Oh great. Now, in the middle of my first semester at UH for the secondary education program (applied as an ENGLISH TEACHER), and after having taken the Praxis II (in ENGLISH), I receive a call today requesting an interview for... a SCIENCE TEACHING POSITION... Oh well. As they say, if you get lemons, make ... a sour face?
We'll see how they take the news during the interview. And if you don't hear about this again, well, let's assume you wouldn't want to hear about it again...
Friday, February 29, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
MR
there once was a boy
they called him "MR"
they told him it was short for mister
as they smiled that secret smile.
school was a room
an all day room
filled with kids that were
more animal or stone than kid
and a teacher who was
at best hostile
(because at least then he cared),
and at worst
self-medicated:
just like the stone-kids.
MR learned everything
and nothing in that room,
the world, they taught, was all walls
some he could see
like the chalkboard with the strange pictures
others he couldn't
like the one that made the words strange
and, when he tried to respond to them,
the same wall made the faces strange too,
made them mad, or screwed up, or
sometimes laughing.
MR didn't mind it when the faces laughed.
At least they were happy then,
and he would laugh too.
It would be the closest
the wall came to being a mirror.
they called him "MR"
they told him it was short for mister
as they smiled that secret smile.
school was a room
an all day room
filled with kids that were
more animal or stone than kid
and a teacher who was
at best hostile
(because at least then he cared),
and at worst
self-medicated:
just like the stone-kids.
MR learned everything
and nothing in that room,
the world, they taught, was all walls
some he could see
like the chalkboard with the strange pictures
others he couldn't
like the one that made the words strange
and, when he tried to respond to them,
the same wall made the faces strange too,
made them mad, or screwed up, or
sometimes laughing.
MR didn't mind it when the faces laughed.
At least they were happy then,
and he would laugh too.
It would be the closest
the wall came to being a mirror.
Monday, February 25, 2008
The Pants Leg Not Taken
...Just a silly random thought...
It is one of the hardest things to do as a parent. Yes, that's right, putting on a pair of jeans on a reluctant and squirming little boy. For some reason, tonight, I thought of Robert Frost's cliche poem, "The Road Not Taken." I am paraphrasing, but imagine reciting it as you go through the process of navigating the "fork" in a pair of jeans:
"Two roads diverged in a sylvan wood..." (refering, of course, to that critical "fork" at the groin...)
"...And I" (meaning the "second leg") "I took the path less traveled by
and that has made all the difference." (because- imagine- if the second leg followed the first... you get something that happens far too often, Aiden's stumbling and boyish laughter...)
It is one of the hardest things to do as a parent. Yes, that's right, putting on a pair of jeans on a reluctant and squirming little boy. For some reason, tonight, I thought of Robert Frost's cliche poem, "The Road Not Taken." I am paraphrasing, but imagine reciting it as you go through the process of navigating the "fork" in a pair of jeans:
"Two roads diverged in a sylvan wood..." (refering, of course, to that critical "fork" at the groin...)
"...And I" (meaning the "second leg") "I took the path less traveled by
and that has made all the difference." (because- imagine- if the second leg followed the first... you get something that happens far too often, Aiden's stumbling and boyish laughter...)
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Tired, yet again...
Just woke up, can't get back (immediately) to sleep... There is always so much to do. I have been having a hard time fitting in appointments during the M-Sat workweek, so oftentimes, well, always, they "bleed" into the weekends. And with Lynn's sister (and Soukan and baby Ian) visiting from Minnesota, it's hard to find any breathing time...
I recently started listening to "Lynn's Freak Mix," a mix of music I made for her when we were still just dating. Here's a sample (it really is a freak mix):
1) "I think God can explain" by Splendor (sp?)
2) "High and dry" by Radiohead
3) "99 Red Balloons" by Nene (english version)
4) "Old bathwater" by No Doubt (I call this the bunny hop song, or in taiko speak, the don don dododon song)
5) "Teenage dirtbag" by Wheatus
6) "Misery" by Soul Asylum
7) "The Wheel" by Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians
8) "Karma Police" by Radiohead...
etc.
I also threw in "Nanafushi" by Kodo and a few Debussy songs, including "Sunken Cathedral."
