If you haven't read this tight multigenerational, temporally untrustworthy tale of language, loss, family and fears, read the first chapter online, and then call your library right this minute to reserve the rest of it. You won't be sorry, and you might even cry.
posted by boyhowdy |
1:59 AM |
1 comments Saturday, January 28, 2006
My Fellow Americans...
Over at the evergrowing groupblog, Shaw asks: If you were to give a State of the Union speech, what would you say?
Far be it for me to pass up a chance to rant off the tip of my typers.
Will the meeting run long? Can I leave campus on my lunchbreak without being late for my noon class? How many smokestops on a drive to Boston is too many, and are there more opportunities to pull off if we take the turnpike?
For the entirety of my adult life, I've avoided movies longer than ninety minutes for fear that the ushers wouldn't let me back in. Ask any smoker. The smoking life is holistic and comprehensive: every goddamn moment, bar none, is on one very real level of consciousness but a single step in an eternal dance to balance intake.
As such, the suddenly ex-smoker finds himself faced with an effectively infinite pattern of confrontation, a tightrope of constant reminders that Here Was Smoking. I settle in behind the wheel and open the window unthinkingly. I get up from the dinner table and make it halfway to the door. From the second of first consciousness each morning to the bedtime housecheck, a life once built around a mere twenty tiny pocketpuffs becomes a life unsteady, unmoored, and oh, so suddenly, fully unsure.
As long as the unrelentless nag remains, this new smokeless life is no easier. I still want one every damn minute of the day. As of this moment, at least, the prospect of finally sitting through an entire movie in one sitting is little consolation.
What I miss:
Five minute breaks throughout the ever-zany life. Leaving work every midday for a fifteen minute automotive moment, and coming back rejuvenated, recentered, and practically post-meditative. Being outside through seasons both dark and day. The silence of the outer world just before bed. That first drag. That last drag. The postcoital. The postprandial. Coffee and chainsmoking. Cigarettes and beer. The act. The flavor. The shared spark among smokers. The ritual of it all.
I didn't pick the quitdate, and -- though I know it will be an impossibility -- I still secretly harbor dreams of becoming one of those take-it-or-leave it smokers, the ones who never bother buying cigarettes, and smoke socially. I'm not the one to make promises to the self beyond the now; I find the secret self ornery enough to break such rules just because they are there.
No smoker ever really quit because of the intellect -- we know, damn you all, whatever it is you can tell us about the dangers and damage. I've known those lost to the diseases; known the annual verge of penumonia; smoked through both. Three years I worked just down the hall from the diseased smoker's lung exhibit at the Boston Museum of Science; I didn't quit then, and I care not a whit about your stupid research.
I have no idea why I quit this time around, come to think of it. Maybe it's better not to dwell here, lest I discover my anathema, my bane, and in doing so become smitten with the everfalse evertempting idea of self-sufficiency through countermeasure.
Still, for what it's worth and whatever reason, I seem to have quit. And though they are neither reason nor truly reward, it is true that for every loss there is a small balance. The tiny cracks in my cocoon show hints of glimmerglory. The oddly unconsidered benefits poke through like spring shoots.
What I've found:
Continuity with the kids. Longevity of focus in my daily routine. Tastes delicate and bold, subtle and sardonic. The pride of determination. The adultness of follow-through. The shared stories of the exsmoker community. The support of friends old and suddenly supportive. The smell of laundry, and my daughters' hair. No more ashtray mouth. Peace instead of panic.
Seventeen days, 10 hours, and fifteen minutes since my last cigarette. I think I can, I think I can...
Author's note: I've been working on this orally with my daughter for a few years, and tonight it seemed like it was finally all coming together. It's a bedtime story, told in the dark in whispered tones, and as such is on its very first draft textually-speaking -- please offer comments and criticism below if you can. License and distribution information follow the story.
The Ladybug Who Had No Spots
Once there was a ladybug who had no spots And that is a terrible thing to be
Or so she thought Though her friends said otherwise
But the ladybug was unhappy And one morning, she spread her wings, and flew
Over mountains and oceans Over deserts and plains
Until she came to a jungle
And there in the jungle she met a leopard.
