skwarepeg invited me to retake the Belief-O-Matic test.
I told her that I and everyone I knew inevitably came out as Buddhist. PROVE ME WRONG!
“Even if YOU don’t know what faith you are, Belief-O-Matic™ knows. Answer 20 questions about your concept of God, the afterlife, human nature, and more, and Belief-O-Matic™ will tell you what religion (if any) you practice…or ought to consider practicing.”
My results:
1. Mahayana Buddhism (100%)
2. Hinduism (99%)
3. Neo-Pagan (91%)
4. Unitarian Universalism (89%)
5. New Age (81%)
6. Theravada Buddhism (78%)
7. Jainism (76%)
8. New Thought (75%)
9. Liberal Quakers (74%)
10. Sikhism (70%)
11. Reform Judaism (60%)
12. Scientology (59%)
13. Taoism (59%)
14. Christian Science (Church of Christ, Scientist) (54%)
15. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (51%)
16. Bahá'í Faith (48%)
17. Orthodox Judaism (45%)
18. Islam (34%)
19. Orthodox Quaker (33%)
20. Secular Humanism (33%)
21. Nontheist (18%)
22. Seventh Day Adventist (16%)
23. Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant (14%)
24. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Mormons) (13%)
25. Eastern Orthodox (13%)
26. Jehovah's Witness (13%)
27. Roman Catholic (13%)
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Crisis, the Bard, and (finally) Acceptance
I am starting to feel like I am living in a constant state of crisis mode. By this I do not mean that I am living from one crisis to the next while all around me the world is falling apart. Rather the source of the dysfunction seems to come from within. Disruptions to my expectations of how the day should go seem to send me in to a tail spin. I probably need more rest. I feel busy all the time, even when I am just sitting. The other day at school (work) I was standing at the copier when a lady came up behind me and said, “You just can’t stand still can you?” I realized that I had been nervously fidgeting the whole time, hoping from one foot to the other like a small child with a urinary infection. The worst, though, is when there is any kind of disruption to my schedule.
One example happened the other day. For weeks, the professors at school (school) have been debating when to have the graduate midterm critique. There seems to be no compromise between these people, and finally they decided to have it on two separate days. That’s right, I get to do my midterm, and then I get to do it again a week later. Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy! (I am pretty sure the exclamation mark comes from the Latin and is a derivative of the word “Joy” so to have it after the word Joy is a bit repetitive, but then a again so are two midterms.)
My reaction was to totally freak out. Not because I don’t want to do two midterms, well, at least, not any more than anyone would want to. No, my reaction was to the scheduling nightmare it creates. The delicate fabric of my sanity is held together by the structure of my day. Work, School, Family, Dinner, Sleep, Repeat. Interruptions are greeted with frustration, annoyance, and the pessimistic view that I am finally paying for the time I used a Ouija board in the eighth grade. I go into Crisis mode. J. calls it her egg timer. My mind flood with panic and fear and I find myself unable to concentrate on anything else. I become overwhelmed by emotion. It never lasts long. A few minutes, and hour, then I can let it go, but if the situation goes unresolved, I am certain to find myself back in the emotional headache before long.
Interestingly, in a play, the crisis is the turning point in a drama, the point after which the protagonist’s fortunes must either improve or grow worse. While nail biting, the crisis is not necessarily an intense emotional moment. Like the Bard says: “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”
Funny. In my mind crisis mode is not the moment when things improve or worsen. Crisis mode is the time when everything is irrevocably f***kd. Actually I think the Bard’s quote I was looking for is: “Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
I make so much of the emotions I feel that I am often distracted from the solution. After all, what are feelings? Just the body’s way of letting you know something is going on inside that needs your attention. In the past I have taken comfort in the fact that eventually the emotion fades, and life remains the same. But I am pretty sure that just sets me up for more trouble later. Thinking about this I have decided that crisis is change, an opportunity. Usually I feel distressed by crisis, at worst, in pain, but pain is the ally that lets you know something is wrong. Distress lets me know that I have a choice, to suffer through the pain and continue on as before, or let the pain inspire me to acceptance and change, which helps me see solutions to problems that would otherwise seem insurmountable. Incidentally I found the solution to my midterm crisis, I found both acceptance and detachment, that helped me put aside my bitter and confused emotions, and in so doing was able to offer myself a solution that allows me to fulfill my obligations to both schools with the minimal amount of intrusion.
One example happened the other day. For weeks, the professors at school (school) have been debating when to have the graduate midterm critique. There seems to be no compromise between these people, and finally they decided to have it on two separate days. That’s right, I get to do my midterm, and then I get to do it again a week later. Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy! (I am pretty sure the exclamation mark comes from the Latin and is a derivative of the word “Joy” so to have it after the word Joy is a bit repetitive, but then a again so are two midterms.)
My reaction was to totally freak out. Not because I don’t want to do two midterms, well, at least, not any more than anyone would want to. No, my reaction was to the scheduling nightmare it creates. The delicate fabric of my sanity is held together by the structure of my day. Work, School, Family, Dinner, Sleep, Repeat. Interruptions are greeted with frustration, annoyance, and the pessimistic view that I am finally paying for the time I used a Ouija board in the eighth grade. I go into Crisis mode. J. calls it her egg timer. My mind flood with panic and fear and I find myself unable to concentrate on anything else. I become overwhelmed by emotion. It never lasts long. A few minutes, and hour, then I can let it go, but if the situation goes unresolved, I am certain to find myself back in the emotional headache before long.
