Baby, We Were Born To Ruuuuuuuuuun....

Let’s imagine we were subjected to the ice-breaker If You really Knew Me, You’d Know…. If that happened, I would have to come up with something less obvious then the following: I have a tic. The tic? At the mere suggestion of jogging my face sets into the same expression people wear while jogging (and that ain't ecstasy, folx).

Let’s be real, we could be subjected to the diluted tepid-water breaker: Even Before You Knew My Name, You’d Know… and you would still already know the following: Even when looking to try something new that is bold enough to cover the whole summer, I should avoid signing up for any kind of multi-session fitness class, particularly one that revolves around running.

And so it will come as no surprise to you who even slightly know me that, in keeping with my both disturbed and disturbing need to try new things each month (and preferably sign up for things that I already know I am going to hate), I signed up for a “Running/ Fitness Camp” for teachers. It was a moment of pure madness, a.k.a. the last week of school. Five days. End of June. 6-8pm. Feel free to blame SFUSD for even suggesting it.

The company? Windswept Fitness. An apt name, since we met at the Polo Fields (which they might want to modernize into the name Summer Tundras) at 6pm. Not that we could see each other through the windy fog. Windswept Fitness? Terrible. An utter waste of time, talent, and money. They are high on my list of companies I do not recommend. It is possible I am just not their target audience, since everyone else played thrilled with the week. I mean, I got through, but it was far from pretty.

Because the experience really represented everything I don’t like:
* Groups filled with other teachers
* Organized sheep mentality
* Working out
* Sarcasm and lack of attention to detail
* Running
* Trainers who appear to know less about health or their audience than I do
* People who are constantly trying to sell you shit and
* Wasteful “gift bags” of lots of paper fliers, soft plastic bike water bottles and silly red t-shirts.

So I went the first day and positively despised it. Why go back? If you have that question, get in line behind every single person who knows me me even slightly and asked me that. My answer:

Well, I already paid for it, damn it. So I am going. And I want to see if I truly hate running as much as I think I do.

But I finally realized on Friday night at 8:15pm, when I was free of them the last time, that my answer to y'all is somewhat incomplete.

I always think of myself as having been a weak, nonathletic kid. I was teeny-tiny and possessed very few muscles. And I was deeply shy. I was always picked last for class “teams.” I'm not kidding. I was one of those picked-with-audible-sighs-because in-the-70s-no-one-could-be-left-out picks when I was little. I remember one time being so gravely embarrassed that I alone could not successfully swim between two points (that were not very far from each other) that I hid in shame after trying and failing that test that day. I must’ve been super-wee at that point.

Showing that everything happens for a reason, this week has caused to me to remember that my self-perception has a gap.

For a spell and once upon a time, back when I was even shorter than I am today (at least by second grade - for those of you who are quantifiers), I loved loved loved running.

And, over time, I became good at it. I came to be the fastest sprinter in my class. I was faster than all the girls. I was faster than all the boys. If there were any little intersex kids in our class, I was faster than them, too. I was even faster than the boy I had a friend-crush on: John Clay. And even though I was faster than he was, he still liked me back. It is possible he just saw me as one of the guys, but I was such an innocent in that way, I wouldn’t have consciously understood any of those dynamics. We were good friends and maybe in that funny second-grade way, we liked each other, too. But one thing I know. I was the fastest sprinter in the class. I was great at something, and, more importantly, I felt free.

At some point, a guy transferred into our class. That was probably fourth grade. He was from Japan. I wish I could remember his name. I want to say it was Tomiko, though I don’t know why. He was really fast. He was legendary. And I couldn't beat him, though we went neck and neck for a while. I heard he liked me. I didn't get the feeling that anyone ever would like me. My friends were all having moments of going steady. But not me. And he was nice enough and interesting and different. So I liked him and I liked racing him. Being the fickle fourth grader I was, I transferred my John Clay friend-crush to him. We were friends and friendly. He showed a lot of respect for me. I congratulated him when he beat me. It was all in fun. I felt so free. And then, one day, in front of the whole K-6 grade, I beat squarely beat him in a sprint.

He stopped talking to me. For the rest of the year.

I continued to beat his scores, but he refused speak to me. John Clay (who, in retrospect, was a wise person and a friend) explained that Tomiko was hurt because a girl had beat him. Still totally sheltered, I had no idea what he was going on about. I continued to beat Tomiko because I still loved running. I continued to try to talk to him because I still liked him. And he continued to avoid talking to me. Until fifth grade, which was my last year at that school.

We came back from the summer. We had an obstacle course tournament. I was picked for a team pretty close to the beginning because I could win races. Tomiko was picked by the other team. We raced. He won. I was congratulated for being the fastest girl. Some adult at that school, perhaps the PE teacher or someone, told me not to be disappointed; our bodies were changing and so boys would beat me from then on. I could remain the fastest girl perhaps, but it wasn't realistic to think I could be the fastest runner in the class.

Leaving the tournament, as I passed by an "alley" between two trailers that constituted school classrooms, Tomiko's hand reached out and nabbed me by the wrist. He pulled me into the walkway. I remember how his cheeks were flushed sunset red. I congratulated him and he held out his hand and congratulated me enthusiastically. He was very friendly, his eyes were bright and beaming, he was smiling so widely. He pulled my face into his face. I couldn't see around it. He kissed my cheek. He then ran off. I stood still, stunned. He was speaking to me again, and he was again the fastest runner. And Tomiko kept winning. Although I didn't mention the whole Tomiko alleyway thing, I remember being upset about the whole tournament thing enough that my mom found out about it and, trying to make me feel better, assured me that athletics were not important and it was o.k. that I wasn’t an athletic person. She wasn't either and neither was my dad. My best friend, Honor, then beat my time, became the fastest girl-runner in class. By the end of the year, she and Tomiko were "together."

I stopped sprinting. And went back to getting picked towards the bottom on the class teams for gym.

I didn’t go out of my way to run again until high school, when I tried out for Crew. I got up at 4:30 a.m. each morning to get out to Lake Merced and completed all the morning runs and practices for try-outs for a whole month. I remember it being really hard because I didn't think of myself as athletic. I was pretty sure every morning I wouldn't be able to do it. But I didn't want to come in last. I was still small and not very strong. I didn’t make the team, even as a coxswain. I eventually found out that my mom had, without my knowledge, asked the coach if he would just let me continue to practice with them, even if I never be in a meet. He refused, apparently. And that was that. I never willingly ran just to run again, until this past Monday.

So I guess signing up for that thing was helpful in a way. It reminded me we bury demons deep and that I don't have complete onset of Alzheimer's yet.