Oh Leopard, said the ladybug
I am a ladybug who has no spots And that is a terrible thing to be But you have such beautiful spots Could you spare some spots for me?
Oh, no, said the Leopard. I need my spots.
They help me hide in the shadows When I am hunting my food So I cannot be seen.
If I gave you my spots, I would stand out against the trees.
I would be hungry.
So, no, said the Leopard. I will keep my spots. I am sorry, Ladybug.
Thank you anyway, said the ladybug And she spread her wings and flew
Over beaches and shipyards Over bridges and bays
Until she came to the city.
And there on a busy sidewalk She met a Dalmation.
Oh, Dalmation, said the ladybug
I am a ladybug with no spots And that is a terrible thing to be But you have such beautiful black spots Could you spare some spots for me?
Oh, no, said the Dalmation I need my spots.
They help me stand out against the snow and fog So the fire engine can follow me to the fire And put it out.
If I gave you my spots I would fade into the city And the firemen would not know where to go.
Fires would not get put out.
So, no, said the Dalmation I will keep my spots.
I am so sorry, ladybug.
Thanks anyway, said the ladybug And she spread her wings and flew
Over houses and churches Over playgrounds and schools
Until she came to a garden
And there at the entrance to the garden was a rock All covered with small black spots
But when the ladybug spoke up Each spot spread its wings And a hundred flies flew into the air.
Sadly, the ladybug went into the garden Looking for a place to rest.
And there in the last garden rows She saw some tomato plants
Each ripe red tomato Was covered in tiny black spots Just right for a ladybug’s back.
Oh, tomatoes, said the ladybug I am a ladybug who has no spots And that is a terrible thing to be. But you have such beautiful, black, tiny spots Could you spare some spots for me?
Well, said the tomatoes,
Our spots tell people that we are not good to eat
But tomatoes are for eating And we wish to make people happy With our juices and our ripeness.
So yes, said the tomatoes Please, take our spots
Thank you, said the ladybug.
And she gathered all the spots she could carry on her back And flew away
Over countries and continents Over cities and jungles Over the world
Until she arrived home
And found all her friends so happy to see her And so happy that she was happy
That they threw her a spot party.
They played pin the spot on the leopard And pretended they were fire trucks and dalmations And spread their wings and flew thick as flies To a picnic lunch of sweet red tomatoes.
And when the party was over The ladybug went back to her home
And put every last spot away carefully
And smiled at herself in the mirror
And fell asleep.
I am seriously hoping to shop this around if it continues to come together. If you know any children's book illustrators looking for a project, have contacts at a publishing house, or are a parent or teacher looking for a new story to read with your kid, feel free to use and distribute The Ladybug Who Had No Spots under the following smallprint terms:
In human terms, the above license allows all users to copy, distribute, display and perform the work under the following conditions:
You may not use this work for commercial purposes.
You must attribute this work in all uses except in the case of home or classroom-based performances where all audience members are under the age of 8.
You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work, especially by adding illustrations to accompany the text, except in the case of home or classroom-based illustration and text layout where all illustrators are under the age of 8.
For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the license terms of this work.
Any of these conditions can be waived with permission from the copyright holder.
Just wrote this poem, which was kind of about writing emails to you (and to my father), and tried to post it on my blog. But I couldn't, because blogger is down. Something about planned maintenance.
So I went to the other blogger blog I belong to, and tried to post about how annoying it all was.
No luck. Seems blogger is down for planned maintenance. Why don't they warn us about these things?
Anyway. Here's the poem.
Because I Know How To Talk To Everyone
Because I know how to talk to everyone When I write you letters
I feel guilty For witholding my words from everybody but you Like roses taken from a public park,
For not broadcasting all the time, Because I know how to talk the game.
And then I feel guilty that I prefer the anonymity Of crowd to the realness of you So I pretend you are imaginary And I forget about everything else but The part of me that I pretend is you And I craft my words for hours.