Interestingly, in a play, the crisis is the turning point in a drama, the point after which the protagonist’s fortunes must either improve or grow worse. While nail biting, the crisis is not necessarily an intense emotional moment. Like the Bard says: “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”
Funny. In my mind crisis mode is not the moment when things improve or worsen. Crisis mode is the time when everything is irrevocably f***kd. Actually I think the Bard’s quote I was looking for is: “Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
I make so much of the emotions I feel that I am often distracted from the solution. After all, what are feelings? Just the body’s way of letting you know something is going on inside that needs your attention. In the past I have taken comfort in the fact that eventually the emotion fades, and life remains the same. But I am pretty sure that just sets me up for more trouble later. Thinking about this I have decided that crisis is change, an opportunity. Usually I feel distressed by crisis, at worst, in pain, but pain is the ally that lets you know something is wrong. Distress lets me know that I have a choice, to suffer through the pain and continue on as before, or let the pain inspire me to acceptance and change, which helps me see solutions to problems that would otherwise seem insurmountable. Incidentally I found the solution to my midterm crisis, I found both acceptance and detachment, that helped me put aside my bitter and confused emotions, and in so doing was able to offer myself a solution that allows me to fulfill my obligations to both schools with the minimal amount of intrusion.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Getting your Woo-Woo on
I was talking to one of my professors last night "Your main problem, when talking about your art, is all the woo-woo."
I stared at him for a minute. "Woo-woo?"
"Yeah." he continued. "When ever I visit my brother in law in Austin, we end up going to his transcendental meditation retreat. When I come back home, my wife says, I can feel the woo-woo walking in the door with you."
I thought about it for a moment and said "So, woo-woo is a good? thing."
"Well, it is more like a spiritual thing."
Of course I knew what he meant. One of the hardest things for me is to talk about art and not begin to wax philosophical or (worse) poetic. The language of art, after all has its roots in formalism. I know this. I just spent four week s telling my students about this. Beating into them the language of art: The Elements and Principles of Design. The elements form the basic vocabulary of visual design, (line, color, shape) while the principles constitute the broader structural aspects of the composition. (unity, variety, balance, proportion) Content and Context are extra.
Alas, this is not the way I am hard wired. I am an Artist dambit! I have the soul of a poet yearning to be free. I can't be tied down to the Man's rules.
"no slave's unlife shall murder me
for i will freely die"
Talking to this man I finally understood why so many people had said "How you talk about your work is paramount." Not TALKING about your work, but talking. It suddenly occurred to me what my part in the insanity of Graduate school was. I have been so busy getting my woo-woo on that I have sort of missed some important footnotes in the graduate school process: namely that the context for the work, including the reason for its creation, the historical background, and the life of the artist, is secondary. (which isn't to say it isn't there)
Alas, I understand now why talking about the grand themes can be a bit of a dead end. Everyone knows that injustice is wrong and Justice is great. Rolling them out in the middle of a critique isn't exactly helpful. It's noise. Beautiful, stirring, wondrous, even moving noise, that has nothing to do with anything except getting your woo-woo on.
("No more flow!" says the Un-) It is the plight of being both artist and teacher. The part of me that really gets this stuff doesn't exactly communicate with the part of me that is floating around in the ether being all Rumi and Gita and Socrates and Buddha.
Ugh.
"When did I become so sophomoric?" says the brain
"Quiet You!" the soul replies "I am an artist Damnit!"
I stared at him for a minute. "Woo-woo?"
"Yeah." he continued. "When ever I visit my brother in law in Austin, we end up going to his transcendental meditation retreat. When I come back home, my wife says, I can feel the woo-woo walking in the door with you."
I thought about it for a moment and said "So, woo-woo is a good? thing."
"Well, it is more like a spiritual thing."
Of course I knew what he meant. One of the hardest things for me is to talk about art and not begin to wax philosophical or (worse) poetic. The language of art, after all has its roots in formalism. I know this. I just spent four week s telling my students about this. Beating into them the language of art: The Elements and Principles of Design. The elements form the basic vocabulary of visual design, (line, color, shape) while the principles constitute the broader structural aspects of the composition. (unity, variety, balance, proportion) Content and Context are extra.
Alas, this is not the way I am hard wired. I am an Artist dambit! I have the soul of a poet yearning to be free. I can't be tied down to the Man's rules.
"no slave's unlife shall murder me
for i will freely die"
Talking to this man I finally understood why so many people had said "How you talk about your work is paramount." Not TALKING about your work, but talking. It suddenly occurred to me what my part in the insanity of Graduate school was. I have been so busy getting my woo-woo on that I have sort of missed some important footnotes in the graduate school process: namely that the context for the work, including the reason for its creation, the historical background, and the life of the artist, is secondary. (which isn't to say it isn't there)
Alas, I understand now why talking about the grand themes can be a bit of a dead end. Everyone knows that injustice is wrong and Justice is great. Rolling them out in the middle of a critique isn't exactly helpful. It's noise. Beautiful, stirring, wondrous, even moving noise, that has nothing to do with anything except getting your woo-woo on.
