Wednesday, June 30, 2004
wow
I'm tired. Exhausted. But having a great time.
The move was smooth. Transition to commuting was easy. Doing it every day in fact. This is definitely a first. Every day since I've been back in jersey I've commuted into the city, most times into Brooklyn. It's beautiful. I love it. Getting to know Prospect Park a little. It's really big. Not just the park. Brooklyn is huge. I was headed into Fort Greene, just getting off a subway, en route to look at an apartment. Next thing I know I've been walking for an hour and still have not an idea as to where I am. School started this week for me, 3 classes. Next week I start summer teaching. And another two weeks of 2 hour commutes. Both ways. Whew. I am really looking forward to the next move. July 17th, into Prospect Gardens.
Hard to describe the nervous excitement I feel what's ahead. Into a neighborhood where I will be an absolute minority; not having to think about a car, gas, or insurance; and always the enthusiasm for moving into a new space, with new people. Teaching. So much to write about, I'm saving it for tomorrow.
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The move was smooth. Transition to commuting was easy. Doing it every day in fact. This is definitely a first. Every day since I've been back in jersey I've commuted into the city, most times into Brooklyn. It's beautiful. I love it. Getting to know Prospect Park a little. It's really big. Not just the park. Brooklyn is huge. I was headed into Fort Greene, just getting off a subway, en route to look at an apartment. Next thing I know I've been walking for an hour and still have not an idea as to where I am. School started this week for me, 3 classes. Next week I start summer teaching. And another two weeks of 2 hour commutes. Both ways. Whew. I am really looking forward to the next move. July 17th, into Prospect Gardens.
Hard to describe the nervous excitement I feel what's ahead. Into a neighborhood where I will be an absolute minority; not having to think about a car, gas, or insurance; and always the enthusiasm for moving into a new space, with new people. Teaching. So much to write about, I'm saving it for tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
ZoomZippin
I know that life must be getting bizzy when even LordJessetheBlogarhythm hasn't posted in 48+ hours...woh, man, woh! Gives my viscousbrainslurp a chance to almost catch up...woh, man...woh!
See you all in the distant present. BWAHAZLAWACHANG!
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See you all in the distant present. BWAHAZLAWACHANG!
Monday, June 14, 2004
soon Another life
Amazing how quickly life can change. Living in one state in the am and another in the pm. Commuting into America's largest city when before I was surrounded by farms and a small New England polish catholic community.
The little bit of reading I've done about the art of education has emphasized the subtlety and importance of transitions in the classroom, both for instructional design and classroom management. Much of the work is done in the preparation.
I need to get packing.
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The little bit of reading I've done about the art of education has emphasized the subtlety and importance of transitions in the classroom, both for instructional design and classroom management. Much of the work is done in the preparation.
I need to get packing.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Rehab Is 4 Losers!
Breathing is the easiest thing in the world. So easy, in fact, we are constantly breathing and adjusting the tempo of our breathing to suit the needs of the moment without expending even a single act of cognition. Not smoking is hard. The hardest thing in the world. So hard, in fact, that diamond saw-blades would merely smoke and whine to a halt if applied. So hard that Viagra would do well to make a mascot of it: cuz when it comes to not smoking, the older you get the harder it does. I've been smoking, with the occasional cease-fire agreement thrown in here and there, for 10 years. Since the age of 13 or 14 or whenever it was exactly that Joe Camel convinced me to be Kool. Due to my recent run-in with Tonsilitis, and the agonizingly acute awareness of body it gave me, I have once again decided to make proactive lung and esophagus reparation a priority. Of course, I still help out my stay-lit-up friends with their nasty habit now and again by depriving them of one, but for the most part...no fuego no mas. Oh, how I miss them. How i miss every visceral detail: the crack and aroma of blazing sulfur, the slender symmetry scissored between two fingers, the tender repetitious kiss of being and object, the tidal rhythm, the rolling fog, the magician's scrim, the airborne ember covered in a delicate white silt swirling underneath with the ancient destruction, the primal intelligence: Grand Theft Prometheus, the calm succor dripping through veins and soothing jitters, the repose, the repast, the....i must confess, writing thus got me into a delirium and i just went outside to smoke a butt i filched off steven. Know what? It wasn't as good as the description. I guess that's the nature of addiction, huh, a fiction in one's head, a fiction so convincing it cements itself into the world real.