This is why my letters are so beautiful, And why I have stopped writing poetry.
Randomalia: The Learning Edition Now available in bite-sized nuggets!
New term at work = All new students = Back to curricular square one. Two days of "is an iPod a computer?" complete with props, iPod, and enough cool walk-in music to set a term's worth of tone; rinse by Friday; repeat. Like starting over, but better prepared.
Can't tell if Cassia's trying to whistle or just say bird; either way, she's a quick study. Drinking out out of screw-top water bottles solo at nine months with little spill (and a happyproud "wet!" if she does) = pricelessly precocious. Also new today: hey, the toy car goes!
In just two hour-long sessions since Sunday, and with no previous experience touching "daddy's computer", Willow mastered mousepad, leftclicking, flashgame premises, even easter eggs (I'm looking everywhere, Daddy!). Today she found, figured out and played several Winnie The Pooh games all by herself! Hoorah for PBS Kids and a surprisingly deep and healthy Disney preschool presence. Imagine what she'll do when she can read.
In prep for the workblog: Without a Net: web whacking, local caching, and other ways to save your butt by moving class content. 'cause the noveau-suburban middle school ISP has been down since last Wednesday. Alternate title: From Net to Network (Or Else)! Note to self: no Internet in school = no rush to post this week.
Two weeks since my last cigarette. People always said the craving never goes away, but it gets better than this, right? On the bright side, my throat doesn't hurt after a day of lecturing, 2% milk tastes creamy and delicious, and my daughters smell like sweetgrass and babysweat.
The music waned from my life slowly. Having children of my own led to less and finally no more paid-for concert chaperonage. After six and a half years behind the mic, I spun my last weekly radio show. The loss of a true commute to work left me bereft of even the daily radio pop randomalia, the last best resort for the occasionally new and otherwise unheard.
But there was always the record, the earbud, the totally-wired audio environment. Sure, the CDs were expensive, but they stacked up in the thousands; yes, the speaker volume dropped lower each year as the faily grew and the spaces we inhabited shruk to fit. But from my first adolescent armored walkman to the finally substantive wallsystem of my 30th birthday, the music was still everywhere I needed it to be.
And then, one day, it wasn't.
The CD player in the car died just before we hit the road in June, kicked out of work and home for the unknown, our little band of four in close quarters, living in the car. We had nowhere to put the stereo; it lived in storage in Greenfield, an hour away from wherever we were.
I had the iPod, for a while -- full of the better CDs, a year's worth of more recent downloads -- a lifeline of music, enough to get me anywhere. No way to add music from the road, but a static collection was better than none.
Then it got stolen, of course. Finally, I got a new one, and the computer died reloading it. More stasis, and those 3000 sounds were starting to go stale. I thought my audiofix would never come in. But the laptop seems stable, and the 'pod's hardly scratched.
After four months of audio famine the feast has arrived.
Which is to say: I've been downloading music, and the world is spring again. Here's what's stuck in my head, and where to get it stuck in yours:
It's easy to procrastinate here. There's wood to stack, kids to play with, trails to meander behind the house. At night, when the kids go to bed, there's IM, the blogosphere, the newly-instated iPod to pimp.
Never made it to the Worcester Ecotarium yesterday -- Willow was a bit too stuffy, too cranky for public consumption -- but we had the in-laws in all this morning, for hangout and a scrummy brunch at the only real restaurant in town.
Managed to finish this year's Best American Short Stories collection, which I'm counting as book 3 in my 52 Books series, in and around the rest of it. And the wife and I stayed up to watch a couple of West Wing episodes and Richard Pryor's Live from the Sunset Strip, a seminal work which comes off as unfortunately dated, just like my father said it would.
Even showed her the right way to peel a banana, a discovery which is absolutely stunning, and leads to far too much time trying to figure out how humans managed to acculturate to the "stupid" way while monkeys sat and laughed at us. (My guess: the stem looks like a handle, so we overthink it. But now that the secret's out, will the meme move far and wee enough, retrain us all in "this genius monkey technique"?)