And just in case that wasn't enough trauma for one week: Just when I thought I had looked at and thus laid to rest some core feelings of childhood shame, my 94 year old neighbor stopped me in the hall to ask if I was going to the Gaybors' (my new neighbors) BBQ the following day. Now, I live in a building with 5 apartments, containing six people total. I replied, “Well, I didn't know they were having a BBQ tomorrow. They didn’t invite me.” She looked awkward a moment and then away completely. The good news is that it cleared up why they had never replied to my invitation to come see the SF Mime Troupe in Dolores Park with me that same day.

So it appears that whether I like to run or not is kind of immaterial, since a person cannot ultimately outrun the triggers that stop us from feeling free. So in addition to this being the Month of Organized Running, this is also my month of: Relive Every Aspect of Elementary School Self-Confidence-Depleting Left-outness at the same time. And I am here to tell you that no matter how stodgy, hard, and worldly a person has become, it still always hurts my feelings.

Come here, demons. I still got space at my table.

Season Finale

First, a one-breath haiku for you:

Grad school completed
Timed to cold weather returns
Typical. I cope.


On Monday I turned over three copies of a bound, 104 page paper to my Muppet professor, who reacted by saying,

1. I am so proud of you.
2. I never wanted you in this program.
3. I fought to keep you out.
4. You are quite tenacious.
5. You should get this published.
6. You should get a PhD.
7. You are NOT coming to graduation?! Why not?!
8. Have a square of bittersweet chocolate.

The Muppet is sooooo funny, no?

On Tuesday, I turned in my final for my last class. Our final assignment was to write a song. Could I have waited, I would've written that song about my class. My last class on grad school consisted of the following:

1. Students bring EVERY imaginable form of off-white food to class. It is almost creepy how much food can be off-white. Even the wine couldn't blush. Even the strawberries paled in fear. Typically, the tomato and green chile of a certain someone's corn bread felt uncomfortably out of place, and florescent pink frosting of a certain - perhaps same - someone's peppermint butter cookies stood out sorely. Surprise.

2. When I point out this is the second time we've broken a meal of off-white bread together, I am glared at. Apparently, off-white food is suggestive, perhaps of something race related? Don't get me started on this.

3. Students evaluate professor on scantron. I will keep this description to myself. Luckily for this unspoken process, I happen to like Palm-Sweats himself.

4. Students drink to oblivion in classroom.

5. Students turn in final - a portfolio of 30 poems.... 15 related to a theme (mine is about folks on the 22 MUNI), 15 from the class assignments.

6. S smiles at Palm-Sweats a Lot. Blinks. Says, "Sometimes 30 looks a lot like 18." Blink. Hand over rather lightweight envelope. Prof blinks back. Appears mildly confused. S figures he will eventually figure this out.

7. Drunken students pull out our assignment for the day - to write a song.

8. S has learned many things during grad school. One of these things is not like the others, but this one is right in line, for it is a "S should never..." moment. This one is "S should NEVER become a songwriter."

9. S has also learned that when drunken, sex-poetry-obsessed, white hipster mid-western boys start circling you saying comments like, "You smell delicious this evening," it is time to go.

10. S has also learned that when drunken, sex-poetry-obsessed, white hipster mid-western boys have written an "underground, like Jay-Z" rap that they want to perform, it is long past time to go.

11. S employs learning from her time in faculty meetings. If you put your bag on your shoulder and BACK OUT of a room with a "Hi everyone!" smile on your face, people will become confused and believe you are arriving.

12. S casually walks by the window outside the classroom as she flees campus. Drunken students inside classroom, between song crooning, are discussing which bar to "move" class to. Those who notice her outside look mildly confused, but S figures they will attribute this to being a surreal Simpsons' moment or something chemically induced.

13. S has liberated herself to go home and graduate from other aspects of her current life.

And so I am quite done. People keep asking how I will celebrate. Thus far it has consisted of recycling every ounce of paper related to grad school, reading into the wee hours a book for pleasure, listening to deafeningly loud live music, witnessing the incredible abilities of my students to inhale pizza and brownies, and encountering an armadillo. I am open to suggestions. Good times.

Slowly pickled in a barrel of poetic monkeys*

(*thanks BW)

The assignment: Write something frivolous and fun and decidedly mediocre

The result: Deeply despairing poets eat too many Samoa cookies and

(1) Concur that this assignment was indeed "the most challenging ever. I declare, I just couldn't do it."

(2) Use the feedback phrase "palindromic tonalities."

(3) Write poems, seemingly all every single one about sex.

(4) Write poems that begin with love and end with kittens being eaten in an effort to get attention, as a snack. A kitten. As a snack.

(5) Scream out, "Laura Bush is a Bitch."

Holistic Health, Making Me Feel More Ill Each Day

The invite I received to the departmental open house included this part on the agenda...

430-7: Developing Meaningful Conversations -
Part of National Conversation Week, March 25-31

430-6: Conversation Cafe

And since I could not resist, please enjoy the First Question under the OPENING QUESTIONS right side bar:

Opening Questions
"What do you think is the most important question in the world now?"

If anyone ever asked me that question, it would be the opening and closing question in that conversation, thanks.

At least we aren't taking ourselves too seriously

It's mid-semester, practically, meaning the class honeymoon is over. It is like the Real World in here, right around the time people stop being polite and start being migraine producing. The recent outbreak of Name Drop Syndrome has become an epidemic, resulting in the distinct feeling that though there are technically only 14 of us in the class, it feels like everyone has grown second heads and there are 40 or so voices-opinions present at any given time, more than half of whom are famous poets ... of whom I have never heard. It reminds me a bit of when I didn't have a TV and everyone related things to Brady Bunch episodes. [Yep, I was ignorant then and, well, now .... so be it.] Though I wonder, is it good or bad to have announced each poem as containing cosmic twins in the universe of Apparently Brilliantly Famous Unfamiliar Names? Hard to know, since all such pronouncements are unerringly followed by the omnipresent class choral hmmmmm.

Concerned our class is becoming too big for our britches, the quite adore-worthy Professor Palm-Sweats-On-Both-Sides has us read for our opening poems (kinda the equivalent of the sacrificial poet at a reading - but published and not present, etc.) a selection of amazon.com reviews done by some well-known San Francisco writer Kevin Killian (whom I'd of course never heard of because I apparently came of literary age in a metaphorical cold wet cement tunnel.... refer back to the Brady Bunch childhood 'problem' if I have lost you). So this Kevin Killian fella had had a heart attack and pulled himself back into writing just for the love of it by writing amazon.com reviews, inadvertently (perhaps) building himself some funny cult following for reviews on such things as Alien Green Belly Button Rings or Doctor Zhivago or Khaki Shorts with Yellow Stitching. Deeply unhelpful reviews that seemingly at best 1 out of 1 people found helpful. Which mostly served to show me that Poets should maybe not write reviews and post them and eventually have them bound into a book because (1) those reviews are sometimes not so much buyerly helpful (not that I care so much) as they are aurally interesting and (2) poets lie for the sake of their writing, which is decidedly not helpful in a review and (3) the presence of such work serves to enrage a certain test group of MFA candidates, who become inspired to debate what "constitutes" poetry ad nauseam for an hour or so while I grow hungrier.

