Too Weak To Tweak (but try me. please.)

If we were all to be divided into either visionaries or tweakers, I would relate better with the tweakers.  The visionaries invent, the tweakers perfect.  I am simply a much less ambitious tweaker than anyone you would ever read about—a sort of couch-tweaker, or when-I-get-around-to-it or the-opportunity-presents-itself sort of tweaker.
Nevertheless, it was nice to read Malcolm Gladwell's New Yorker article The Tweaker, about Steve "The Tweaker's Tweaker" Jobs, in particular this portion, and most particularly the last sentence thereof:

"The visionary starts with a clean sheet of paper, and re-imagines the world. The tweaker inherits things as they are, and has to push and pull them toward some more nearly perfect solution. That is not a lesser task."

Especially since—as the forwards in soccer or the leadership in institutions or the with-it people of everyday—the visionaries tend to receive most of the credit.  

And so, in the words of Steve himself, I remind the world, the incessant dream-demanders, the well-intentioned idea-vomiters, and of course, the Self, that there's a good chance “You’ve got to show me some stuff, and I’ll know it when I see it.”

I just don't even...

I guess it's just for the record.  For when I ever need to say, "Yeah, that'll happen when rhinos fly... upside down."

I mean, it's a beautiful picture.  All one-thirds and crap, too.  Who knew?

MSNBC PhotoBlog, Nov. 4

PS:  November 4 turned out to be an interesting day of photos to me.  Starling murmurations in Scotland, Obama caught in the rain, and so many other cool things for the day.  What a big (small) world.

I blame it on your praise.

I don’t read articles very often, but maybe hanging out with Anthony is enough peer pressure to get me going on that a bit.  In “Why Do Some People Learn Faster?” (Jonah Lehrer; wired.com) I was told why I’m such a loser now and give up so easily when presented with difficulties. 

Here’s my summary of the situation presented in the article: 

We all have mostly inevitable negative and almost immediate responses to our mistakes.  Then immediately afterward we show differing amounts of awareness of the mistake, i.e., whether we are paying attention to it, and thus, learning from it, or not so much.  And basically, science people found that we tend to fall into two categories:  those who have a “fixed” mindset (I’m this inherently smart and that’s it) and those who have a “growth” mindset (dang it I messed up, but now I’ll do better).

Experiment, part 1:

400 kids given tests.  Afterward, each received one of two praises:  Good effort or You’re smart.

“When kids were praised for their effort, nearly 90 percent chose the harder set of puzzles. However, when kids were praised for their intelligence, most of them went for the easier test. What explains this difference? According to Dweck, praising kids for intelligence encourages them to “look” smart, which means that they shouldn’t risk making a mistake.”

Experiment, part 2:

Same kids.  Much harder puzzles.

“The students who were initially praised for their effort worked hard at figuring out the puzzles. Kids praised for their smarts, on the other hand, were easily discouraged. Their inevitable mistakes were seen as a sign of failure: Perhaps they really weren’t so smart.”

Experiment, part 3:

Same kids.  Same tests as part 1.

“Good Effort” kids improved scores by 30 percent.  “You’re Smart” kids dropped scores by nearly 20 percent.

The author’s conclusion: 

“The problem with praising kids for their innate intelligence — the “smart” compliment — is that it misrepresents the psychological reality of education. It encourages kids to avoid the most useful kind of learning activities, which is when we learn from our mistakes. Because unless we experience the unpleasant symptoms of being wrong — that surge of Pe activity a few hundred milliseconds after the error, directing our attention to the very thing we’d like to ignore — the mind will never revise its models. We’ll keep on making the same mistakes, forsaking self-improvement for the sake of self-confidence. Samuel Beckett had the right attitude: ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.’”

I’m a “fixed” mindset and it’s all your fault. 

There are times in one's life when an unexpected song demands sudden respect and a silent, honored listen for having been blessed by its beneficent grace.  A couple days ago, I experienced one such song:  

Note: The "video" is just a song and the song is only some 4+ minutes long. Your subconscious will cry if you don't at least give it a thirty-second try.  That, and I'll kill* you.

*And by kill I mean mourn for you. With burning venom tears of broken-hearted regret and pity.  And hatred.**

**And by hatred I mean the kind that is only out of love.  Obviously. 

Hef Dish It

Sometimes it's within. Other times without.
Either way, I win. And always with a shout.
To sing and play and grin. To take a different route.
That's how I begin. That's what it's all about.