Yet despite my self-destructive best, I nonetheless managed to finish 90% of my end-of-term grading in just two 2-hour bursts of hyperfocus.
It is an immense relief to realize that grading at the middle school level is going to be a good 50% easier than high school ever was. I'd set aside tomorrow evening on emergency reserve, but it looks like I'll be able to get a good night's sleep for once instead. Now all I have to do is ascribe 150 discrete conduct and effort grades, and submit the gradebooks from within the school network. Piece of cake.
It's the end of the term, I said. I have all these papers to grade, a backlog produced over two weeks with a sub, and only just now handled. So much multimedia to revisit, PowerPoints to peruse. A low hundred grades to calculate.
I might be a little late from school just gathering it all in, I said.
She was on line 1 in the office at day's end. It's such a nice day outside, she said. Let's go to Northampton.
I had spent a day saying farewell to this term's students, techtip teaching as needed as students wrote letters to next term's students, an exercise which I find makes painless the self-assessment so valuable to the grading process.
I sat in on a special ed student's yearly Independent Education Plan review. I filled planning periods and lunch delivering a redundant series of one-on-one last-gasp just-in-time training sessions on grading software for my teaching peers.
I stayed an extra hour with the school technician, in on his off day and after school to finally grant me local admin-level access to my own laptop.
And so I threw my grading fodder in the car, and we headed up to meet Ginny for sushi. And the original Herrell's ice cream, where in a fit of menu pressure I accidentally invented the world's best milkshake: premium Cocolate Hostess Cupcake ice cream, chocolate syrup, milk, and half a banana.
And now I sit, planning yet another desperate weekend's dance routine, the old soft shoe shuffle around the teacher's bane.
So much to do.
Tonight on my newly mutable, finally trustable computer, I've reinstated the iTunes/iPod synch, enabled the flash and shockwave plugin base so necessary for everything from online kidplay to truly multimedia cybersurfing. I'm drinking the first beer since my birthday bronchitis.
Tomorrow we're going to the Worcester Science Museum. They've got free museum passes at the library in town, natch, so a bookbrowse first.
Monday brings mandatory attendance at an all-day writing-across-the-curriculum workshop, another full day of just-in-time solo support for peer teachers' grading software submission, and another professional development day workshop, this one on curricular integration models for streaming video, in my lab, and under my tech support. All simultaneously.
Three years ago, in a particularily generative, hyperfocused moment of grading period procrastination, I started this blog.
80 hours 'til deadline, I've already invented the perfect milkshake and reinstated my beloved digital media cocoon.
Stand back, world. Stress creates diamonds from coal.
My name is boyhowdy, and I have a transparent pseudonym.
Yeah, I posted my true wikiname in the previous entry. No, I won't go back. Why change the past when it is yours to embrace? Let the archival cache of the internet, the worlds largest unforgetting elephant, recouple first and second self.
A little research and a bit of close attention to context cues wil bring you to the meat-me, now short of hair but a bit longer of breath since last week's bout with asthmatic bronchitis and the doctor's subsequent mandate for sudden smoking cessation. Yes, me in all my glory: rediscovered by old friends using only the most obvious of keywords no less than thrice a week, on average.
There have been times -- o, many times indeed -- when I would not scream what I would write, would not stand by my words in a crowd. To realize that, as time moves ever onwards, I find myself trustworthy enough to allow myself to be found is without price.
The only problem is that some secrets are not ours to share. In a connected life, some risks cannot be isolated unto the self. Ironically, in a lifetime of wandering, more public means more taboos, content-wise.
And more taboos means a bit less life on the blogblock.
Blog about work? Only if you're willing to stand by your opinion in the potential face of willful parental misinterpretation, and risk family hearth to do so. Blog about the known personal problems of family and friends, however pseudonymic? Only if you accept that their arrival herein could reopen thinskin wounds, regardless of intent.
My parents drop in and watch my brain tick. My wife reads the blog and corrects my embellishments. My pre-literate daughters, in some ways the most important, most intentional of my once-and-future readership, should not have to see my heart and head in anger anywhere, even here.