A lot of these songs are my favorite Karaoke tunes (or they would be, if they made Laser Discs of Dweeb songs). In particular, I like "Misery" by Soul Asylum. Back when I was in Japan, it was a new CD, and I listened to it like every day. So I suppose the songs on that CD evoke memories of that time.
Lyrics to the song:
"They say misery loves company
We could start a company
and make misery.
Frustrated incorporated..."
Jeez, was I frustrated back then. Feeling like, hum, not Sisyphus, but, oh yeah, TANTALUS (think of the mountain round here), surrounded by water but not having a drop to drink... I think when you are young, or at least you are still able to pretend you are, you can laugh a little at being alone, like it's just that you haven't found your "niche" yet, or that it's not you, it's something wrong with the world at large... But as time passes, as years pass, and nothing seems to change in your situation, you start to worry. Maybe, just maybe, something's wrong with your approach; maybe you've got a piece of spinach stuck on your front incisor; maybe your jokes are not only unfunny, but they reveal a bit too much about your idiosyncratic preoccupations.
Maybe, to sum it up, it's YOU.
...and then, worry worry panic (or as Nene sings: "worry worry super scurry"), the self doubt, the self examination begins, and every statement you make and every appearance you present goes through the uncertain censor, filtering, filtering...
It's a miracle, I suppose, that people like myself ever "got any..." Tripping over my own self-corrections... edited version of me.
***
The game we play in life, perhaps it only has a few set moves. Who knows how we inherited those moves, genetics or childhood experiences? But I think from a very early time, we only know how to react to the world in certain ways. If only we weren't aware of this fact, but like animals, almost seemed to rejoice in the way we react the same way to the same (or even different) stimuli, portrayed beauty akin to water that doesn't know anything other than finding a way down down down... But we always have the capability, the damnable (?) human capability, of stepping outside of our skin to look at ourselves "objectively", to critique, to "self-correct." And much as we talk of "civilization" and truisms like "history repeats itself," sometimes I wonder if we wouldn't all have just been better off without an overactive superego perched like a gargoyle over our experiences... Instead of a smooth and flawless performance on the stage of life, oftentimes we feel like there's someone loud and obnoxious jeering at our perceived mistakes, throwing popcorn and embarassing insults from the darkness and anonymity of the audience... We become an absurdity, a freak show, of OUR OWN MAKING.
The only moments of beauty I have discovered in myself have been those in which I was able to blind myself to myself, and just pretend that I WAS what I intended. Blindness, for me, is the secret to everything, my key out of my prison... There's a reason why Odysseus poked out the eye of the Cyclops, you see; it was the only way to steal away from the island.
(imperfectly recalled) Lyrics I am thinking about now (by some band I don't recall):
"Twenty years in this birthday suit
Baby's grown older, it's no longer cute."
***
It all comes back to the audience, I suppose. Who is your audience? Who are you really trying to impress?
The artist, paradoxically, tries to remove herself from the audience, aware that too many eyes spoil the performance... But then, why is she doing it in front of anyone anyway???
There have been papers I wrote for teachers I sought to impress, and the fact that, on occasion, I seemed to accomplish this, well, funny, but those are some of my best accomplishments... Does it matter that I can barely understand what I was talking about back then? Does it matter that no one in the general population can understand what I was talking about back then?
... this was an issue for a younger me, and for my younger friends, but it is still relevant... If you are surrounded by people who expect to hear things a certain way, then how, as a speaker, as a creative producer of language, is it ever possible to say anything NEW, to break the crust of experience? ... and forget saying something NEW, how is it ever possible to really say what you mean, to express "who you are?" Particularly if "who you are" isn't in the language of those around you...
DOES IT MATTER IF YOU ARE A WORD THAT THERE IS NO MEANING FOR? DOES IT MATTER IF YOU DO NOT BELONG IN ANYONE ELSE'S VOCABULARY???
What is art if no one sees it? What is a voice if no one can hear it? Is there a point to the artistic production then?
It's to the point, I suppose, because this blog is perhaps read by one person... occasionally... What is the point of its continuance?