And it really didn't help that for our assignment we had to write from a "controversial" piece of art, which turned out to be weirdly specifically interpreted to mean artists seemingly known by everyone in the class but your resident M.Ed. alien, who as usual missed the unspoken subtext of the assignment and wrote from this absolutely grotesque french ceramic piece that really looks like what a midwestern grandma giant would collect as a little porcelain figurine for her living room hutch. It was a poorly glazed life-sized 'one amber glass-eyed goat walking its way up another goat to get tall enough to see whatever it was looking at' item. I was informed that I'd missed the "controversial" part of the project, though I'd argue that such a hideous, neither artist-associated nor functional piece should be controversial in the sense that really should it be called art at all because wasn't that a slap in the face to artists, ceramicists, children who play in clay, sculptors, and goats everywhere or should it just be quietly hurled from a large building in which you could still open the windows?

So, in keeping with particular amazon.com reviewers, Teacher Palm Poet has sought to deflate our class by assigning us the task of creating frivolous, fluffy, superficial, and mediocre poems for next week. Flabby, dull poetry with no hidden subtext? No problem! 'Tis, of course, my area of expertise.

Til then...

Really, I am Learning So Much

Tonight, I learned how to write a poem. And not a mediocre poem (although, luckily for you, the poem I wrote is still decidedly mediocre). A deep poem. A poem so deep the bends are gotten. A poem so profound it is, well, unintelligible.

And since I am a sharer, you get to learn, too.

The Assignment: Write a Poem Using 'Found' Language

MFA Candidate Approach:

1. Select the first paragraph of a short story you have written in your 7,000 years identifying as a writer. It doesn't have to be any good. No plot is necessary. Don't worry about all that.

2. Copy and paste it into on-line translation service.

3. Turn it into a Romance Language.

4. Turn that into Japanese.

5. Then maybe German.

6. Then back to English.

7. Preferably repeat process with Swedish, etc. until it has become almost isotope-like in its instability, even in the 'bizarre and nonsensical' world of words strung together.

8. Cut and paste result into a word document.

9. Pinky-finger-tap that Return or Tab key with abandon to visually shape paragraph into a poem.

10. Make 15 copies to bring to class.

11. Pass out to colleagues. Listen as other MFA candidates focus on the power of image twisting and rhythmic vibrations. Ignore the non-MFA candidate as she attempts to quietly massage the "huh?!!!" headache throb out of her temples and replace her confusion with her happy place.

12. Receive 14 painstakingly critiqued copies back.

Example [Minus the ever-essential formatting, because I am too computer illiterate to format a poem to be justified, centered, right-justified, etc. on the blog...]

Behind the breaks
external to colleagues
to truck others, candidates
of the AMF
of her
concentrated , the vrillage
of the illustration
of the energy
the shocks
of the rhythmatics
hear itself
MFA of the candidate
as its inconsciemment
that does not try, calm, collect
them "huh?!!!"headaches
beat to the breaks
external one, his one, his handsful
its disturbance with being happy
the place I replaced.

[Total time from conception to birth: 13 minutes. Original paragraph: See #11.]

And this one actually makes comparative sense. Sorta.

What's funny is that THAT is apparently the standard way of creating a found language poem. It is almost anti-private-writers-club/egalitarian.

So I missed learning that whole technique, as usual. Maybe I was late for the previous class or something. Or maybe I missed an entire CW class prerequisite known as the MFA-Candidate Brainwashing. But, left to my own devices, I found my language from the titles of Craigslist missed connections. Because anyone who knows me knows that, true to my polyamorous nature, second to my profound love affair with the 22, I have a fatty crush on CL's MC section. I could eat that for breakfast with saag paneer and die a happy girl.

So, minus of course the actual poem layout, here's the SB-MEd-candidate approach to found language poetry writing:

1. Panic that class is coming and homework as usual as a concept has only just begun to be a scratch on the brain.

2. Take refuge in the tear-producing hilarity of the MC section of Craigslist because secretly you are a romantic of sorts.

3. Cute and paste every title from one day, preferable some morning-after weekend day, into a word document.

4. Shuffle them about for nine minutes into some internal logic mediocre poem shape before falling asleep with the computer open.

5. Wake up, wipe chin, print poem, work all day.

6. Pass out 14 copies to class.

7. Get told, "Well, this clearly is from her project rather than her found language piece, because the narrative is clear and the opening conversation purposeful in its tone."

8. Get told, "This piece is just SO reminiscent of O'Hare."

9. Wonder and eventually get to ask, "Um... who's O'Hare?"

10. Realize after saying this how interesting it is that MFA candidate eyes can both bulge and roll at the same time. [As if proving my ignorance for having grown up literarily in the equivalent of cement tubing, it has since been brought to my attention that the fellaʻs name is OʻHara.]

11. Get no feedback about image twisting and rhythmic vibrations.

12. Get passionate and diametrically opposed feedback that must have come out through an MFA candidate on-line translation machine because it is lyrical and rhythmic and makes no sense.

13. [NOTE: THIS IS AN ADD-ON ACTIVITY TO FURTHER YOUR LEARNING, BUT NOT NECESSARY] Laugh and laugh at break at the level of disdain in the room as classmates kvetch about how bourgeoisie a certain private school's writing program is, how COMFORTABLE their facilities are, what with couches and heat and coffee and copies provided and private writing rooms overlooking nature, because really WHO could possibly WRITE anything of value under such comfortable conditions. [Good thing we public schoolers are not snobs.]

14. Laugh at own poem because really this alternate universe is ultimately at least entertaining and not the worst way to spend three hours a week.

15. Despite a little embarassment, post own poem on blog so as not to protect yourself or pretend that you think you are better than these folks (truth be told, actually some of their found poetry was really quite interesting. Uh-oh, maybe the class thing is wearing off.)

(enjoy more of S's mediocre poetry):

My Craigslist MC


I was eating cake when I met you
I was eating a late lunch and I think you were too
I am in love with you
That sounds creepy
I think


grey girl silver Chevy
our eyes lock across Canvas Café
bicycle Bell Lady
off rack of Geary’s Goodwill
hammocks and hot tubs
paganbeautyjew
hushed next to you
by the sea
you turn to me, say
it’s ok to use the bridge
Dreamy Ms. Margo
small drip please
crosswalk compliment
fell peets KT




You wore a short curly red haired lady
I cannot remember your unusual name


This is a serious question:

Why am I so afraid of you

What I Learned in Class Today

Very useful, this poetry class of mine. Not for increasing the quality of my mediocre poetry creations, unfortunately, but for the deeper, more profound ruminations on life. Let's see how well YOU would fit in to my poetry class:

1. Why is finding out that a "fake" fur coat is really made with dog hair so horrifying?
(a) We attribute higher ordered thinking and sentient being status to domesticated animals, such as dogs and cats; therefore, we find their use in things like clothing and soups more inhumane.
(b) It isn't. At least the country of origin is using the whole dog.
(c) Because, like, dogs, they are like soooooooooooooo fake - fer sure!
(d) Um, because they LIED about their product?