Symptomatically speaking, for those of us that blog eclectically -- specificially, allowing the personal to intermingle with the professional and vocational -- it's a disconnected life that remains fully public. Unless you're heartless, I suppose. Or have guts I neither want nor afford.
In some ways, it's wonderful to realize that I've placed so much of my life off-limits and off-line. It means (I think) that I'm truly blogging for those close as well as half-imagined, that I blog with love for those I know, and that they visit to recieve it.
And so I take it as a sign of my growing closeness to family and friends that I not only have chosen to protect more of them, but have more of them to protect in the first place, as time goes along.
Sometimes it means more silence. But a little introspection never harmed the psyche in the long run.
And the world remains as rich as ever, ripe for wandering, sweet with wonder. As long as there is you and I, there will always be a blog. Though it may not contain as much of my heart as it once did, there is heart here aplenty, and it is good.
And the rest of the heart? Let's just say it's where it belongs. Another wonder. Another literacy. Another piece of the infinite self.
Let us remember not to treat the blog as the self, for there is always more than words to offer. And silence is, in truth, oft golden.
For my family and friends -- you know who you are.
Scavenged, snipped, and reworked from an email to my father. Because it was blogready, blogrelevant, and plenty linkified...and because it's good Coulton karma.
...The song "Ikea" is downloadable at Jonathan Coulton's website, which I also recommend for the oddest cover of Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back" ever.
I'd generally include direct links to the songs themselves, but Coulton prefers that you visit his page, not just pass along the link. That's partially because he makes these songs available by a Creative Commons licence which allows them to be freely downloaded and traded...but he does ask that, if you like the songs and have some cash, you consider donation in response. And you can't send a donation to an mp3.
Incidentally, Coulton specifically encourages his listeners to consider word-spreading, especially via blog, as donation. Thus, by passing this song to both you and Christina in the past week, I've actually paid him back for his music. It's an interesting post-digital economic model which semi-surprisingly realizes cash profit long-term; Cory Doctorow uses a similar premise, though in his case he doesn't want donations; he's happy to let folks buy books if they want, and seems to be solvent as a result.
It's a pay-what-you-wish potlatch world, I guess. Proof that the anti-mp3-trading folks have got their economics wrong, if nothing else.
More about Jonathan, who is the official Contributing Troubadour of Popular Science magazine, at Wikipedia. Who knew Popular Science had (or indeed needed) an official troubadour?
And the offer for company if you descide to wander out to the new Stoughton Ikea store still stands. It's my kind of place, actually -- all-consuming "nation-as-packaging-frame" commercialism at its most proto-phenomenological. And I'm curious to see exactly how identical the new Stoughton store is to the New Haven store -- supposedly, the storespecs are identical down to the last rivet, as if each Ikea store was a macroversion of the shelving and furniture they've made cheap and famous. Wonder if they deliver the stores in impossibly-heavy flat boxes of component parts, just like our coffee table, couch, and shelving?
...In other and very-much related news, the Eliza Gilkyson song we heard on the radio last night -- the one I was trying to think of this evening on the phone --is, according to amazon.com, "a surprise cover of World Party's 1993 hit "Is It Like Today." (See, I knew the word "world" was in there somewhere.)
The original song got some minor radioplay when it first came out; both Darcie and I recognized it, and she's not much of a pop-musicphile, so it must have been popular enough to stick in our ears all these years. Also possible the song crept into our audio-favor at one of Gilkyson's Falcon Ridge appearances, of course, but I recognized it as a cover song immediately, so the original must be somewhere in the grey matter.
You know I'm a cover nut, so I'm hoping to burn a copy of Gilkyson's Paradise Hotel when we next come in...but if you're feeling like a challenge tech-wise, I'd not object to you digitizing a copy of the song and sending it along as an email attachment...with the caveat that, if you copy it in iTunes, it will end up in a format that I cannot hear without iTunes, which I still cannot install on my laptop because it remains locked administratively, which in turn is merely because I have yet to be in school on the same day as the right technician, and won't be, at least until February.