My mind's knuckles bleeding, from every blow and parry
Momentum's underwhelming, the wandering is scary


Your potential is the rain, the stars are your lot
That was their refrain, that is what they taught
So I began to wait, and sit there full of smiles
To slowly lose my gait, and fall behind by miles


I wander now...



You know what?  This spontaneous poetry is crap.  I'd say it's probably rare that any of it will ever be good from my "pen."  And I suppose I believe that's true from anyone else, too.  Even Dr. Seuss slaved away at his works.

Anyway, I suppose one hears poetry's rap once in a while and must oblige.  But opening the door does not always guarantee pleasant conversation.  More often than not, it seems, poetry enters at the door and soon exits out the window.  Probably while you softly closed your eyes to imagine a better line.

I guess it's only appropriate that I end up wandering.

When I grow up, I want to be the International Space Station.

No reason

In the middle of my evening, while making some supper, I ran into a LIFE 9/11 slideshow of the most powerful images of that incredible day.  Clicking through the images led me to feel sad and awed, frustrated and impressed... angry and hateful.  I suppose that is natural.  The obvious question comes to mind:  How could other human beings hate so much to be able to commandeer planes and fly them into buildings full of people?

Then I realized I put the word hate in there because I hated them for doing it.  Maybe they they were doing it for reasons they felt were noble.  Or maybe they did hate.  Regardless, I find myself believing that with the right amount of time, and the right (i.e. wrong) circumstances and environment, I could eventually do something just as treacherous and evil, hate having nothing to do with it.

I feel pretty confident that won't happen.  But honestly, I'm curious about it.  How long would it take for me to change?  Is it even a change—or more of a gradual deterioration?  Could I become that person in the environment I'm currently in, perhaps by intentionally focusing on changing my ideas and thoughts?  I bet it could happen quickly, especially if circumstances were to suddenly change.

I've heard the opposite is true, too.  That I could become a better person.  But I've seen that that kind of change in myself can't happen suddenly, no matter what.  I am more naturally evil than I am good, because I am alive to survive.

For the next few weeks I'm sure I'll see and hear a lot more about September 11—a decade later.  It is the closest thing I relate to "being a part of history" that I have in my life.  I saw that happening on TV.  I lived through the political and economical effects of it.  Now I see the visual memories of it.

(Screen capture of one of the gallery's photos)

What are the decadal memories of me?  Do clear mental images also tip the scales toward hatred and anger?

Yes.  Unfortunately, yes...  Cue political and economical effects.

Geoffrey

The cat seems lonely.  She hasn't been sleeping in her basket by the fireplace much the past couple days.  This afternoon I couldn't find her on the ground floor in any of her usual spots.  I went upstairs and turned the hall light on to find her sprawled out next to the office door.  This evening, she came and sat behind me on top of the chair I was sitting in.

Sometimes I pretend like the cat is just a little bit human.  Like maybe she secretly wants me keep her company on the floor in the dark upstairs hallway, or maybe she thinks we're buddies when I give her my ice cream bowl to lick when I'm done.  Or like when she comes over and looks at me and then hops up onto my lap—surely that means we're friends, that we're looking out for each other.  I like to think her expressions are human expressions, too.  Those thoughtful gazes and all.  But then when she yawns and avoids eye contact and walks away... I have to console myself that she doesn't really hate me.

I like Geoffrey the cat.  She is very silly, but sweet.

Mayor Bykesalot

In light of all the seriousness these days, I thought I'd add a little more and emphasize that it's illegal to park your car in the bike lane.  Especially in Lithuania.  The closing remarks of the broadcaster are the best part.

Here's a photo caption from telegraph.co.uk: 

"This is the incredible moment a frustrated mayor drove an armoured vehicle over a Mercedes-Benz S-Class parked in a cycle lane. Arturas Zuokas became infuriated with motorists parking their luxury cars illegally around the Lithuanian capital of Vilnius. So the 43-year-old politician drove over this Merc in a Russian tank to set an example. The mayor said: "I’ve had enough of these drivers parking their luxury cars on bike lanes and pedestrian crossings. This tank is a good tool to solve the problem of parking in the wrong place." We think it was probably a set-up, but we certainly wouldn't take a chance by parking illegally in Vilnius."

Food for thought... and hopefully them

I was introduced to the MSNBC PhotoBlog by Hannah while I was in Peru, but I couldn't check it out much while there because the photos never loaded. Now I can, and I like to go and see what the photojournalists are picking up around the world. 

Tonight I realized that the effects of drought are quite different depending on which part of the earth you're standing on. Apparently a lot of bats are hungrier in Texas because the crops are dying, leaving the bugs to die, too. But if you live on the Horn of Africa, the drought is the worst it's been in half a century, has turned to what the U.N. has labeled famine in a couple parts of Somalia, and is forcing millions of people to be "left hungrier." 