I say art is produced in blindness, but then, it is produced for someone, even if that someone is more an "As If" who I imagine, the figurative and idealized READER who could understand the turns of thought I make... Is there, though, a larger purpose to something like this "blog," other than my own machinations?
I recently started listening to "Lynn's Freak Mix," a mix of music I made for her when we were still just dating. Here's a sample (it really is a freak mix):
1) "I think God can explain" by Splendor (sp?)
2) "High and dry" by Radiohead
3) "99 Red Balloons" by Nene (english version)
4) "Old bathwater" by No Doubt (I call this the bunny hop song, or in taiko speak, the don don dododon song)
5) "Teenage dirtbag" by Wheatus
6) "Misery" by Soul Asylum
7) "The Wheel" by Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians
8) "Karma Police" by Radiohead...
etc.
I also threw in "Nanafushi" by Kodo and a few Debussy songs, including "Sunken Cathedral."
A lot of these songs are my favorite Karaoke tunes (or they would be, if they made Laser Discs of Dweeb songs). In particular, I like "Misery" by Soul Asylum. Back when I was in Japan, it was a new CD, and I listened to it like every day. So I suppose the songs on that CD evoke memories of that time.
Lyrics to the song:
"They say misery loves company
We could start a company
and make misery.
Frustrated incorporated..."
Jeez, was I frustrated back then. Feeling like, hum, not Sisyphus, but, oh yeah, TANTALUS (think of the mountain round here), surrounded by water but not having a drop to drink... I think when you are young, or at least you are still able to pretend you are, you can laugh a little at being alone, like it's just that you haven't found your "niche" yet, or that it's not you, it's something wrong with the world at large... But as time passes, as years pass, and nothing seems to change in your situation, you start to worry. Maybe, just maybe, something's wrong with your approach; maybe you've got a piece of spinach stuck on your front incisor; maybe your jokes are not only unfunny, but they reveal a bit too much about your idiosyncratic preoccupations.
Maybe, to sum it up, it's YOU.
...and then, worry worry panic (or as Nene sings: "worry worry super scurry"), the self doubt, the self examination begins, and every statement you make and every appearance you present goes through the uncertain censor, filtering, filtering...
It's a miracle, I suppose, that people like myself ever "got any..." Tripping over my own self-corrections... edited version of me.
***
The game we play in life, perhaps it only has a few set moves. Who knows how we inherited those moves, genetics or childhood experiences? But I think from a very early time, we only know how to react to the world in certain ways. If only we weren't aware of this fact, but like animals, almost seemed to rejoice in the way we react the same way to the same (or even different) stimuli, portrayed beauty akin to water that doesn't know anything other than finding a way down down down... But we always have the capability, the damnable (?) human capability, of stepping outside of our skin to look at ourselves "objectively", to critique, to "self-correct." And much as we talk of "civilization" and truisms like "history repeats itself," sometimes I wonder if we wouldn't all have just been better off without an overactive superego perched like a gargoyle over our experiences... Instead of a smooth and flawless performance on the stage of life, oftentimes we feel like there's someone loud and obnoxious jeering at our perceived mistakes, throwing popcorn and embarassing insults from the darkness and anonymity of the audience... We become an absurdity, a freak show, of OUR OWN MAKING.
The only moments of beauty I have discovered in myself have been those in which I was able to blind myself to myself, and just pretend that I WAS what I intended. Blindness, for me, is the secret to everything, my key out of my prison... There's a reason why Odysseus poked out the eye of the Cyclops, you see; it was the only way to steal away from the island.
(imperfectly recalled) Lyrics I am thinking about now (by some band I don't recall):
"Twenty years in this birthday suit
Baby's grown older, it's no longer cute."
***
It all comes back to the audience, I suppose. Who is your audience? Who are you really trying to impress?
The artist, paradoxically, tries to remove herself from the audience, aware that too many eyes spoil the performance... But then, why is she doing it in front of anyone anyway???
There have been papers I wrote for teachers I sought to impress, and the fact that, on occasion, I seemed to accomplish this, well, funny, but those are some of my best accomplishments... Does it matter that I can barely understand what I was talking about back then? Does it matter that no one in the general population can understand what I was talking about back then?