That is, iTunes will "rip" the CD songs to iStuff-only format UNLESS you specify that you want to make a copy in .mp3 format. Tricky to push iTunes to do that, though. Fastest would be to use your PC-provided MusicMatch software to mp3-format the song.
Okay, that sounded technical even to me. Never mind, I guess. I can wait a couple weeks.
...Interestingly, while the subjectively-obscure Coulton has a full wikipedia article, wikipedia's entry on Eliza Gilkyson consists of ONLY a discography (given the user-created nature of Wikipedia and the general interest of those users, it makes sense that Coulton would get wikified first due to his net-slash-techgeek cache).
Wikipedia refers to Gilkyson's sort of entry as a "stub", meaning it is neither complete nor truly connected to other entries which might mention it. The Wikipedia entry on stub says:
Stubs are articles which have not yet received substantial attention from editors of the Wikipedia, and as such do not yet contain enough information to be truthfully considered articles. The community believes that stubs are far from worthless; they are, rather, the first step articles take on their course to becoming complete.
If you ever want to feel like you've made your mark on the web, adding value to Wikipedia is very satisfying. Or at least I've found it so. If you're there, check for the user "jfarber" (or just cheat by clicking here) to see three of the more recent additions I've made to what is increasingly recognized as a real and valid resource of some significant value, despite the esoteric and (in my opinion) media-overblown "danger" of the wiki-as-resource phenomenon we've discussed before.
Possible trivia tidbit which would help connect Eliza Gilkyson's entry to the rest of Wikipedia, incidentally, is that her brother, Tony Gilkyson, is/has been guitarist for the L.A. punk band "X". Even odder: Tony got his spot as a replacement for Dave Alvin. Amazing how much smaller the world grows each time I go online.
In the first place, the idea of gum that tasted like -- what, nothing? cigarette filters? what? -- was just a bit too weird. I'd started with the mint, and stuck with it through the introduction of a surely nasty Orange flavor; it seemed safe to assume that gumflavored gum was best.
I've been chewing nicotene gum for a while now, ever since I first tried to quit in earnest. Since then, multiple failed quit-dates have come and gone, but the gum stays regardless, ready to serve as barely acceptable nicfit substitute for long flights, long drives, and the occasional long meeting.
For most of that time, chronologically, I've been an occasional minteater.
But then I started teaching again, and the schedule doesn't allow cigarette breaks. I started taking a piece of gum before lunch, and couple more through my last classes.
And what we had was that Original flavor stuff, which -- honestly -- was bitter and tingly in weird places. Chewing it felt like chewing cardboard.
But somewhere along the line, I began to look forward to that odd taste. I relished the first burst of flavor, began to detect subtleties of foretaste and aftertaste. Nicotene gum got good to me. Like a friend.
And then, this week, I actually figured out how to quit.
Since Tuesday, I've chewed up half a box of that jaw-stiffening tingly treatment -- an hour or so of oral delivery at 4 mg and just about 70 cents a pop. But we ran out in Boston over the weekend, and all they had at the WalGreens was that mint stuff.
Each piece of which is too soft, too strong, too sweet, and two sizes too small.
I miss the full rich original flavor of nicotene gum. Oh, that hint of wax. Worth rooting through old coat pockets for.
Acquired tastes are funny. Beer once tasted bitter; moldy cheese was for playground jokes and cheese plates for company, not midnight pate-and-bagel snacks. I've just started eating fish in the past few years, after an oversensitive lifetime of strong icthyo-gag reflex. Caviar's not good to me yet, but it will be.
If experience matures what nurture and environment create, my daughters' tastes will not be mine. Already at 3 and a half to the dot, Willow talks southern barbecue, exotic vegetables, sushi; kani was one of her first words and her favorite finger food. Baby Cassia at 9 months prefers flute to drum, abstract concepts to concrete nouns, veggie puffs to anything. To wonder where they will wander from here is to envision a great and centering path before each.