I'm sorry about the picture. Frankly, I don't like feeling emotionally forced, and that's what these types of photos are known for. But then, let's be for real. Those kids suffer from malnutrition while ours suffer from mallnutrition.

From PhotoBlog

From PhotoBlog

At my internship this past week, I've done some research about the situation in East Africa. I still don't understand it all, but I've seen a lot of numbers, and I've heard some things from heads wiser and more experienced than mine. This morning someone explained that this food crisis (which is just one of the sad effects of the severe drought) is pretty big news in many other "donation" countries right now. For a couple days it's been eclipsed by the Norway massacre, but besides that, it's at least visible. In the States, it's coming a little slower. And for humanitarian organizations, donations are hard to come by until these types of crises hit the news big time. 

Meanwhile, people are deteriorating and losing their livelihoods. Millions of Muslims are fleeing Somalia because they simply are starving. They're heading to Christian areas in Kenya and Ethiopia--a problem waiting to happen, perhaps--and overfilling refugee camps. I read that the Dadaab refugee camp in Kenya has over 380,000 people right now, and it's meant for 90,000. Crops have failed and livestock are dying all around the Horn of Africa (Kenya, Ethiopia, Somalia are the worst, but there are several others affected).

I relate with Eeyore sometimes, and being sad is something I think I'm better at than being happy. So I live in a great period of history. Radical Christian terrorists in Oslo, train wrecks in China, mudslides in South Korea, wars in Northern Africa, heat waves in the States, too much snow in Chile, etc. etc.

etc.

World Vision, the World Food Program, and ADRA are the three organizations I'll mention here. I've skipped several meals this week, mostly because I'm easily depressed, but in the end I find it's a nice way to relate a little bit with what's reality for a lot of people, and know that I saved money that I can use for someone else's food. Maybe lame, but I feel pretty good about it, which is saying something.

Feel pressured to do the similar. I'm sure Starbucks will be fine without you, your "old" pants are still fine, and Captain America will still be viewed regardless. Yes, I'm one to talk...

I'm done. 

_______________________

Edit:  Wait, no I'm not.  I realized I only—albeit mostly offhandedly and unintentionally—"guilted" rather than encourage awareness and education, promote a change in lifestyle, or preach about counting blessings.  I should have done more of that.  I struggle with justifying happiness for myself when I don't feel I deserve it, but that doesn't mean I need to drag others down with me.  Everyone I know is doing plenty of good things (for example).  And there are kids to take care of, educations to pay for, birthday gifts to buy, meals to eat, trips to take, nakedness to cover, hobbies to pursue, and so much more.  So keep it up.  It's not like skipping a run to Taco Bell today means a burrito transfers to little Julia's stomach in Kenya.  (Wouldn't that be cool, though?)  And don't forget to pray.  I suppose that doesn't transfer burritos, either.  But it did feed 5,000 hungry people once for a guy who knew the person he was talking to.  Just sayin'.  Okay, now I'm done.

Wanna watch my run?

Today was a long run day, and I finally remembered that with an iPhone you can do GPS crap.  So I looked up the apps, logged in, and started.

Apparently, I run off the road and into the fields a lot.  And apparently I did a mapmyrun category five climb on the way back.  That sounds crazy, I know.  Well, it isn't—though it did feel like it.  Mapmyrun has their own rating system I think, and category five is the easiest one.  And it said it's supposed to be climbs of at least 500m, which it was, and an average grade of 3%, which it... wasn't.  It said 2.2%.  But still marked it as category five.  But that's not the point!  THIS is the point:  I can watch my route played back for me!  Dang girl.


Edit:  Oh, so maybe if you don't have a mapmyrun account you can't watch this? Which is probably everyone I know.  Oops.  My bad.  Enjoy the blank rectangle and whatever alert messages you get, I guess.

In other news, Chris Horner had a nasty crash today and finished the race asking where he was, when he crashed, and what was happening. Over and over. Something seems wrong with that... Tom Boonen and Bradley Wiggins are out, too. But Cav won his 17th stage and Thor is still rockin' the yellow. It's a swell tour.

PS:  Tara and Jessi, if you ever read this and watch the video, did you notice where I went?

This.