P.S. Check out the new Blog link: Possum Pouch. The author, Dale Smith, is a poet/writer who along with his poet-wife, Hoa Nguyen, own and run a small press called The Skanky Possum. Along with full-length poetry books they publish a journal of poetry by the same name. You should refer Faith and Her Talented Troubador to their website: www.skankypossum.com
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P.S. Check out the new Blog link: Possum Pouch. The author, Dale Smith, is a poet/writer who along with his poet-wife, Hoa Nguyen, own and run a small press called The Skanky Possum. Along with full-length poetry books they publish a journal of poetry by the same name. You should refer Faith and Her Talented Troubador to their website: www.skankypossum.com
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
This blog's title reminds me to continue to push forward. That no matter how tired I might be, or how much more work needs to be done, it will be worth the effort.
It is all too easy to slip into cynicism about the world and politics, economics, personal relationships, work. But there's also so much to be grateful for. It acts as a pin prick, a pinch, so that instead of calling out sick and staying in bed I go for an early morning walk and say hello to my neighbors. Life is infinitely more enjoyable with just the slightest shift in perspective.
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It is all too easy to slip into cynicism about the world and politics, economics, personal relationships, work. But there's also so much to be grateful for. It acts as a pin prick, a pinch, so that instead of calling out sick and staying in bed I go for an early morning walk and say hello to my neighbors. Life is infinitely more enjoyable with just the slightest shift in perspective.
Late Nite Snack
Reverie
Time travels so slow-
ly, 2:26 to 2:39 a.m.,
poems flutter by,
belly murmurs midnight craving,
spring-loaded dreams snap off
nodding foreheads and rebound,
npr jazzes and rattles
like trumpets and typewriters and ticker-tape
round and around the brain but
the clock hardly changes,
the night could last forever
a slothful current of sensitivity
and with one flick of morning's wrist,
the murky light,
the suspended bobbling motion
of mind and Moon would be gone
as time resumed its steady die-cast ticking,
time travels so slowly,
4:13 to 4:19 a.m.,
yet arrives in such swift succession,
a broken heart that bled and swore
to be dead already is ready
for harikuri again,
an entire adolescence and higher-ed
longing to be older
now wishing/praying/mourning
the way the snow no longer
blows like confectionary sugar,
the way shadowy trees cannot move
or talk as Gods & Monsters
and the starry fields have forgotten
all promises...
consoled though by lying awake,
tree fingers foraging my window
for a familiar face,
blanket bobbing on a tranquil
sea of breath,
thoughts running round and around
an anti-gravity chamber of pre-frontal lobes,
probing paradoxicality,
wondering how long reverie can last.
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Time travels so slow-
ly, 2:26 to 2:39 a.m.,
poems flutter by,
belly murmurs midnight craving,
spring-loaded dreams snap off
nodding foreheads and rebound,
npr jazzes and rattles
like trumpets and typewriters and ticker-tape
round and around the brain but
the clock hardly changes,
the night could last forever
a slothful current of sensitivity
and with one flick of morning's wrist,
the murky light,
the suspended bobbling motion
of mind and Moon would be gone
as time resumed its steady die-cast ticking,
time travels so slowly,
4:13 to 4:19 a.m.,
yet arrives in such swift succession,
a broken heart that bled and swore
to be dead already is ready
for harikuri again,
an entire adolescence and higher-ed
longing to be older
now wishing/praying/mourning
the way the snow no longer
blows like confectionary sugar,
the way shadowy trees cannot move
or talk as Gods & Monsters
and the starry fields have forgotten
all promises...
consoled though by lying awake,
tree fingers foraging my window
for a familiar face,
blanket bobbing on a tranquil
sea of breath,
thoughts running round and around
an anti-gravity chamber of pre-frontal lobes,
probing paradoxicality,
wondering how long reverie can last.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Sex and drugs and rock and roll
are all my body needs
Sex and drugs and rock and roll
is very good indeed
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are all my body needs
Sex and drugs and rock and roll
is very good indeed
And by the Way
We're going to BROOKLYN, we're going to BROOKLYN...