("No more flow!" says the Un-) It is the plight of being both artist and teacher. The part of me that really gets this stuff doesn't exactly communicate with the part of me that is floating around in the ether being all Rumi and Gita and Socrates and Buddha.
Ugh.
"When did I become so sophomoric?" says the brain
"Quiet You!" the soul replies "I am an artist Damnit!"
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
past deeds unforgotten
I had a really nice day today, I had great meetings with my professors, I got a lot of painting done, I got to leave early and come home to see the family before everyone was exhausted, on the drive home I watched a country sunset complete with barns and haystacks, and when I stopped to pick up a pound of coffee for J., the market had free cubes of Wisconsin cheddar cheese out for sample. Yum.
The thing I think about the most though, is this weird little moment I had this morning before I drove out to school. I was teaching class this morning when a students asked about the grade they had received on their last test. I opened up my grade book and started to look up their grade when suddenly I realized that the projector had inadvertently been turned on and that my entire grade book was being projected IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE F***ING CLASS. Oops.
I thought about it for a while after class, thinking about what had happened and about my own actions, ultimately, about my own culpability. I mean, potentially if could be bad. A disgruntled student could easily seize on this opportunity and raise a stink, but the truth is, the very instant I realized what was happening, I reacted, I corrected the problem and went on. Problem solved.
The whole incident lasted no more that a few seconds. Again, accidents happen. Sometimes accidents happen with very serious consequences. I don’t feel this is the case. Still, if someone ultimately complains, I am more than happy to admit I made a mistake. After all, what else can you do? I take responsibility because I am in charge. I realized there was a problem and I corrected it. You would think that might be the end of it.
Still, I continue to go over the sequence of events in my mind. At what point did the projector go on? At what point did I become aware of it? I realize now that I am not so much bothered by the fact of what happened as I am disturbed by the idea of it. It is painful to think about. It is like watching some horrible sitcom character make a social faux pas and feel yourself absolutely cringing knowing that what they are about to do is so horribly wrong and you are left there feeling completely powerless to stop it.
I can see the reel starting. The characters are set. The sequence of events unfolds. Nothing I can do will change the past. The past, after all is just the past. I remind myself of this over and over. No amount of thinking about it is going to change what happens. I tell myself, "Take responsibility and move on." Yet somehow, the dial on my inner television is broken. It only receives one channel: The channel of incalculable human error. Pitifully, I watch myself enjoy the madness of reliving my blunders.
Perhaps some part of me wonders whether if I think about it long enough, hard enough, I can actually undo these actions, or perhaps it is the anticipation of my own stupidity that keeps me glued to the screen of my inner mind. Regardless, as I say before, I keep reminding myself that the past is just the past. Actually that is one of the nicest things about the past. Honestly, let us all just hope it stays there.
The thing I think about the most though, is this weird little moment I had this morning before I drove out to school. I was teaching class this morning when a students asked about the grade they had received on their last test. I opened up my grade book and started to look up their grade when suddenly I realized that the projector had inadvertently been turned on and that my entire grade book was being projected IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE F***ING CLASS. Oops.
I thought about it for a while after class, thinking about what had happened and about my own actions, ultimately, about my own culpability. I mean, potentially if could be bad. A disgruntled student could easily seize on this opportunity and raise a stink, but the truth is, the very instant I realized what was happening, I reacted, I corrected the problem and went on. Problem solved.
The whole incident lasted no more that a few seconds. Again, accidents happen. Sometimes accidents happen with very serious consequences. I don’t feel this is the case. Still, if someone ultimately complains, I am more than happy to admit I made a mistake. After all, what else can you do? I take responsibility because I am in charge. I realized there was a problem and I corrected it. You would think that might be the end of it.
Still, I continue to go over the sequence of events in my mind. At what point did the projector go on? At what point did I become aware of it? I realize now that I am not so much bothered by the fact of what happened as I am disturbed by the idea of it. It is painful to think about. It is like watching some horrible sitcom character make a social faux pas and feel yourself absolutely cringing knowing that what they are about to do is so horribly wrong and you are left there feeling completely powerless to stop it.
I can see the reel starting. The characters are set. The sequence of events unfolds. Nothing I can do will change the past. The past, after all is just the past. I remind myself of this over and over. No amount of thinking about it is going to change what happens. I tell myself, "Take responsibility and move on." Yet somehow, the dial on my inner television is broken. It only receives one channel: The channel of incalculable human error. Pitifully, I watch myself enjoy the madness of reliving my blunders.
Perhaps some part of me wonders whether if I think about it long enough, hard enough, I can actually undo these actions, or perhaps it is the anticipation of my own stupidity that keeps me glued to the screen of my inner mind. Regardless, as I say before, I keep reminding myself that the past is just the past. Actually that is one of the nicest things about the past. Honestly, let us all just hope it stays there.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
a little Byron in the morning
Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be,
And Freedom find no champion and no child
Such as Columbia saw arise when she
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled?
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 860
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled
On infant Washington? Has Earth no more
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?
From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
And Freedom find no champion and no child
Such as Columbia saw arise when she
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled?