I couldn't help but find this incredibly amusing because I can relate with so much of it.  So painfully unfortunate.  Or fortunately painful.  Or however you want to look at it.  The truth is, in my mind, and often aloud, I preach against this crap all the time.  I'm such a whiner and "American" hater and luxury avoider wannabe.  But in reality, all of this applies to me.  Every single thing.  Except the pizza one.  Because looking up the pizza place's phone number is too much work.  I am unavoidably one of the most inconspicuous hypocrites the world doesn't know.  Please, keep it to yourself.

Robin Moore of my time and I don't mind

Performance

Le Velo

we are quiet

1
If I could just hug one millipede
I think that'd last a couple weeks
Or be a bear for just one night
And hug myself bear hug tight


2
Beneath the waves of bathtub lake
I hear a beat I know's not fake
Reminding me I'm still alive
If only even just 'til five


3
The sun is down
It's getting dark
It's happening
Inside my heart

Shut up, quiet person.

I liked reading this.  I do these things all the time to those quiet people.  They are so interesting.  Sometimes I set up interviews so I can talk with them.  I think this makes them feel normal.

5 Things You Can Do To Make A Quiet Person Feel Bad

A good trick

Men who have been in jail for a long time and are very vengeful often escape by the trick of pretending they are the dead guy in the cell next to them.*  The jailers foolishly toss them over a cliff or bury them alive instead of the real dead guy.  This is a great trick.

But I think an even greater trick is to fool everyone into thinking you're alive when you're actually dead.

*Refer to Edmond Dantés, Don Diego de la Vega, and Joseph

Two Eyes in Vision

Being blind was probably first made cool with Isaac, back when he thought Jacob was Esau and stuff.  It was cool for Jacob anyway.  And only for a moment, I guess.

The next time was probably in the movie Book of Eli.  At least, it seemed cool to me.  And only for a moment.

Now I realize blindness probably isn't that cool.  But being blind doesn't keep you from being cool!  And from the looks of it (no pun intended), the kids at the Bobbili Blind School are way cool.

Ironically, it's likely that the three people who will read this are the ones going on this trip.  : )  Sorry I'm such a lame promoter.  But just in case...

I know some cool cats who are heading to India to hang out with those kool kids in August.  They made a website and you can visit it by clicking on the heifer HeartSight logo at the top of the page.   Go visit.  Go read.  Go laugh.  And go give.

Google

Go to google.com and play me something.  Record it and leave it here.

Here's mine:  http://goo.gl/doodle/nXWc

We have been introduced. Immediate download.

Every Tear is a Waterfall

Working

When I work alone I get distracted sometimes a lot.  When I work in a team I don't contribute (shhh).  These issues have come up a lot in my little mind these past couple days.  So when I read this, it just seemed right somehow.

Brittanica said that Sam Walton was born today (a long time ago).  Sam Walton's store makes me think of Ben Schnell.  He probably never intended that, but then, there are a lot of consequences of our words and actions that we never intend.  Fortunately for Schnellbo, it's quite likely that most of those consequences are good things.  Which thought, is, in itself, a good consequences of who he is.  Good job, Ben.  You're a swell kid.  And nearing a quarter of a century, right?  Wisdom, pure wisdom.

Frances Jane Crosby

While I was waiting for my students to show up, Garrison Keillor told me that Fanny Crosby was born this day, 1820. I was pleased to hear this.

I’ve been a secret admirer of Mrs. Crosby for several years. A distant one, for I have not tried to get to know her at all, but every time I see her name on the page, I feel like I’m with an old friend. It seems every other day that we sing one of her hymns. 

Mr. Keillor said she wrote thousands of them. I was impressed. He said she used several pen names. I was interested. He also said she was blind. I was intrigued. I imagine her as a quiet type, with a roving, soaring spirit. But maybe she was just a stolid old blind woman who was always writing.  Maybe not.

I don’t know Fanny Crosby, and never will. But I do know that Fanny Crosby wrote things that I love to hear. And that is good enough for me. Fanny Crosby is now one of my heroes.

Happy Birthday, Fanny.

adverse to converse

There's something about me that keeps my students from being completely comfortable in class.  They'll often whisper to a neighbor asking what something means or what I said—if they ask about it at all.  And they ask in Spanish.  More often than not I just repeat things like three times, and still no one is doing anything.  I often give up and resort to my pitiful Spanish.  This is not ideal.

Everyone (okay, that sounds like a lot of people.  I usually have three or four who make it.) sits in the back row.  Except one.  Sometimes one of them ventures to the second-to-last row.  They don't try to practice asking me questions in Spanish.  Hardly ever, anyway.  My biggest challenge has been to get people talking in class.  I know there are some logical, practical reasons for this:  they don't know tons of vocabulary, we've only studied the present and past simple tenses, we don't have anything to talk about.  It'd just be nice to have students who were sometimes over-eager about speaking.  