2. I would rather kill a...
(a) deer rather than a dog.
(b) mouse rather than a rat.
(c) prairie dog rather than a monkey or a cat.
(d) celery stalk than any of the above, and why are we talking about this anyways.

3. Your above answer is because....
(a) We attribute higher ordered thinking and sentient being status to domesticated animals, therefore making us prefer killing a wild horse or a deer to a cat or a dog or a monkey.
(b) We prefer to kill small beings over large beings, even though sometimes we are more repulsed by/less spiritually connected to the large beings, therefore making us prefer killing mice over rats.
(c) We understand that this is a sick and ridiculous argument and do not engage.


4. Tommy Hilfiger manufactures and distributes their own "fake" Tommy Hilfiger knock-off line of clothing.
(a) True
(b) False
(c) And there goes another few hundred previously useful memory brain cells.


5. When critiquing a poem that contains the line, "Sometimes fingers sever themselves," a REAL MFA poet declares:
(a) The omomatopœia of this poem strikes me.
(b) I am moved by the quiet sadness in this piece.
(c) That shit is sick [and not in the juvenile sense of that word]. Huh. I wonder how that works? [Tilt head and ponder.]
(d) I would like to know more about the choice of the word 'sometimes.'



"FIT INTO CLASS" ANSWERS:
1. a and occasionally b
2. a and c
3. a
4. a
5. a, b, d

"Yours Truly" Answers:
1. c[as a reflexively sarcastic comment], then d
2. weirdly, I declared b... before recovering to d
3. b [More reflexivity problems... please note that those answering b will immediately be labelled a"survivalist" by the rest of our class]. Erase that and in retrospect answer c.
4. c
5. c

Notice any patterns?

Poems, Poems, Everywhere, Poems, Poems, Up to Your Hair

It is said that the Year of the Golden Pig is the luckiest year around for miles, for EVERYONE (no hyperbole there). It is also said that anytime the year matches your animal, you are screwed. It is also said that the only reason people say the latter is that REALLY the year of "your" animal indicates a year of CHANGE and upheaval for folx and since folx - excepting me, who is all about the chaos whirly-pot - are so transform-a-phobic it gets mislabelled to, "Dude, you are sooooooo hosed this year. Bummer." So, I am a Pig. So what's a gal to believe?

On the one hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.

On the other hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to
me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.

If I had a third hand, it'd point out that I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.

I receive my first clue as we read and reply to someone's poem.
The structure:
One MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with a slight Audre Lorde affectation and stumbles over Latinized pretentious word choices.
Shuffles in embarrassment at their own inadequacies.
Then Another MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with greater affectation.
Then we all silently write notes to the author.
Then we talk about the piece.
Then the writer gets to break their silence and speak.

And as we discuss the poem,
"The Realist" wonders about the feasibility of the poem's metaphor.
"The Jewish Buddhist" illuminates the poem's development as manifesting the interconnection between all humans that is realized through meditation.
"The Wonderer" wants to know why the poem feels a need to end with such a concretely closure focused final line.
"The Play Writer" notes the distinct lack of dialogue in the poem.
"The Environmentalist" adds that the parallels between this piece and the reality of what is happening in the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, while subtle, are distinctly profound.
"I" laugh twice. The poem is funny. I think. "I" also wonder internally whether the misspelling of strawberries is accidental-typo, purposeful, or indicative the presence of a fellow dyslexic in the room.

I receive my mid-clue when it comes to my poem. MFA-candidate poets all scribble thoughts down. My poem is dissected, then awarded more depth, metaphorical meaning, and structural purposeness than it deserves. Finally the class comes to the title, "Seven Strikes Up a Conversation with Eight," which of course has NOTHING to do with the poem, only indicating which two seats on a MUNI 22 Fillmore the characters of this poem would be seated. "The Numerologist" starts us off by finding the numbers BREATHTAKING, as they surely have the deepest of meanings. "The Musicologist" purports the subtle connection of the numbers to the rhythms of a pantoum such as this one. "The Metaphorizer" muses on the Biblical significance of 7 and 8, as the poem is so obviously a religio-political satire. Eventually "The Professor" (I mean, the ACTUAL Professor) says, "I totally don't get the poem's title. Seriously. It means nothing to me." At which point all MFA-candidate poets hmmmmmmmmmmmmm in unison. From vociferous to languid are the noddings of various heads. When I can finally speak, I tell them about the title. The Professor says, "Oh god, I never would have gotten that out of context. Never. That was totally unclear to me. Thanks." Round two of the Choral Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.


All commented-on poem copies are passed back to me for my perusal. 10 of 12 copies have written on them something like, "Fascinating Title" or "Evocative Title!" or "What a perfect title for this piece!" etc. From this activity I learn that "evocative, perfect, fascinating" are all synonyms in Poetry Feedback Diction for "I have no idea WHAT this means." Well, at least when such comments have all been crossed out by their authors just before being passed my way. One copy says, "Title?" That person's name is noted, as they are now in my mind the only trustworthy opinion amongst the crowd.


I receive my final clue as two MFA-candidate poets leave the room:

MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude, have you ever been the Bargain Bank, Duuuuude?"
MFA-candidate poet B: "Dude, I got so WASTED at the Bargain Bank one time. Shiiiit. Duuuuuuude."
MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude."
[Door closes behind them.]

Golden Pig: Lucky or Ill Tidings Ahead for a Pig such as myself? Feel free to weigh in. I take all opinions from non MFA-candidate poets.

P.S. Update -- OK, cranky-pants-friends, here's the damned poem in question. Don't get yer panties all up in a wad...

Seven Strikes up a Conversation With Eight
Fillmore and Broadway

Strangers make a date to skate
Neither of us can stand
Such a faith nation circles make
We’ll wobble to a Hassid and Creed

Neither of us can stand
Adverbs or divine intervention
We’ll wobble to a Hassid and Creed
Our god-obsession talk of a nation

Adverbs or divine intervention
Creative design one man’s intention
Our god-obsession talk of a nation
To steady the world we’ll anchor hands

Creative design one man’s intention
Weakened knees make rough passage rites
To steady the world we’ll anchor hands
Though calloused I newly won’t let go

Weakened knees make rough passage rites
Your eyes opaque I stare to you
Though calloused I newly won’t let go
You’ll look at me I’ll glide right through

Your eyes opaque I stare to you
Seatmates make a date to skate
You’ll look at me I’ll glide right through
Such a faith nation

And yes, I know it's not true to the classic pantoum structure. Get over it.