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 860
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled
On infant Washington? Has Earth no more
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?
From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Dress-up
I got home last night and Pete twirled up to me and said in unbroken English, "I'm a princess!"
Her Sister was a Princess Too!
Monday, September 15, 2008
Sympathies for Gen. Why.
Friday I attended the first in a series of new faculty orientation session. The new faculty was required to attend an all day conference the week before school started, at which point it was announced that there would be three more half-day meetings scheduled throughout the semester. I am sure that whomever planned these talks had the best of intentions, but frankly, after a month on the job, if you haven’t figured out where everything is, you should have at least identified who the best go to person is when the eventual question or two comes up. Anyway, it made for a long Friday afternoon.
One of the more interesting moments of the forum came early on when members of the school library services were invited to speak about the various resources offered. The first individual got up to speak and shared a series of statistics about library usage circulation of materials and growth of the collection. His talk was peppered liberally with disparaging remarks about the students. “I would have the best job in the world, if it weren’t for the students,” was the gist of his message. Clearly he thought that the students were incapable of taking care of themselves, or appreciating how well they had it.
A similar topic came up again on Sunday in our church group discussion. We were talking about Love and Logic, and someone started discussing Millennials, or Generation Y, children born between 1982 and 1994. The observation was made that “kids today can’t do things on their own” they’ve been “coddled” and “not made to take personal responsibility.” One speaker cited an example where parents were accompanying their millennial children to job interviews, adding that this generation of children is completely unprepared to deal with the realities of real life.
“Studies have been done.”
“Statistics show.”
My head begins to hurt.
At some point every generation takes a collective sigh and decides not to make the mistakes of their parents. Decisions are made, rules changed, new mistakes made, and in the end, the weary parent eyes its young and says, “what has happened to the youth of today?” Me, I don’t think there is anything wrong with the system. Parents are bound to misunderstand their children, and children their parents, dreams and ideals become the building blocks of new civilizations. We pass on the best of ourselves to our children and hope for the best. The future isn’t supposed to look like the past, and it isn’t supposed to always look better. Decay is part of growth. Obama called this shift from one generation to the next the Moses Generation and the Joshua Generation, a generation of idealists and dreamers, and a generation of doers and builders.
“Like them or not they will be in charge of this country one day.” Says one nervous parent. I think it is interesting to hear comments like this from a group of people talking about Love and Logic. A system designed share control and help give kids choices they can use to navigate though difficult situations. Is there anyone who hasn’t had a fear losing control at some point? One mother in the group talks about life with her four boys. “Give them an inch and they are all over you.” Another says the secret is to model healthy choices and present natural consequences.
My problem, if you want to call it that, is that I don’t really believe the things I am hearing about Generation Y. Sure some of my students can be a pain in the butt, but who hasn’t been in that relationship. Actually a relationship is as good an analogy as any. When one person has most of the control in a relationship it is at best unhealthy, at worst abusive. Tricky when you are a teacher in charge of a classroom full of students. But even here things work themselves out. The person who is the most skilled, knowledgeable or able to manage certain tasks should be the one to manage those tasks. The arrangement is agreed upon up front, the teacher leads, the students takes notes, the class works.
I don’t really know where I want to go with this, I think I just wanted it out where I could look at it and stop wondering why I felt so weird listening to these conversations. I cringed over and over again listening to the librarian talk about the students. I think I wanted to shake him. "Knowing more doesn’t make you right." I wanted to shout, "Knowing less doesn’t make them stupid."
One of the more interesting moments of the forum came early on when members of the school library services were invited to speak about the various resources offered. The first individual got up to speak and shared a series of statistics about library usage circulation of materials and growth of the collection. His talk was peppered liberally with disparaging remarks about the students. “I would have the best job in the world, if it weren’t for the students,” was the gist of his message. Clearly he thought that the students were incapable of taking care of themselves, or appreciating how well they had it.
A similar topic came up again on Sunday in our church group discussion. We were talking about Love and Logic, and someone started discussing Millennials, or Generation Y, children born between 1982 and 1994. The observation was made that “kids today can’t do things on their own” they’ve been “coddled” and “not made to take personal responsibility.” One speaker cited an example where parents were accompanying their millennial children to job interviews, adding that this generation of children is completely unprepared to deal with the realities of real life.
“Studies have been done.”
“Statistics show.”
My head begins to hurt.
At some point every generation takes a collective sigh and decides not to make the mistakes of their parents. Decisions are made, rules changed, new mistakes made, and in the end, the weary parent eyes its young and says, “what has happened to the youth of today?” Me, I don’t think there is anything wrong with the system. Parents are bound to misunderstand their children, and children their parents, dreams and ideals become the building blocks of new civilizations. We pass on the best of ourselves to our children and hope for the best. The future isn’t supposed to look like the past, and it isn’t supposed to always look better. Decay is part of growth. Obama called this shift from one generation to the next the Moses Generation and the Joshua Generation, a generation of idealists and dreamers, and a generation of doers and builders.
“Like them or not they will be in charge of this country one day.” Says one nervous parent. I think it is interesting to hear comments like this from a group of people talking about Love and Logic. A system designed share control and help give kids choices they can use to navigate though difficult situations. Is there anyone who hasn’t had a fear losing control at some point? One mother in the group talks about life with her four boys. “Give them an inch and they are all over you.” Another says the secret is to model healthy choices and present natural consequences.