It just occurred to me that this could also be somewhat of an issue of men vs. women here.  Because now that I think of it, when I had male students they were actually rather boisterous—that's a funny word, but it came to mind.  Sometimes annoyingly so.  So maybe I should appreciate these passive students.

Frankly, it's all just a daily reminder of how inept I am at practical conversation skills.  I'd say that sometimes I've done all right.  Maybe with closer friends, or with a really friendly person.  But in reality, those times are, at best, simply passable.  Usually I just end up getting fired up about something and trying to spew out all the thoughts that are tangling together in my over-eager mind.  Or I'm just barely hanging onto a thread—desperately clinging to a possible key word used by the "sender" and doing my best to stay alert and on track.  And I never know how to end conversations.  

If I were better at laughing at myself, I'd have a lot to laugh about.  But that's another toughie for me.

everybody knows El Niño means The Niño

I thought I noticed differences a few days ago, so yesterday I looked into it a little more carefully.  Sure enough:

The Wall Street Journal:  Col. Moammar Gadhafi
The Guardian:  Muammar Gaddafi
New York Times:  Col. Muammar el-Qaddafi
Los Angeles Times:  Moammar Kadafi
Chicago Tribune:  Moammar Gadhafi
Boston Globe:  Moammar Khadafy
San Francisco Chronicle:  Moammar Gadhafi

And then I looked up what smarter, paid people have to say about it.  Like this person.  Apparently there are numerous spellings because there is no "universally accepted authority for transliterating Arabic names."  And the man himself hasn't established a "Roman orthography" for his own name.

My name is cool.  I like it.  I think it's funny, though, that Dad always says they chose it so that it would work in several languages.  Instead of the ph they chose ff so that it would be pronounced the same in Spanish (and French and Italian and Chinese?).  Ironically, people here or in Argentina never get my name right.  It's usually Cris.  But I've gotten Cristopher, Christ, Cristofer, and maybe a couple others.  Sometimes people call me Christian.  And ph has never been a problem.

the Ides

The Ides of March.  I always forget what that is, but I love how it sounds.  It has the sound of something like regal fortitude to me (ironically).  I should figure out some way to celebrate it.  To celebrate the sound of it.  The Ides of March.  Okay, I just said it out loud and it doesn't sound nearly as cool as it does when I say it in my head.  Man.  The small things.

I just got back from another funeral.  It was for the mother-like figure in the life of a co-worker of mine.  Most of the union staff went.  For the first time, I think, I let the thought kind of settle a little bit that I'd have to start going to funerals of my own family members within the next few years probably.  A sobering thought, certainly.  They sometimes call it a wake, right?  It can also be a wake up.

I suppose that it's rather natural for the mind to wander over to inspect death a little closer these days.  I don't have conclusions, necessarily, but I have been peering into the coffin.  Mostly though, it's like a mirror, or an open window.  At first it doesn't make sense, but then I realize that staring into death isn't really staring into death at all, but looking into the eyes of life.  This isn't a new idea, I know.  But it's always a little novel to the person first experiencing it.  Or re-experiencing it, which is usually the case.  The funny thing about life (life life life) is that it is fully of ifs.

I'm going to go home now and eat some Oreos.  Exactly, there is no point.

Tangled weed and mangled brush,

Where's the end to this wooded trail?

Tangled thoughts and mangled past,

Where's the end to this would've tale?

I just noticed a violin playing from somewhere in the apartment complex.  It's either a kid or a beginner, probably both.  The player has a good tone though, doesn't scratch much.  And flat notes are quickly adjusted to the correct pitch.  I don't know what is being played, and it is slow and hesitant, but I couldn't help stand by the window and listen.  There have been many moments here when I wished I had my violin to keep me company.  Moments when I would have turned off all the lights and slunk to the back of my room and just wailed and scratched away.  It's something only I could enjoy, really.  I just never got too good and it's been downhill since my junior year in high school.  Often, I'm even sick of hearing myself play.  (If you can call it playing.)  But there's something about just holding the instrument.  My childhood is in that wood.  It was one of the first acts of kindness I remember, and one that probably helped to shape me a little bit: receiving the violin as a gift from my teacher.  It's a handmade one, and feels a little bigger than normal full-size violins.  There's a tiny dent on one of the faces, maybe from my bow.  The bridge was always loose, and I'd reposition it every now and then.  

The player is still plugging away, low notes and slow.  Careful.  Maybe hating it.  Probably unaware that there is an audience and he is being memoried back to before.  Probably unaware how potentially special that instrument might become for him in the future.  Probably, unaware that those low, slow notes are a gift.  But I know.