The Bear Whisperer... what a peach!

So I described my poetry-project-creation-related plight to my colleague, and while I went off to frolic at the Russian River he wrote this to me:
_______________________________________________________________________
This just came to me. You can do a whole series on the riders of the 22 as the major arcana of the Tarot. These two stanzas are just my initial ideas in a sudden bit of sleepy inspiration. And while it's kinda just a joke and makes my inner (and outer) literary geek chuckle, if I were in your position, this is where'd I'd go. Just for personal entertainment as much as having something done.

First drafty piece:

curved plastic seats
imperial thrones
on the chariot
of the public transportation tarot

The Hanged Man
grips glumly the slightly bent
horizontal metal above
patiently pondering his passive
sacrifice
the seat surrendered
to The Empress
he sways

_____________________________________________________________________
Bless his dear sweet soul. The Bear Whisperer Rides Again.

And They Call This Grad School, Part Two

Yep, I might as well delete last week's posting about classes. Go ahead and VOID all that from your mind. This semester I have a new way to deal with graduate school: Attend a different class each week.

But first, a more general update from the novel Is It Bureaucracy or Is It Technology? You Decide (due out this Spring by SaveMe Press).

Thursday, I was unfrozen by the computer system because, woohoo, against all odds, bets and predictions to the contrary, the Human Subjects Protocol Full-On Committee approved my field research proposal. Depicted as ogres obsessed with minutiae who were going to demand I make 150 changes at least three times, their reputation for meddling was grossly over-exaggerated. They approved me on the first draft, asking that I make three tiny, logical changes.

No problem. Done.

Gig of joy. I could officially sign up for all the classes that I need to take, which of course are now all full and not going to letting me. And then, since Murphy's Law was created by my grad school, it appears:

On Friday, I was REfrozen by the computer system.

Why?

I need a thesis advisor.

Wait a second, didn't you have a thesis advisor?

Rosa. Amazing. Instant bonding. The only person in the whole department I remotely like or respect. Also just a lovely lovely person albeit seemingly flaky, though that could've been the circumstances, and all-around generally a kick-ass spit-fire of a human being. Beautiful soul. Wanted to work with me on my thesis. Wanted to make it PhD work (fuggetaboutit). On leave last semester. To return this semester. Every time I saw her, four hour philosophically based practical discussions and mutual hugging society all around. Adore her.

Turns out she DIED. (This is a great loss, not the least to the weirdly conservative Ed. Dept at this particular institution. R.I.P.)

Yes, so now I need to file paperwork to change advisors... because mine died. And the computer won't let me sign up for classes until I do.

Sigh. On more levels than one of those hampster playground sets, sigh.

So tonight I went back to auditioning for classes.

And attended not Options 1-4 from last Tuesday, but somehow ended up in Option 5, which turns out to be called Advanced Poetry Creation. Not that I have taken Rudimentary, Introductory, Mediocre, or Semi-Competent Poetry Creation classes, some of which I am sure are required. And this is the class, it appears, that all Creative Writing Poetry Grad Students take during their LAST semester before getting their MFA. CW 800,000. Lots of pre-requisites that I blew just left of. Grrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.

Which explains why I spent the whole night looking around like an alien in a guppy costume that found itself trying to look innocent to all the other fish while suspiciously looking in from OUTSIDE of the guppy tank.

Huh?

Yep, now you feel like me.

So this class?

It isn't full.

I love I mean love the poetry of the fella teaching this class.

The fellow teaching this class is a kickass poet, and when I greet him, his hands sweat on both sides, visibly.

He will let me add the class.

There are maybe 8 people in it. They have a lot of opinions though, and perhaps a few more egos, so really it operates like a class of 12-15.

And it went a little something like this:

Prof: Everyone who was here last week [Editor's Note: That means everyone except for me], please pull out the notebooks I gave you to write in.

Everyone pulls out these 1" x 1" Hello Kitty-esque spiral "notebooks." They have all been pregnantly ruffled and written in.

Prof: What was it like to write in these?

Student One: It induced within me different state of mind in my writing because it was so small and definitive.

[Students nod.]

Student Two: I was compelled to write less metaphors for lack of space.

[Students nod.]

Student Three: Constrained by the shape, I was forced to write sideways, despite the lines. This introduced new subject matter for my writing life.

[Students nod.]

Student Four: It freed me from my inner critic. It's diminutive stature opened me up to write anything for I understood that in this little box it would not be judged.

[Students nod.]

Student Five: The nature of this assignment drew my gaze to the details of my life. I found myself often thinking about my ankles as I walked to work.

[Students nod.]

Student Six: I hated it. I hated it. I drew little men in all the corners. I wrote all subsequent poems during this dark period of anger.

Prof: This reminds me of Some Famous Writer who would purposefully not eat for two days and then write while starving to bring about a change in perception in her writing.

[Students nod. I shake my head and think: You make me do that, I will freak the fuck out.]

Prof: Of course, I would not make you all starve for two days to change the vision of your writing. You are MFA students; you most likely don't have enough money to eat anyways, nor will you ever, if you seek to do this professionally. Let's move on to your proposals. You have been asked for this week to bring in your proposal for your final project and its working title. The final project will consist of at least 30 poems and be thematic. Who would like to start?

Student A: My final project proposes a juxtaposition between blah and blech, this and that, blah blah blah blah blah and green will always be indicative of the youth of character J while red will always announce the arrival of character Q, who will always be silent, in the collection. I have been working on this project for the past two years. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis.

[Students nod.]

Student B: My final project is austensibly about the relationship between love, death, politics, and hindsight, with a metaphorical undercurrent of blah blah blah blah blah. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis. The pieces that will be contained within it I have been working on since 2001, when I started this program.

[Students nod.]

Student C: While figuratively about blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda, on a more fundamental level this will utilize creative syntax and imagery to yadda yadda blah blah blah. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis. I have been writing these pieces since I was born.

[Students nod.]

[Students D - K... You get the point]

Professor: Oh, and we have a new student. Please introduce yourself. Any ideas on your Final Class Project? I am sure not, since you only just came here.

Me: Well, I am a teacher, so I am used to talking about things before they are actually formed in my head. Now, I don't know much about poetry, I never write the stuff really, and I am not writing anything related to a creative writing thesis unless you count my urge to make up all my Masters' Field Study research (that unfortunately I end up actually doing for real because I am ethical, sigh) but I am totally fuckin obsessed, I mean deeply, profoundly in love and in fascination, with folks on MUNI. So I guess I would write some pieces showing what I think goes on in the heads of various people on the 22 Fillmore. The folks on the 22? Crazy. Complete madness. I love the 22 Fillmore. Oh and the 19 and 49 Missions. Those buses are HOT. So that could be my project. I have been working on my Project for the last two minutes, when I jotted down this 3x3x3 poem:

The 22 Fillmore

I love I
Mean I looooooooove
The 22 Fillmore

Dramas rushing odorific
Adrenaline junky fixes
Everyone knows someone

Hills to flats
And back Traversing
Old time SF.