My problem, if you want to call it that, is that I don’t really believe the things I am hearing about Generation Y. Sure some of my students can be a pain in the butt, but who hasn’t been in that relationship. Actually a relationship is as good an analogy as any. When one person has most of the control in a relationship it is at best unhealthy, at worst abusive. Tricky when you are a teacher in charge of a classroom full of students. But even here things work themselves out. The person who is the most skilled, knowledgeable or able to manage certain tasks should be the one to manage those tasks. The arrangement is agreed upon up front, the teacher leads, the students takes notes, the class works.
I don’t really know where I want to go with this, I think I just wanted it out where I could look at it and stop wondering why I felt so weird listening to these conversations. I cringed over and over again listening to the librarian talk about the students. I think I wanted to shake him. "Knowing more doesn’t make you right." I wanted to shout, "Knowing less doesn’t make them stupid."
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Morning Mantra
Have I told you I love my new job? I’m going to tell you again. I like to tell people that if you love what you do, you never have to work. This doesn’t mean that there won’t be a downside, every job has its down side, it’s is just I don’t feel the shortcomings in my job like I have in others. Still my job has the usual pitfalls: dealing with personalities, the commute, the cubical office, oh yeah, and getting up in the morning.
My internal alarm clock goes off before sunrise just about every morning. J. had a hard time sleeping during the pregnancy, so she would sleep in, and now, with the baby keeping her up at night, getting rest is twice as difficult. With my new job she has been taking all of the baby time at night so I can be rested and perky at school. I am deeply grateful.
Still, Scout likes to wake up about 6:30, and when I say “about” it can be 6:15 or even 5:30 on occasion, or 7:30 on occasion, and there really isn’t any good way to let a two and a half year old run around unattended in a dark house early in the morning. I can stumble bleary eyes in to the living room and am just as likely to find her snuggling on the couch as I am to discover her waist deep in some kitchen cabinet where she has found a bag of brownie mix or cereal flakes or ramen noodles and is busily devouring them like a little mouse. Still, compared to Jenny’s late night job, mine is easy.
There is one day in particular that is the hardest. (I won’t tell you which) but I have night classes on each of the two previous nights, so by the third morning I am a bit punchy. Scout was up early and I fell into my ritual of checking email, blogs, and news while the coffee brews, and then shuffled down the hallway to wake G. for school. G. has had nothing but glowing commendations of her school and teacher so I was a little startled by the conversation that followed the gentle rocking of the shoulders to wake her.
“I don’t want to go to school Daddy.”
“Why not Baby?”
“I don’t know, I just don’t” Then with a moment’s reflection, “I am tired of school today.”
“I know Baby.” I said reaching for her uniform.
“But Daddy, I’m not going to school today.” She said quizzically looking at the outfit.
“Well,” I said, “you still have to get dressed right?”
This seemed to make sense to her and she allowed me to help her transition from jammies to school clothes. “Come on, lets go get your hair brushed.”
“Why do I have to brush my hair? I am not going to school.” Becoming more defiant.
“Because it is a mess.” I lead her to the bathroom and placed a brush in her hand then turned and headed to the kitchen to make her lunch. I returned about ten minutes later to find her curled up in a ball and hiding behind a cabinet. This girl was serious.
“Come on Baby, your lunch is ready.”
“I am NOT going to school.”
“I’ll tell you what.” I said with a bit of a sigh, “you go to school and I will let you pick out some candy for your lunch box, for today's dessert. O.K.?”
She thought about it for a minute. “Can I have a piece of candy right now?”
“Sure.” I said. “But just for today,” I added not wanting to create some kind of precedent. “You can have a piece of candy right now.”
My internal alarm clock goes off before sunrise just about every morning. J. had a hard time sleeping during the pregnancy, so she would sleep in, and now, with the baby keeping her up at night, getting rest is twice as difficult. With my new job she has been taking all of the baby time at night so I can be rested and perky at school. I am deeply grateful.
Still, Scout likes to wake up about 6:30, and when I say “about” it can be 6:15 or even 5:30 on occasion, or 7:30 on occasion, and there really isn’t any good way to let a two and a half year old run around unattended in a dark house early in the morning. I can stumble bleary eyes in to the living room and am just as likely to find her snuggling on the couch as I am to discover her waist deep in some kitchen cabinet where she has found a bag of brownie mix or cereal flakes or ramen noodles and is busily devouring them like a little mouse. Still, compared to Jenny’s late night job, mine is easy.
There is one day in particular that is the hardest. (I won’t tell you which) but I have night classes on each of the two previous nights, so by the third morning I am a bit punchy. Scout was up early and I fell into my ritual of checking email, blogs, and news while the coffee brews, and then shuffled down the hallway to wake G. for school. G. has had nothing but glowing commendations of her school and teacher so I was a little startled by the conversation that followed the gentle rocking of the shoulders to wake her.
“I don’t want to go to school Daddy.”
“Why not Baby?”
“I don’t know, I just don’t” Then with a moment’s reflection, “I am tired of school today.”
“I know Baby.” I said reaching for her uniform.