You know that glow in the morning, when the sun is peeking over the wall with one eye, but you can still sense his big smile?  You know how it comes into the rooms and leaves them a hazy yellow.  It's the morning yellow.  It's when everything has a shiny skin around it—the glazed sheen of sunshine.  You know that?

Me, too.

Sometimes, even though life isn't necessarily hard, living it is hard.  Sometimes you're a battleground between the blessings you know you experience every moment and the inescapable difficulties of aloneness and longings for things you don't have.  Sometimes you're just right in the middle of those times.

Like now.

I haven't seen The Social Network yet, nor had I any desire to do so.  Maybe I just hadn't heard or read enough about it (i.e. nothing).

Last night we were eating at a little restaurant (I had lomo saltado) where there was a little TV.  A couple dogs came in to visit, too.  And there was a toy-grabbing claw machine thing that played the same 6-note jingle over and over (literally, six notes; I counted).  The movie Ice Age finished up and then the Oscars came on.  It was hard to understand because we'd be trying to focus on the English, but then the Spanish interpreters would come on blaring.  The mind was confused.

So today in one of my various what's-happening-in-the-world-alerts a headline about the Oscars.  Since it was so near and dear to me for a few minutes last night, I looked in on the article.

Like I said, I had no desire to see The Social Network.  I didn't know what it was about, really.  Still don't. But this made me think I'll probably see it eventually:

I do like The West Wing.  

heart blood

It's my birthday tomorrow,

No one here could know.

I was born this [Friday]

2[4] years ago.

At 3-something tomorrow morning it'll be 24 years.  I'm not dead yet.  There's still time to sing my song, and wonder how it ends.  I remember the tune well enough, certain parts at least.  And the words, well, they come and go, but I know they're written down somewhere.  And I can always listen.  I've got it right here, close at hand.  And I do listen.  Just not enough...  

(...but I whisper it in my heart.)

Let me know that you hear me.

Let me know your touch.

Let me know that you love me.

And let that be enough.

GPOY

Look.

Well, I got super freaking pissed about something today.  I do react to things.  I react.  React.If I hadn't grown up in the environment I did, what would I think about having my own opinions?  What would my opinion be on that?The only way I am okay with being wrong is if I am screaming obscenities at the world the whole while.  In my head, of course.  And knowing that I'm wrong in a lot of things—I don't necessarily know what, I just know I am bound to be—makes me try to ignore everything.  And in that, I'm sure I'm wrong.

The flag of Peru waves proudly behind me.  I rejoice, with sparkling eyes and benevolent grin.  

And this is the point where people tell me the answers.  And where I *feel* they are probably correct.  And then where I wonder if I *feel* that way only because I grew up in the environment I did.I got really super freaking pissed today.  It wears off slowly.  And it gets my blood roiling.  My head blood.  The blood that makes me think.  But I don't want to think.  I just want to run.

I wear a tie every day.

life is a maerd

During my nap, my thoughts drifted.  At one point I told myself I could sleep until I flew home.  As soon as I thought it, I thought how pitiful that was and that I should think of reasons I shouldn't want that.  (These thoughts took but the briefest of moments.)  I had six faithful students.  I was teaching them.  I should want to wake up for them.

But they weren't learning to teach themselves.

That was my next thought.  And it had never occurred to me before.  I realized I have been trying to get them to be self-sufficient as far as learning English was concerned.  I was trying to provide them with websites and ideas that they could use to further their own learning.  It was the whole point of encouraging vocabulary notebooks, of pushing Eng-Span dictionaries, of making them worksheets that they can practice on and then keep, of not writing up my notes and printing them or putting them on PowerPoint.  I want them to listen to English songs, watch English movies, read English news and books, discover blogs, practice, repeat, practice their grammar, note new words they hear and look them up later, go back and review the words and definitions they write down, study their notes later.  Not rely on me to feed them.  I won't be here forever.*

I wondered, then, how many teachers gave up on me because I never learned to teach myself.  Or how many teachers never even were aware that I didn't know how?  That I still don't.  People ask, Do you ever want to learn a new language?  What am I supposed to say—no??  Of course I do!  But do I?  No.  Do I want to learn how to maintain a car?  Yes.  But no.  Do I want to learn accounting things?  How to take care of a budget?  How to do my taxes and insurance and all that crap?  Yes.  But... no, again.

I don't teach myself, either.