Not everything can be acquired, of course. Nor is it all worth acquiring. Quite the contrary. We cultivate such simple singled-out pleasures not to consume, but to specialize, to reinvent ourselves in careful pleasures, to savor.
But you have to start somewhere. Choosing your path may be a constant affirmation, but it's knowing thyself that makes it all worthwhile.
And, once you've found them, a good country pate, some Eliza Gylkyson, a good idea, a keyboard, and thou make for a pretty damn rewarding oasis. Pass the gum.
I hate quotations. Tell me what you know. - Ralph Waldo Emerson
And you know, when you study the semiotics of Through the Looking Glass or watch every episode of Star Trek, you've got to make it pay off, so you throw a lot of study references into whatever you do later in life. - Matt Groening
She wrote secret web pages with gentle empty spaces where the universe could creep in and rest when it got overwhelmed. - Robin Williams
Cable news networks...often act as if the best way to present information is to serve the viewer two opposing advocates battling it out. But in many instances, this ends up confusing rather than illuminating. Not every fact is debatable, not every opinion equal -- or worth equal time. - David Corn
Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. - Arthur C. Clarke
This "telephone" has too many shortcomings to be seriously considered as a means of communication. The device is inherently of no use to us. - Western Union internal memo, 1876
The wireless music box has no imaginable commercial value. Who would pay for a message sent to nobody in particular? - David Sarnoff's associates, in response to his urging for investment in radio, 1920s
Computers in the future may weigh no more than 1.5 tons. - Popular Mechanics, 1949
There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home. - Ken Olson, President and founder of Digital, 1977
Subject: HIGH TECHNIQUE ELECTRICAL HOME APPLIANCES---COMPUTERIZE GAS KITCHEN
Date: Mon, 7 Jan 2002 08:53:27 +0000 (UTC)
From: "MRS WANG"
Organization: FUJIAN HUALI TECHNOLOGY CREATING CO,LTD
Do you like to comprehend a computer housemaid ? Do you like to own a blue soldier ? Today , SHIELD gives you the answer .
SHIELD is a computerize gas kitchen which is controlled automatically and intelligently. It is a world wide invention , is a new generation of the gas kitchen..
What is the benefits that SHIELD brings to us ? Firstly , it will relieve you out of the kitchen ,you shouldn't be in when you cook the food .Second ,it solved the problem that the food would be burned ,the soup be out and the gas be leaked .And it will make your family safer and healthier.
Do you want to understand much more merits about SHIELD? Please see the followings:
1. amounts and the kinds of food (boiling water, porridge, rice , soup ,fish ,meat ,medicine), SHIELD will regulate the temperature and time to cook automatically ,and the soap won't be out ,the food won't be burned .It will turn off the electric and gas source by itself ,and tell you by springing out the music .
2. when needing and you can set five times to light fire .
3. ,it will send out a big fire ,and when the temperature reached 100 ,it would change the flame .If the temperature is below 100 ,it will turn to be a big fire ,and keep the flame blue .The containing of CO is less than 0.04% of total .(standard :less than 0.05%) . And then it reduced the pollute .
4. B"CAutomatically limit the time of offering gas :It is 30 minutes that offering the gas. When cooking ,it won't be out whenever it is blew or watered .Because when the fire is out , it will light automatically. When the gas leaked ,the density reached up a level or the temperature of the platform is over 80 ,SHIELD will warn you and turn off the electric and gas source .
5. need ,it can set the temperature and heat the food by itself .
6. according to the container .
7. 70.51%(standard :higher than 55%).Comparing to the common gas kitchen ,it can save more than 40%source of total .
8. natural gas and marsh gas to cook , also can use many kinds of pans, such as iron pan ,aluminum pan and high pressured pan. SHIELD computerize gas kitchen is a housemaid , is a soldier .Is there anything more important than the safety and health of your family ?
Let us share more happy in our lives .Not to bore for the burned food, not to be sad for no time for cooking .For you love your family ,please begin with SHIELD .Possessing SHIELD is possessing love .