“But Daddy, I’m not going to school today.” She said quizzically looking at the outfit.
“Well,” I said, “you still have to get dressed right?”
This seemed to make sense to her and she allowed me to help her transition from jammies to school clothes. “Come on, lets go get your hair brushed.”
“Why do I have to brush my hair? I am not going to school.” Becoming more defiant.
“Because it is a mess.” I lead her to the bathroom and placed a brush in her hand then turned and headed to the kitchen to make her lunch. I returned about ten minutes later to find her curled up in a ball and hiding behind a cabinet. This girl was serious.
“Come on Baby, your lunch is ready.”
“I am NOT going to school.”
“I’ll tell you what.” I said with a bit of a sigh, “you go to school and I will let you pick out some candy for your lunch box, for today's dessert. O.K.?”
She thought about it for a minute. “Can I have a piece of candy right now?”
“Sure.” I said. “But just for today,” I added not wanting to create some kind of precedent. “You can have a piece of candy right now.”
Monday, September 8, 2008
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Gastronomical Quirks of Habit
Everyone eats something that, if you told most anyone else, people would react by saying “OMG!!! You’d eat that?” For me I have this reaction to people who eat Lays sour cream and onion potato chips, maraschino cherries, Spam, and really any processed food in general. But truth be told, as a child I clamored for my mother’s bbq spam and rice, and no one in my family turned their noses up to a peanut butter and bacon sandwich on toast, (a rare delicacy).
What is that I hear across the miles of cyber surfing, the shrill disbelief ““OMG!!! You’d eat that?” To which I can safely reply that yes, once upon a time I did, and the nostalgia of these dishes has not tainted the flavor of them one iota.
As I said before, we all eat things that would make others sick to their stomachs. Sometime we even marry these people. J. stares in disbelief at my penchant for canned kippers or smoked oysters, is revolted by my love of pickled herring, and leaves the room whenever I come home with a fresh batch of kim chi from the local Asian mart.
Yes, there is no explaining my love of these simple, homespun delicacies. I love them the way the Romans loved otter’s noses and pelican giblets. The taste for them is as ingrained in me as my midwestern accent, and while I do not carry around a banner announcing these quirks, yes quirks of gastronomical perplexity, I would walk through a blizzard in Iowa in January to eat them.
This being said, there are rules. There are, of course, always rules. I would never, for example, bring them to a church potluck. These delicacies are for my taste buds alone, and I tend to consume them in private.
The other day J. brought home a jar of pickled herring she found at Ikea. The sauce was scented with the flavor of roe. They popped in your mouth like champagne bubbles. It was a delight. The only thing I liked better was the fact that my youngest, well, now third child asked to try them. Never in my life has anyone said, “How about a handful of those smoked oyster stuffed cherry tomatoes for the road?” J. pointed out that I might finally have found my brother in arms, so to speak. I was delighted. Though I had to be careful... She is a child after all and highly susceptible to the influence of her parents. Show too much praise and they immediately become wary. Instead I enjoyed this secret pleasure that my daughter and I shared, even as a tiny champagne bubble exploded in my mouth.
This is a language typically only family members can decode. It is not for the uninitiated. leafing through a copy of my grandmothers personal cookbook, I spy page after page of recipes i know and love. Porcupine Meatballs, peppercorn swordfish. I don't expect anyone else to understand. However, my sister was visiting for the birth of our fourth child. “How about some kipper snacks?” I asked. “You bet!” she said with a smile. She understands.
What is that I hear across the miles of cyber surfing, the shrill disbelief ““OMG!!! You’d eat that?” To which I can safely reply that yes, once upon a time I did, and the nostalgia of these dishes has not tainted the flavor of them one iota.
As I said before, we all eat things that would make others sick to their stomachs. Sometime we even marry these people. J. stares in disbelief at my penchant for canned kippers or smoked oysters, is revolted by my love of pickled herring, and leaves the room whenever I come home with a fresh batch of kim chi from the local Asian mart.
Yes, there is no explaining my love of these simple, homespun delicacies. I love them the way the Romans loved otter’s noses and pelican giblets. The taste for them is as ingrained in me as my midwestern accent, and while I do not carry around a banner announcing these quirks, yes quirks of gastronomical perplexity, I would walk through a blizzard in Iowa in January to eat them.
This being said, there are rules. There are, of course, always rules. I would never, for example, bring them to a church potluck. These delicacies are for my taste buds alone, and I tend to consume them in private.
The other day J. brought home a jar of pickled herring she found at Ikea. The sauce was scented with the flavor of roe. They popped in your mouth like champagne bubbles. It was a delight. The only thing I liked better was the fact that my youngest, well, now third child asked to try them. Never in my life has anyone said, “How about a handful of those smoked oyster stuffed cherry tomatoes for the road?” J. pointed out that I might finally have found my brother in arms, so to speak. I was delighted. Though I had to be careful... She is a child after all and highly susceptible to the influence of her parents. Show too much praise and they immediately become wary. Instead I enjoyed this secret pleasure that my daughter and I shared, even as a tiny champagne bubble exploded in my mouth.