And that's the kind of life that lets you tell yourself you could sleep for three months and not miss a thing.  But sleeping... it's so... dreamy.  Do I want to wake up?  Do I have to wake up for dreams to come true?  Is it true irony when one's dream is to keep sleeping?  I guess I should get back to work—I have to go teach.

a month ago

*Is this what parents live like, too?  It sounds familiar.

side note

Ran into this today.  Thought I'd put it down for my record.

swimmingly

I looked up synonyms of "to come to terms with."  I know, pretty dumb.  But I think I might finally have grasped, ingested into memory, what reconciliation can mean.

I'm trying to reconcile some things in my experience.  Typical human stuff.  The kinds of things we all have answers for when someone else is asking.  Even if we say we don't.  Those kinds of things we all fuss about at a certain level at least when we imbibe another culture.  Even if the swallows are just sips.  That's still enough to drown on.

it's today when no one asks
today when no one knows
today when all time seems to stop
.
momentum in its throes

over the rainbow

I sit down slowly onto the little stool in the garage area.  Oatmeal in hand.  The air has a different glow about it today.  The colors are brighter—things aren't as grey as they normally are on a Lima morning.  I look up to verify.  Sure enough, the sky is light and free.  There is life out there somewhere.

his story

Mubarak resigns.

What, like 30 minutes ago?  Well, no, but there are already several articles on nytimes.com and everywhere else, I'm sure.  How exciting.  Real time revolution.

I feel super ignorant.

Lord of Bedlington

Frankly, it's been a while since I've read any good journalism.  I mean... any journalism.  I read the news occasionally as a print journalism student, but even then not as much as I should have, really.  Today I pulled out my New York Times app while my students were taking their tests.  And it's the simple, short articles like the one about the Lord of Bedlington, a billionaire non-dairy food company owner from Buffalo, that makes me appreciate a well-written feature article once again.  Thank you, Jeré Longman.

Sometimes the news is rough.  Protests in Egypt, floods in South Africa, the politics in Lima.  But the world is full of stories that are worth telling.  And hearing.  We just hardly have enough time to live out the stories and hear them.  Let alone research them and write them and share them.  This is the paradox of our news system today.  Or one of them?  As I see it, anyway.  We have national and global news outlets that share stories we hardly have a connection to, if any.  And we have local outlets sharing stories that are much more relevant, but often hardly as interesting.  The big outlets must share about crazy things or popular people to appeal to enough consumers that they make their profit.  And the local outlets share about crazy-at-a-much-more-local-level things and unknown people to... often not really make a profit (let's be honest).

Maybe that's not a paradox.  I probably don't really know what a paradox really means.  But I think it's interesting that we try to "keep up" with global news, and in this way maintain a sort of global connection - a small relationship with those around us who "also have heard" about this or that.  And we also keep track with local stories - those from friends and family or from our place of work or school, perhaps the town we live in.  And this keeps us connected with those others who live the same things we do.  What if we went exclusively one way or the other?  Global or local.  I think we sometimes try, but I think we often fail.

Unfortunately, I have no good wrap up or point or moral.  Such are my thoughts.  I think what I mostly wanted to do was simply express my appreciation for the feeling I got of reading good feature journalism again.  It had just been a while.

can't help it

Sister Girl hooked me up with massive doses of unknown music over Christmas break.  I've listened to a fraction of it so far.  Probably three weeks ago I started listening to a song by Andrew Bird but I think I quickly switched it.  Wasn't for me.  Two days ago I gave it another try because I was in the mood for torture or something.  Hot dammed reservoir of secret music!  My word.  Totally dig.  Entire album and extra random songs have been on repeat since then.  Armchair Apocrypha is the one I have, bee tee dub.

Also ran into a band called Valley Maker via The Blue Indian blog.  They cool.  They sing about the Old Testament, but shhh, I didn't tell you that.  I didn't realize it until listening to a couple songs.  I don't know how I missed it since some of the titles are Jacob or This is a Song from the Old Testament.  Just kidding about that last one.  Did I say they were cool?  I meant really cool.  And the main singer man might be Austin Crane, or he comes from a band called Austin Crane.  I haven't tested those waters, but I imagine he'd have to be decent to have done the Valley Maker.  Which they say was a senior thesis project.  Pretty cool one, I think.

the monologue

Okay, I changed my mind.  I don't want this up.  I'm sorry for wasting your time with this.  


(And if you happened to already have looked at what was here or read it (for real!?) that's all right.  I read it again several hours later and it sounded harsher during the read than it was during the write, so I didn't want to be misunderstood.)