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Dreamtime
As dreams go, I was in many places in a short time span. Caitie was Jessica who had gone abroad and Damian was with Caitie here (a raging jealously). People from the other side (dead, unborn, etc.) were present and taking part in interactions. I was at Ramapo having just finished a final and was working out with old school friends from middle school. Jessica was all but forgotten within days and all I wanted was Caitie, and she was here. I met some girls I knew, talked with them, walked with them, and Caitie came along, to a picnic table under an unbrella in the woods, but she was still with Damian. "Have you finished college?" I asked Lara from high school. "yes". And Caitie began singing Joni Mitchell's 'A case of you'. "You're in my blood like holy wine, you taste so bitter and so sweet; oh, I could drink a case of you, and I would still be on my feet, I would still be on my feet".
Dreams interweave so much memory and feeling, but all I come away from this one with is a deep and powerful cry of love for you Caitlin.
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Dreams interweave so much memory and feeling, but all I come away from this one with is a deep and powerful cry of love for you Caitlin.
Friday, June 04, 2004
What's up, World-of-Adoring-Readers? Actually, that's just my nickname for Jesse and Caitie--seeing as how they are the only four eyes that will probably ever process this errata, err, data.
Anyway, I was laid up the last four days with some nasty and quite hard-hitting tonsilitis. Seriously, if there are any NFL recruiters out there looking for something in the linebacker/defensive-tackle dept, give my tonsils a scraping and just let that culture grow: it'll fit in a pair of shoulder-pads in no time and you'll be anything but disappointed. For the first two days I wasn't even able to enjoy the time off work by reading, feasting, or consuming television. As I lay there with my brain boiling in its own blood and my glands swelling like medicinally-enhanced geriatric genitalia (I tried to stall their growth with appeals to the motion-of-the-ocean argument but no takers), there was nothing I could do. My vision was blurred, my body was fatigued, my focus was shackled to the shards of glass i imagined must be hidden in my throat everytime i tried to swallow. So I slept. And dreamt. And dreamt. And dreamt. Dreaming is a lot of fun...especially for those of us who are (almost) 24, live at home with our moms, look forward to seinfeld reruns and playoff games, have scrap-metal for cars, no medical insurance and a case of tonsilitis. I visited friends in Germany, nibbled on Angelina Jolie's fresh-baked cookies, travelled with Circus de Solei (sp?) as their premier technician of gravity-defying spiritually-uplifting acrobatics, fought with a polar bear in a suburban household, and countless other adventures i'm sure i would recall had the fever not pulled a Bonny&Clyde on my memory banks. It would be so cool to be able to control and clearly remember the events of one's dreams....Lucid Dreaming! Maybe for someone as slow-moving and unaspiring in the real-world as I am, it's a good thing I don't have even more of an ability to live up and live in my dreams. XOX
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Anyway, I was laid up the last four days with some nasty and quite hard-hitting tonsilitis. Seriously, if there are any NFL recruiters out there looking for something in the linebacker/defensive-tackle dept, give my tonsils a scraping and just let that culture grow: it'll fit in a pair of shoulder-pads in no time and you'll be anything but disappointed. For the first two days I wasn't even able to enjoy the time off work by reading, feasting, or consuming television. As I lay there with my brain boiling in its own blood and my glands swelling like medicinally-enhanced geriatric genitalia (I tried to stall their growth with appeals to the motion-of-the-ocean argument but no takers), there was nothing I could do. My vision was blurred, my body was fatigued, my focus was shackled to the shards of glass i imagined must be hidden in my throat everytime i tried to swallow. So I slept. And dreamt. And dreamt. And dreamt. Dreaming is a lot of fun...especially for those of us who are (almost) 24, live at home with our moms, look forward to seinfeld reruns and playoff games, have scrap-metal for cars, no medical insurance and a case of tonsilitis. I visited friends in Germany, nibbled on Angelina Jolie's fresh-baked cookies, travelled with Circus de Solei (sp?) as their premier technician of gravity-defying spiritually-uplifting acrobatics, fought with a polar bear in a suburban household, and countless other adventures i'm sure i would recall had the fever not pulled a Bonny&Clyde on my memory banks. It would be so cool to be able to control and clearly remember the events of one's dreams....Lucid Dreaming! Maybe for someone as slow-moving and unaspiring in the real-world as I am, it's a good thing I don't have even more of an ability to live up and live in my dreams. XOX
Thursday, June 03, 2004
What do you think?