This is a language typically only family members can decode. It is not for the uninitiated. leafing through a copy of my grandmothers personal cookbook, I spy page after page of recipes i know and love. Porcupine Meatballs, peppercorn swordfish. I don't expect anyone else to understand. However, my sister was visiting for the birth of our fourth child. “How about some kipper snacks?” I asked. “You bet!” she said with a smile. She understands.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The oops in Art
Each semester I try to pick a theme in art and use it as the backdrop for my presentations. Last semester my theme was the swinging pendulum between geometry and design, reason, and passion, sculptural form and painterly rendition. This semester I decided on Challenging preconceived notions, Identifying cultural biases and trying to look over them, or under them or around them or just throwing them out all together. Take for example the Venus of Willendorf, fertility idol, or prehistoric porn? We know nothing about the people that created this figure. Better minds than mind are working hard day and night, Gunga Din, to come and tell you exactly what this figurine is for. And so I try challenge the students to look at the context, and the evolution of this figure over the course of the subsequent five to ten thousand years. From four inch idols to the one and a half foot high Bas Relief carving of a woman holding a bison horn, from Laussel, Dordogne, France, to the three foot reclining woman, rock-cut relief, La Magdelaine cave, in Tarn, France. What do the stylistic similarities and differences tell us?
To call the figurine a Venus is so dangerous, because it assumes a series of cultural preconceptions, emotional baggage. Like I was commenting on another blog today, I think it is interesting to see how people will respond to the emotional content of a work of art, some much so, in fact that it is easy to appreciate the sublime in art and begin to ignore the context or the story.
I was talking to a colleague the other day about this very topic and he said that the editors of the first edition of Jansen's History of Art: The Western Tradition, while discussing Poussin’s “Abduction of the Sabine Women” talked about how the artist choose exemplary forms drawn from classical antiquity to depict the figures and went on to talk about the sheer beauty of the work, and neglected to mention the context. Rape.
Interestingly, We no longer refer to the "rape" of the Sabine women; instead it is the "abduction." Artists and art critics too often ignore the subtext in order to espouse the sublime beauty of the artwork. The most recent example of this? An artist proposed creating the largest bronze equestrian sculpture ever made for the city of El Paso depicting Spanish conquistador Juan de Onate. But Native Americans in El Paso and surrounding areas remember Onate as a man who nearly wiped out the Acoma Pueblo, enslaved their children and cut off one foot of any man considered to be of fighting age. The artist was forced to admit that he was so caught up in the creation and beauty of the work, that he ignored the text of Onate's life and deeds.
In 1606, Oñate was recalled to Mexico City for a hearing into his conduct. After finishing plans for the founding of the town of Santa Fé, he resigned his post and was tried and convicted of cruelty to both Indians and colonists, the modern equivalent: crimes against humanity. Today there is 34 ft statue of him in El Paso.
At what point do we say: How beautiful does it have to be? There are so many depictions of the story of the Sabine Women. Does the fact that they were abducted and raped have to play into the art? There are numerous depictions of Jesus not all to my liking, what about them? Does it have to be culturally sensitive to be great art? Do we run the risk of watering down the past to make it more palatable to the present? Alas, no one said picking these themes was going to be easy. Maybe next semester I just choose something like, the use of a river as a metaphor in art. I'll probably save myself a lot of trouble, but would the blog be as good? I wonder.
To call the figurine a Venus is so dangerous, because it assumes a series of cultural preconceptions, emotional baggage. Like I was commenting on another blog today, I think it is interesting to see how people will respond to the emotional content of a work of art, some much so, in fact that it is easy to appreciate the sublime in art and begin to ignore the context or the story.
I was talking to a colleague the other day about this very topic and he said that the editors of the first edition of Jansen's History of Art: The Western Tradition, while discussing Poussin’s “Abduction of the Sabine Women” talked about how the artist choose exemplary forms drawn from classical antiquity to depict the figures and went on to talk about the sheer beauty of the work, and neglected to mention the context. Rape.
Interestingly, We no longer refer to the "rape" of the Sabine women; instead it is the "abduction." Artists and art critics too often ignore the subtext in order to espouse the sublime beauty of the artwork. The most recent example of this? An artist proposed creating the largest bronze equestrian sculpture ever made for the city of El Paso depicting Spanish conquistador Juan de Onate. But Native Americans in El Paso and surrounding areas remember Onate as a man who nearly wiped out the Acoma Pueblo, enslaved their children and cut off one foot of any man considered to be of fighting age. The artist was forced to admit that he was so caught up in the creation and beauty of the work, that he ignored the text of Onate's life and deeds.
In 1606, Oñate was recalled to Mexico City for a hearing into his conduct. After finishing plans for the founding of the town of Santa Fé, he resigned his post and was tried and convicted of cruelty to both Indians and colonists, the modern equivalent: crimes against humanity. Today there is 34 ft statue of him in El Paso.