Basically:  I talked with the president of the union this afternoon.  It went fine.  I don't feel like he hates me.    I do still feel like I'm not the best person for this job.  I think I'm going to continue learning a lot.  It might be a long next four months and one week.

full moon

I asked the moon what she thought
That night the Son died.
She didn't say anything for a while.
Just hung there
And let a passing cloud cover her glow.

When she finally spoke, she said--carefully--
The Son?
She glided a moment more.  Then,
I always shine brightest on the darkest of nights.
Why? she said.
Because of the Son.

And that night was my brightest night.

The Man Who Laughs

An open Skype window covered up the senders and subjects of the gmail account which was open behind.  So I didn't have a clue.  I opened the older new email.  From Dad.  Then I pressed the up arrow to the newer email.

waBAM!  Huge grin, little audible whoops, both arms straight in the air, craning around to see if the rest of the world shares my excitement, pointing at the screen, laughing.

jAnelle junn sent me an email, complete with poem.  Oh man.  It's those little things that really catch you off guard.  A poem!  Just like old times.  Bless you, jAnelle junn.

Saving Private Living

Walking into that welcoming iron door was great.  I was finally home.  Something was different about the little garage area though, and I noticed that it was Mervin's yellow room light glowing out his window.  He's usually not home yet when I get back from work.

Usually, when I walk past his window, whether leaving or coming, I try not to look into his room.  Golden Rule, you know?  Last night out of my peripheral vision though, I noticed another weird thing--a sheet was covering up his big window, hanging from the ceiling like a curtain.  I appreciated that.  I'd put up towels to cover my window just two days before.  They block more light and they make the room less of an exhibit.

For some reason though, after coming in and seeing Mervin already home, and then seeing his improvised curtain, I suddenly felt a little urge to react just a bit--like pull back the curtain and yell I'm home Mervin! or at least just say something.  But I didn't.  There was the ever-so-slightest of hesitations, those fractions of a moment when one is tempted to do something but then doesn't.  But that was it, I guess.  I just went to my room.

I saw the gift on my dresser that I had been needing to give Mervin for Christmas.  A week and a half late isn't bad for me.  I decided this was my best chance.  I hadn't seen him at home, really, for several days, and he'd just informed me that afternoon at work that he'd be leaving the next day (today) for the university to study for almost a month.  Well okay.  So I changed my clothes and wrote Merry Christmas Mervin on the packaging of the gift and went to his room and knocked on the door.

When Mervin came out I had another one of those ever-so-slightest of hesitations, but this time it was because my mind was starting to wonder how Mervin had gotten so small and why he looked so freakishly different.   My mind caught up to me soon and noticed that it was a small woman looking up at me.  Hmm... a small woman.  I was glad I hadn't taken off my shirt or gone in my briefs.

"Oh, sorry!  I thought Mervin was home..."
"Oh, yeah, no he's still not back from work..."
"Right, usually he gets back pretty late.  So you're... Mervin's Mom?"
"Yes."
"Well it's nice to meet you.  I'm Chris, the roommate.  Sorry to bother you!"
"Nice to meet you, too."  SLAM.

Just kidding.  She didn't slam anything.  I walked back to my room and put his gift on my dresser, thankful that my sense of privacy is still greater than my nonsense.

mint ferment

The way I see it, the world is all backward.  The temperature is slowly and steadily rising here in my little city, and with it, the uncomfortableness of my feet.  They just suffer silently inside these stifling shoes.  I allowed my mind to hate on the situation for a few moments just now.  I thought, if I was in some mud-engulfed, rocky, crappy place I'd probably long for stifling shoes.  Or if I was in some sub-zero, icy, frigid tundra I'd probably long for stifling shoes.  But I'm here in a lovely climate, on nice sidewalks and clean floors, hardly needing to walk at all... stuck in my stifling shoes.

So, can I trade?  With that other guy who lives in the jungly place (if he has a job)?  Or with that other guy who slides to work on the ice (if he has a job)?  Maybe I could come to work in some handmade work slippers and he could go to work (if he has...) in my brown leather Scandinavian stiflers.  And maybe while we're at it, we could trade shirts, pants, and ties, too.

But then people visiting the offices would see me barefoot and wonder what the church leaders were thinking, letting in this bum.  After all, bums belong in the jungle and the tundra--without shoes.  Privileged people belong in privileged climates--with shoes.

So yep, there it is.  The world's backward.

(Of course... I wouldn't want to trade my computer or even just my Nalgene... backward world indeed.)

And when I said Enough, my mind stopped hating.  I'm just thankful this is the worst of my burdens this morning.  And I'm sure I'll want my shoes back soon enough.