[Students stare. Students blink.]

Me: It needs some work.

Professor: Huh. OK, let's take a break.


Well said. Stay Tuned...

And They Call This Grad School?*

* First, a shoutout to A of A'n'AA, who suggested both a title for this particular diatribe and reminded me, as I stood for an HOUR in a line at Best Buy at 8pm on a Tuesday night to PICK UP the Dance Dance Revolution and PS2 that I'd ordered on-line for my godforsaken classroom in order to avoid lines at Best Buy [Visualize: well-intentioned Best Buy employee repeatedly and quizzically digging through cabinet designated for On-line orders... all 20 of them, while Yours Truly says things in the background to her like... I'm pretty sure it is that PS2 on the shelf. The only PS2 there. That PS2... until she puts her hand on the PS2 box for the 50th time and says, 'Oh hey. I think it is this one. Was it a PS2?' and Yours Truly responds by slowly exhaling and bringing one finger to her eyelid, which has taken to uncontrollably twitching], that the beauty of my f#&@ed up life is that these blogs pretty much write themselves. Ode to joy.

But believe it or not, she was not referring to the particular pain of mass consumerism in the form of Best Buy. She was instead speaking to the commencement of a certain illustrious grad school institution's Spring Semester.

But prior to such unfortunate event recounting, and because I like to pretend to be a positive person for at least one minute every day, allow me to point out what has gone well this week (which is only two days old, really):

(1) I enjoyed the ever-pleasurable dinner company of S and J, and I am still enjoying the residual taste-memory of the sucking down of the most divine, airy, fresh from the oven, steaming lemon pudding cake formed in the hands of J, dinner co-host, former pants-suit wearing 70s housewife extraordinaire, and teacher of such gradient phrases as "girl, girlina, girltressa" and

(2) I survived the first night of class(es) by pondering this same host's livid distain for the phrases "garden vegetables" and "all-new episode," which thankfully caused my brain to pause and even stall.

On the other hand, what's gone less well this week? The start of Spring Semester.

All the classes I am to take all take place on Tuesday. Which could be good, right? Except they actually all take place atop each other like a mosaic, or a slimy mass of paper mache.

And because the Human Subjects Committee has thusfar not approved my field study research topic, I have been frozen from electronically adding classes.... except, weirdly, Ballroom Dancing (a General Ed class which couldn't possibly count towards my Masters, no matter how nuanced my mastery of bullshit is).

Thus I am required by this computer/bureaucracy mayhem to attend all of the "hoped for" classes, in the hopes that eventually, before the end of the Add period, I will be able to Add at least one class that remotely functions for what I need.

And on top of it, it's spring in the Sunset. Which of course means it is really fuckin cold the first night of class(es).

But I am not bitter, mostly because there are only a few things I can be bitter about at once [and I hadn't even gotten to Best Buy yet at that point in the evening]. I never was a great multi-tasker. A beginner but not ender of stuff? Yes. Good at that. But multi-tasker? Not so much. But enough asides.

My Tuesday night options:

1. Creative Short Story Construction One Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10-6:55pm.

My arrival time: 4pm.

Sighting and subsequent ignoring of 19 year old Drunken Ducky Writing Student from last spring's writing class [see previous blog entries on dating avoidance]: 4:15pm.

Arrival time of teacher: 4:25pm.

Weird teacher mannerisms: Various dropping of pens and pencils and books of teacher by teacher from 4:26 - 4:34 pm.

Final name called from roll: 4:50.

Stated Verdict: “There is no fucking way you are going to get in. Good fucking luck."

Departure time: 4:51pm.

2. Stress Management and Relaxation Techniques and Theories Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10-6:55pm.

My arrival time: 4:56pm.

Arrival time of teacher: Unknown.

Final name called from roll: Unknown.

Weird teacher mannerisms [See below]: 4:56pm - 5:11 at least.

PhD [to class]: “Feel free to do all 15 weeks homework, reading, and writing and take the two exams and be done with this class within the next two weeks, email it all to me and we never see you again. I invite you.”

Me: [Chin on Floor]

Another Student: “Can I still get an A like that?”

PhD [to class]: “Yes.”

A third student: "And we wouldn't have to do any group projects?"

PhD [to class]: “You'd become groups of one. You'd email me. No presentation. You'd just do the group project with you to me."

Me: [Chin on Floor]

SEVERAL MINUTES LATER...

PhD [In midst of Power-Point beginning lecture to class]: “Remember, the speed of thought is faster than the speed of life.”

SEVERAL MINUTES LATER...

PhD [to class]: "You will need two textbooks. They each cost approximately $100. They are not available used, nor have I put copies of them on reserve in the library. There is a lot of reading. A lot of worksheets. A lot of quizzes to prove you read. Everything will be on ilearn. There will be no exchanging of paper. There WILL be an overwhelming amount of work. This is a class to learn diverse techniques to reduce and manage stress. Now everyone stand up and extend your left large toe." [PhD proceeds to lead us through a stretch activity that ends in us collectively spiritually and physically hurling our stress out the door of the classroom.]

Me: [Experience backflashes to singing I am an Artist I am a Healer. The PTSD begins to set in, resulting in cold sweats.]

ONE MINUTE THAT FEELS AN ETERNITY LATER...

PhD [to class, prior to returning to Power Pointing the class to less stress]: "People drop this class not because of the work. No. It is because they fear facing themselves."

Me [to self]: Uh-huh. Not because he is very very scary. No comment.

Stated Verdict: ["Danny isn't here anymore, Mrs. Torrance"]

Departure time: 5:11pm.


3. Ballroom Dancing (the ONLY option for an evening dance class, FYI):
Listed time of class: 5pm - 6:55pm.

Arrival time of the 80 students trying to take the class: Unknown.

My arrival time: 5:17pm.

My name called from roll: 5:18pm.

Weird teacher mannerisms: Teacher makes comments that involve showing us moves and then saying, "Well, if you find yourself getting all twisted up in the other person's arms, you can either let go and start over or you can..." and proceeds to give us this convoluted explanation of throwing our legs over eachother's clasped hands in a pair-version of THE HUMAN KNOT teambuilder. Such comments turn out to be jokes, as far as I can tell. Dry Dance Teacher Humor. Which of course results in half the class grinning weakly while shaking their heads while the other half of the class, the Earnest Beginners Circle upon whom Dance Teacher Humor is utterly lost, furtively and continually attempt such unbecoming gymnastics. Sporatically from 5:29 - 6pm, as we hurl each other about like untrained monkeys around the room.