At what point do we say: How beautiful does it have to be? There are so many depictions of the story of the Sabine Women. Does the fact that they were abducted and raped have to play into the art? There are numerous depictions of Jesus not all to my liking, what about them? Does it have to be culturally sensitive to be great art? Do we run the risk of watering down the past to make it more palatable to the present? Alas, no one said picking these themes was going to be easy. Maybe next semester I just choose something like, the use of a river as a metaphor in art. I'll probably save myself a lot of trouble, but would the blog be as good? I wonder.
last words
I read somewhere once that the philosopher G. W. F. Hegel’s last words were "only one man has ever understood me, and he didn't understand me." I have thought about these words from time to time, sometimes with humor, sometimes with pity. Hegel is, for those not in the know, and extremely challenging author. To say that Hegel's works have a reputation for their difficulty and for the breadth of the topics they attempt to cover is something of an understatement. To think that no one understood him, might easily have been an understatement. Traditionally it is thought that the “one man” that Hegel refers to is Karl Marx, whose own work was strongly influenced by Hegel’s dialectical method and his analysis of history. However, for some reason, while driving home from work this afternoon, it suddenly occurred to me that more than who, why this statement was made must be important. Were Hegel’s last an observation on his relationship with Marx, or anyone for that matter, or were they instead an observation of his own life, a lament.
Struggling at times, in my relationships at home, at work, and in school I know all too well what Hegel might have been talking about. To quote another author, T. S. Elliott “It is impossible to say just what I mean” is not just a statement of the inadequacy of words, but rather reflects upon the speaker's own inability to reconcile inner world with the outer.
The poem repeatedly emphasizes this frustration, etherized, and stretched thin, spread out like yellow fog; even as it rolls toward some overwhelming question, the universe, like the fog, unfolding, even if the actual destination, like the question, remains unclear. Indeed, we set out designs on the universe, to make sense of the fog, like a prophet "come back to tell you all" only to discover the ultimate failure of such a discourse: "That is not what I meant at all."
Struggling at times, in my relationships at home, at work, and in school I know all too well what Hegel might have been talking about. To quote another author, T. S. Elliott “It is impossible to say just what I mean” is not just a statement of the inadequacy of words, but rather reflects upon the speaker's own inability to reconcile inner world with the outer.
The poem repeatedly emphasizes this frustration, etherized, and stretched thin, spread out like yellow fog; even as it rolls toward some overwhelming question, the universe, like the fog, unfolding, even if the actual destination, like the question, remains unclear. Indeed, we set out designs on the universe, to make sense of the fog, like a prophet "come back to tell you all" only to discover the ultimate failure of such a discourse: "That is not what I meant at all."
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Movie Time
I like going to the movies with the girls. We swing by the local Neighborhood Grocery that sells boxes of movie candy for a dollar apiece: Ju Ju fruits, Milk Duds, Raisinets, Good & Plenty, Sour Patch and Reese’s. Then we head off for the dollar theater, loaded for bear. We have a pretty good dollar theater near by. I know dollar theaters can feel a little dilapidated, but ours isn’t bad, and the girls don’t seem to mind.
I took G. to Kung Fu Panda on Monday. Well we tried to go Sunday but it was sold out, so I wised up and bought Monday's tickets online. Actually, I went to the movie theater 3 times last weekend; I also took in a double feature with D., Hulk on Friday, and Iron Man on Saturday afternoon. Talk about vastly different movie going experiences.
For example: At one point in Kung Fu Panda the Turtle Oogway dies, vanishing into a cloud of peach blossoms on the winds and joining the universe, a la a Jedi Knight becoming one with the living force as he dies.
G. asked “Where did he go Daddy?”
“He joined the Universe Baby.”
“How did he do that?”
“I don’t know. But I promise you, you will be the first to know when I figure it out.”
Satisfied, she turned back to the movie.
In contrast, D. offers up a nonstop running commentary of the movie, her observations are typically pithy. Still the movies were good, even if they are merely different versions of the same movie. Each was an unfolding of the hero’s biography finalized by a battle between the hero and an evil villain with a nearly identical set of super powers.
My favorite line? “Hulk Smash!” Driving home from the theater I must have said it about twenty times in a dozen different voices. D. got into the spirit of the thing, and even coughed out a few “Hulk Smash” of her own. We both agreed that we liked Hulk better than Iron Man. (not that Iron Man wasn’t great, we just had a better time.)
I took G. to Kung Fu Panda on Monday. Well we tried to go Sunday but it was sold out, so I wised up and bought Monday's tickets online. Actually, I went to the movie theater 3 times last weekend; I also took in a double feature with D., Hulk on Friday, and Iron Man on Saturday afternoon. Talk about vastly different movie going experiences.
For example: At one point in Kung Fu Panda the Turtle Oogway dies, vanishing into a cloud of peach blossoms on the winds and joining the universe, a la a Jedi Knight becoming one with the living force as he dies.
G. asked “Where did he go Daddy?”
“He joined the Universe Baby.”
“How did he do that?”
“I don’t know. But I promise you, you will be the first to know when I figure it out.”
Satisfied, she turned back to the movie.
In contrast, D. offers up a nonstop running commentary of the movie, her observations are typically pithy. Still the movies were good, even if they are merely different versions of the same movie. Each was an unfolding of the hero’s biography finalized by a battle between the hero and an evil villain with a nearly identical set of super powers.
My favorite line? “Hulk Smash!” Driving home from the theater I must have said it about twenty times in a dozen different voices. D. got into the spirit of the thing, and even coughed out a few “Hulk Smash” of her own. We both agreed that we liked Hulk better than Iron Man. (not that Iron Man wasn’t great, we just had a better time.)
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