Do we need the reminder that our precious tax dollars are being swept away by the millions each day in Iraq? Or is it better just not to look at it?
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Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Good Morning, Vietnam!
Well, with little to none Press coverage thus far (that I have seen...I was tipped off by an email with a link), the Committee on Armed Services is currently considering twin bills in the Senate and House ( S89 and HR163 ) that would reactivate the draft as early as Spring 2005. Despite the potential backlash of ushering in selective service during an election year, the unchanging onslaught of insurgents/terrorists/freedom-fighters/minute-men (take your pick, everybody's got an agenda) makes the draft an almost inevitable recourse for the Bush administration, with its plans for non-withdrawal, as well as for a possible Kerry administration, who pledges to win the peace and stay the course in Iraq. The bastards. 28 million dollars has already been added to the 2004 Selective Service System budget; SSS must report to Bush (assuming he's still in office) on March 31, 2005 that the decades-atrophied program will be ready to start processing fodder again. The Pentagon has already begun filling 10, 350 draft board positions and 11,070 appeals board slots across the nation. Women are included in the draft and there is no college deferrment longer than finishing an already started semester in an attempt to make selection more just along class and ethnic lines. Although I hate to see any place of refuge eliminated for those who seek it, I am glad, albeit in a bitter way, that this part of the draft has been reformed. For two-fold reasons: 1)Perhaps seeing their dean's-list, bright-eyed, little, law-school bound prodigees being fondled and prodded by SSS physical examers will convince a larger amount of the american public to get mad and get off their ass 2) it's morally repulsive to believe that a higher percentage of our nation's youth who, for whatever reason, ain't going to college should die. The draft only targets women/men no younger than 18 and no older than 26. Anybody still fall into that category? It could be difficult to defect to Canada, at least in comparison to the Nam years, due to a "smart border declaration" signed by Canada's Minister of Foreign Affaris, John Manley, and good 'ole Ex-PennStateGov LethalInjectionEnthusiast, Tom Ridge: Director, Dept. of "Homeland" Security. ( God, that word is scary. ) Basically, the border patrols could seek assurance from the neighboring country of "pre-clearance" before letting persons through. There is a clause in the identical bills to allow defferment from combat and combat training, though not national service, to persons/fodder who qualify as Conscientious Objectors due to religious training/belief prohibitive of such actions. As long as you can prove this religious exemption according to the definitions laid out in the Military Selective Service Act ( 50 U.S.C. 456 (j) ), the President may allow you to be defferred from service in the armed forces and reassign you to some domestic, homeland-security task-force. Riiiiiight. I had a friend who couldn't convince her manager at a telemarketing company that her head-wrap was protected by the U.S. Constitution as religious attire in the Rastafarian tradition--despite pages of Rasta doctrine and U.S. Constitutional law she showed him. Good luck. If it comes down to it, I'll simply take it as an opportunity to finally visit all those beautiful places I've never been.
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Take him down
In the months following 9/11, when Bush's approval ratings hit record highs of 91%, it became almost illegal to publicly disagree with anything the Bush administration had to say. Their voice was the law, and if you did not support it, you were dubbed anti-American. Journalists all across the country seemed to inherently know this; seemed to enter into an agreement en masse which prohibited criticism of Bush. Seems that since then, journalists have found their cohonas. Best example I can find is the New York Times. Their op-ed columnists would, two years ago, quietly go along with policies and decisions that were made with haste and that Congress passed unabated (see tax cuts, Patriotic act). Today, however, Friedman, Krugman, and Herbert, among others, seem to feel free to express themselves without fear of retribution by their paper or their field. In fact, they see themselves amongst a group of people who are now collectively gathering the courage needed to really take the critical look at Bush that he deserves. If the recent polls are any indication of public opinion, and if the field of journalism is gathering its courage together, Mr. Bush may actually have quite the surprise for him in November.