Dismissal of class: 5:54pm.

Sighting of and Chatting with My Own Former Students who turn out to be in this class: 5:55pm.

Stated Verdict: "Can I somehow argue to my advisor that the presence of former students from my work somehow legitimates the connection of this class to my Master's work? Hmmmm. Let me ponder that."

Departure time: 6:02pm.

4. Poetry Creation Two Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10 - 6:55.

My arrival time: 6:18pm.

Arrival time of teacher: Unknown.

Weird teacher mannerisms: Unknown.

Final name called from roll: Unknown.

Stated Verdict:

Prof - "And you are...?"

Me - "The writer of that little yellow note you are holding in your hand." [Which explained my situation rather cryptically and yet in long-hand to her in her mailbox at the Creative Writing Dept. Office the previous week because the dept secretary refused, I mean refused, to cough up an email address or office hours for anyone in the dept.]

Prof - "So you are not a creative writing major, 2006 was your Year of Mediocre Poetry Creation, and though you weedled your way into a creative writing class last year, you have never actually taken Poetry Creation One?"

Me - "I didn't realize that was a prerequisite."

Prof - "Huh. I guess that was not clear. Well, the class is full, but there is no waiting list, so I will contact you if someone drops out." [Subtext: There is no fucking way you are going to get in. Good fucking luck.]

Me - "I will look forward to hearing from you."

Departure time: 6:21pm.

Eating of falafel before heading to stand in line at Best Buy for an hour: 6:24pm.

Welcome back, dear friends. It is going to be a long spring.

How to Wear Down People Who Have Vowed to Hate You

1. The 'Kill them; kill them with kindness' approach.

I take sweet pleasure in picking away at the petrified toxic armor of the scads of rude sarcastic unhappy sourpuss depressed angry and depressing adults (and youth, but really there are many less youth) who flock to spend their day within the walls of our most esteemed school district. It's hard to tell which came first, the chicken or the egg on this one, since the school district does appear to cause grumbliness in the most well-adjusted happy souls. Caustic spreaders of blanket negativity, these folks require a slow but steady regiment of someone like me: grinning, laughing, happy in spite of them me. It makes them insane. They resist. They fight back. They up the ante. They say some seriously stupid, nasty shit. And I grin. I smile at them all the time. No matter what. Even when I am telling them what they said is bullshit. Which I do. A lot. But I don't engage. I just keep breathing and smile, and I say something really, really nice and yet truthful. I smile for real, the kind of smile that includes your eyes and results in what folks call "laugh lines" or "crows feet," depending on your gender and outlook on life. And it takes them a while to catch up with what just happened, by which time I am singing my way down the hall. And meanwhile, I let their poison run down my back and shake it off my legs with a twitch. Because these people? They have not met my family. So they have no idea what I can stand and what I can dish out.

I would say it takes an average of six months to have them saying hello to me, smiling and talking with me. And then I know I have broken them. I have done it so far with three adults at my school this past year alone. The Grin Approach - it leaves no visible bruises.

2. The 'Torture them; torture them like a pebble in their shoe' approach.

Equally effective, this technique involves some serious hunkering down and digging in of the heels. Luckily, my Capricorn sun/Scorpio rising origins leaves me scarily stubborn. This is an effective approach with people whose first instinct is to reject anything or anyone new or that they cannot control or don't understand.

This is the approach I have chosen to use with the professor who attempted to block my admittance into this piece of crap Masters program I am currently so disgruntled about. She first tried to ensure that I was not admitted, even though her reasoning just made their department look ridiculous (which turns out to be accurate, but nevermind). She argued that grief and loss had nothing to do with education, and I should get a counseling degree. I laid it out for her one track at a time, schooled her ass and then essentially forced my way in over her protests, basically by refusing to hear her. I call this the Insert-Fingers-in-Ears Ignore 'Em, Keep Moving, and Explain Later (widely-practiced in this good ol teaching district) while Killin'em with Kindness approach (with some logic and threatening mixed in -- it was a bit of a blended approach).

But she really didn't realize how bad it would be until she became my professor. Yes, the one who makes us highlight bullshit. Like that is a surprise. She certainly made it clear she was not having me. And yet, for the last four months, I have been wearing her down while ignoring her attempts to Alpha Male me. Again, she has clearly never met my family.

At first she tried to argue with me, push me around, discourage me, question me, get me to leave. She almost won. But slowly, she started to get it. Well, she both started to get what I wanted to do and why I wanted to do it, and she started to give up the fight. And then tonight, she sent me back a paper, saying in her most eloquent way (she is an English Teacher professor, by the way): 'I am being impressed by your good writing, Sarah. You got the talent, girl!'

Huh? OK, so she needs an editor. Whatever - we will ignore that. The point is.... She now loves me. It's actually a little disturbing. She cares infinitely more about my thesis and my completion of a masters at this point than I do. But in your face, Masters in Navel-Gazing and Piece of Shit Education. Bite me.

The long and the short of it? Don't mess with me. I got all sorts of patience and I get biblical on people, just like my name.

Officially Pronounced Healed, I am Set Free

But not before the usual mind-numbing pain.

Daily Deep Quote: "Without getting sick, there is no transformation. Without darkness, there is no healing." I have pleeeeeeeenty of replies to that, but I will abstain (enjoy that you have avoided diatribes #76-84).

And now for our class agenda... Short but deep.



Maybe so deep I get the bends. And yes, that does say:

Closing
Houston
Thanks beauty
Closing

Please don't ask me what that means.

It's Survival of the Fittest... But How Fit Am I, Really?

We are all about circles today. Circles of tangelos. Circles of paintings. Circles of pain. Today is brought to you by the following object: the Circle. Our Medicine Wheel has never been more edible.















Capturing a rare glimpse of the very offical Circle Hug Healing technique in action, shortly before being enveloped in it. Now imagine me sighing, putting the camera down, finding a couple backs on the outskirts, opening my arms and leaning in to those backs, eyeballs rolled up, trying to touch nothing but pressing just my fingertips against the shaking arms of people hugging other people's backs as though their very lives depended on it. Another very long sigh while somewhere muffled in the center, the Object Of the Circle Hug Healing (the OOCHH) sobs uncontrollably, ostensibly in relief.
Unfortunately, there are people who are NOT in the center who are also weeping. They are called Healing Hounds. The Owlette? Let's call her a healing hound, ya know, one of those people who always wants to be the person in the center, being healed?

The venerable CHH is not to be confused with the Required Individual Closing Hugs Offerings (RICHO). Both happened. I survived both.

How to Take Teachers At Their Word, or How WALC Saved My Ass

Enabling quote of the day: "About your final projects: You don't need to explain them. They don't even need to make sense or mean anything."