... this was an issue for a younger me, and for my younger friends, but it is still relevant... If you are surrounded by people who expect to hear things a certain way, then how, as a speaker, as a creative producer of language, is it ever possible to say anything NEW, to break the crust of experience? ... and forget saying something NEW, how is it ever possible to really say what you mean, to express "who you are?" Particularly if "who you are" isn't in the language of those around you...
DOES IT MATTER IF YOU ARE A WORD THAT THERE IS NO MEANING FOR? DOES IT MATTER IF YOU DO NOT BELONG IN ANYONE ELSE'S VOCABULARY???
What is art if no one sees it? What is a voice if no one can hear it? Is there a point to the artistic production then?
It's to the point, I suppose, because this blog is perhaps read by one person... occasionally... What is the point of its continuance?
I say art is produced in blindness, but then, it is produced for someone, even if that someone is more an "As If" who I imagine, the figurative and idealized READER who could understand the turns of thought I make... Is there, though, a larger purpose to something like this "blog," other than my own machinations?
Thursday, February 21, 2008
the hate
there is within me
a without
that wants out
wants to pop me
like the soap bubble
it knows i am.
there is without me
a without
that wants in
the pressure of eyes
and the edges of mouths
waiting to curl up or down,
to shape words that
cut sharper than the teeth
concealed.
there is a me
that is barely me
that holds together
patchworks and compromises
that redraws the map
and replays the chessboard
every moment negotiating
with hurricanes and earthquakes.
sometimes
a face
is a dream of me
the me that would live
without without
and within within
a me i once must have
believed in-
must have-
before i learned
how much i
hated it,
hated me.
a without
that wants out
wants to pop me
like the soap bubble
it knows i am.
there is without me
a without
that wants in
the pressure of eyes
and the edges of mouths
waiting to curl up or down,
to shape words that
cut sharper than the teeth
concealed.
there is a me
that is barely me
that holds together
patchworks and compromises
that redraws the map
and replays the chessboard
every moment negotiating
with hurricanes and earthquakes.
sometimes
a face
is a dream of me
the me that would live
without without
and within within
a me i once must have
believed in-
must have-
before i learned
how much i
hated it,
hated me.
freewrite: necessary but necessarily inadequate
he said it was okay, that if one word followed another, somehow they would come full circle, and from the perspective of the reader, it would all make sense somehow, that the comfortable pedantic pace of writing one letter after another, and one word after another, like a hog snuffling the earth an inch before its snout, somehow this pace would lead to sentences, sentences to paragraphs, paragraphs to a full and intelligible narrative. and thus i did this. it was easy. and yet it was with a hollowness, the hollowness of not knowing where i was going, and suspecting that the reader would know this as well, would spot it like a burning birthmark on my forehead, and would dismiss my story, and myself, as being like so much empty nothing, like the talking that is so trivial it might as well be silent... or worse, to condemn me as mad. but then again, don't we all live this way, to greater or lesser extents? we pretend to know where we are going, where we came from, but in reality, there are only phonemes of our life that we process and throw out, and link together, each day succeeding the next, like we are fulfilling some grand ironic theme, like we are heading towards a happily ever after, or some more cynical destination. it is all pretend and pretentious, isn't it? all necessary. but all necessarily incomplete and inadequate...
nonsensical
eye and tooth
under the tiffany ring
i warned the tithing bucket
of the dream i had
no one mentions it
the bridge that passed
beneath itself
and the wide mawed wyvern
lolling the cliffside bones.
heavy aren't they
the rolling of the bird wings
thunder set and drooling
acid white and black thongs
rapier wit and razored dull edge
clawing the tendons
and toenails to be snapped
the petty stalks of grain
that filter golden the rumpelstiltzkin
betting yelling bellows.
under the tiffany ring
i warned the tithing bucket
of the dream i had
no one mentions it
the bridge that passed
beneath itself
and the wide mawed wyvern
lolling the cliffside bones.
heavy aren't they
the rolling of the bird wings
thunder set and drooling
acid white and black thongs
rapier wit and razored dull edge
clawing the tendons
and toenails to be snapped
the petty stalks of grain
that filter golden the rumpelstiltzkin
betting yelling bellows.
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