This works out well for my final project. In fact, this comment is said specifically in reference TO my final project. I feel just so special.



Part A: Outwardly, I pontificate on my utterly obsessive love for the coolness that is Tannic Acid... and Redwood Trees in general ... while inwardly offering thanks to my equal obsession with using pastels as note-taking devices as well as Mr. G, Mr. B, and Ms. T for their love of all things Hendy Woods.

Having received essentially a visual biology-lesson-as-healing lecture, the circle of students stares at me. Even the teacher-child cocks his head like a confused dog. So sighing, onward I plod.



Part B: Reveal... a quilt. Tie it to the Gee Bend exhibit at the MOAD/De Young and a woman's voice saying, "After he died, [my mom] quilted his overalls all together, wanting him to keep her warm through the winter, covered in his love."



More tilting of heads. Time to bring out the big guns of Part C:
Read student writing and poems. It always makes 'em cry. And crying people? No longer critical thinkers. Good stuff. And doubly fortunate for me, since I couldn't create a connection if I tried, these 30 criers ultimately turn out to be great at forging healing art and healing connections between redwood trees and quilted sheets, and poetry honoring people, places, concepts and things.

And so they all nod at last. Sigh a collective sigh. And we are off to the next project. And I am free. Don't understand it? Me neither, but please re-read quote of the day.

How to Crush My Teacher

Unfortunately, it is not so hard.

(4) Teacher-as-Child: "I invite you to show me your journal."

Me: [Blink. Stare.]

Teacher-as-Child, one hour later (not wanting any actual paper to exchange hands): "I invite you to email me your final paper."

Me: [Politely and quietly decline both invitations, demonstrating that my ability to set limits and say no is well intact.... which any of you who have sent me Evites as of late already know and which remains a good and useful skill, as those of you who know the current state of my lovelife will agree.]

Teacher-as-Child: [Slight Wilt and a sigh.]

My Teacher, Open to Tremendous Growth and Change

Mounting evidence shows that my physically present teacher is a child revealed:

(1) Our teacher is excited before lunch. He has received a phone call from his electronic owl (think: Harry Potter, but whatever) confirming that all his hard work has paid off: University of Florida's Medical School is going to do a staff development in which the ENTIRE faculty (then the whole school, eventually) attends a "Rave for Death." I would get carpal tunnel even attempting to explain this here. [I just want to point out that that would SO never happen in San Francisco's med school, so all y'all sf-haters can drop it.]

(2a) Our teacher is crushed after lunch when we all come back in the room, for someone, someone, someone [no, not me, relaaaaaax] has RAISED THE VENETIAN BLINDS (gasp).

(2aa) He is at first disappointed and quite concerned that the pulled up window blinds will make it extraordinarily difficult for the Power Point/slide show final projects to manifest themselves with any clarity.

(2b) Our teacher is amazed to learn that the blinds slide down to cover the window.

(2c) Our teacher beams, clapping his hands and like a cheerleader he praises continually the co-op dwelling fellow (who is a child revealed himself) who pulls them down with great mastery so we can see someone's slide show. "Magnificent," he remarks, amazed shaking of head while grinning. "You are doing a truly magnificent job with that."


(2d) Our teacher beams like he dropped e for the remainder of the day.

(3) Our teacher, beaming. He is really quite cute, actually.

More skills to pack a CV with... my paper pushing future is now secure....

I know you are all excited that I have left behind the Literary Olympic sport of Crafting and Arranging the Perfect Paragraph [that's CRAPP, to you]. Today, my class moved on to a much more meaningful graduate school topic.... the Where's Waldo search for Cohesion Words. Yes, I spent three hours this evening using an array of Smelly Markers (you know the kind) to circle every Additionally, In contrast, However, Moreover, The above, Overall (and yes, the list, it just keeps chuggin). Not on one of my papers, mind you - which would be a fruitful Where's Waldo task of its own, since it turns out I no longer believe in finishing or turning in papers, woops - but rather on some random probably dead former graduate student's paper. Luckily, such a silent (apart from my compulsive muttering) and olfactory activity lent itself to ample reflection on my part about how continually surprising it is to re-realize that this is NOT actually an English class I am mistakenly attending. Now, normally even such omphaloskeptic tasks can be made better through the inclusion of Smelly Markers, but not today. Henceforth today will be known as The Limitations of Smelly Markers Becomes Apparent Day [I am not even bothering to come up with an acronym here, folks]. Play taps, people, it is the end of an era.

"Den of Vipers"

SHAME! SHAME! SHAME! The librarian's finger tip is all up in my personal space, somehow rigid and waggling all at once. "How DAAAAAAAAAAAARE you masquerade as a high school student! How old are you? What year were you born?" Yes, I have come full circle to being "carded" once again, this time for being too old. And even with all the finger pointing, I could handle it 'til she said, "Please! You don't even LOOK 18!"

Um... I happen to agree with her, but tell that to the plethora of adults at my old worksite who were constantly screaming at me to get out of the faculty bathroom because it wasn't for students AND THEN counseling me to start wearing corduroy dresses and bows in my hair (no exaggeration) so I would stop being mistaken for a student. Cheers. And this is after I successfully wrote an entire rough draft (rough being the operative word here, folks) of a literature review during a staff meeting that ended at 5pm for a class that starts at 5:10pm. So my point is, this? This was a bit of a buzz kill. I haven't been yelled at by a librarian in, well, years. I always put them top in the NICEST PEOPLE EVER category. Well, just below such upstanding individuals like my friends John'n'Steve.

So I respond, "Um.... I'm 34? And um.... that is my ... um.... Teacher ID."

"Oh." Retraction of pronounced accusatory finger waggle. swipe of books. "Due back in three weeks. Have a nice evening." Magnanimous librarian smile. As AA pointed out, a Den of Vipers out there in librarian world. And they are all dressed innocent as PowerPuff Girls. Watch out.

Haiku, Haiku, Set Me Free

Haiku my main means
To maintain sanity while
I sit, butt numb.


Here class paragraphs
turn poetry from me, dreams,
count five seven five.

Teacher rhyming speaks
My math mind keeps time. I grin.
She stops. Stares. Frowns. Glares.


Instant Messaging

Inside basement walls
Creep in outside southern calls.
Bless the wireless.


Drab walls florescent
Create concrete haiku lines
What minds can grow here?





Tonight in class I learned to write a paragraph. I am almost positive I suffered through that last week, but such apparently is the life of a wheeling hamster, which may in fact be my animal. 2 hours. Scissors. Glue. One paragraph. Yagadabekiddinme....

I am even too tired to laugh hysterical about it or get all PTSD-y.

So rather than finishing the most seriously TWISTED lesson plan I have maybe ever created, I will blog dribble. Nice. Really nice.

Please, everyone, live vicariously for the likes of me, wouldja?