http://www.indymedia.org/en/index.shtml or http://www.indybay.org/ to find out when to put your voice out there at the Mexican Embassy next (in SF, anyways)
10.31.2006
In case your head has been in a hole...
I figured everyone was already all up in the US and Mexican Governments' faces to stop the absolute insanity.... from before last summer even when the protests against the insane brutality against Oaxacan teachers started. But it turns out folks still aren't getting informed. Come on, people. What does it take?
http://www.indymedia.org/en/index.shtml or http://www.indybay.org/ to find out when to put your voice out there at the Mexican Embassy next (in SF, anyways)
http://www.indymedia.org/en/index.shtml or http://www.indybay.org/ to find out when to put your voice out there at the Mexican Embassy next (in SF, anyways)
10.24.2006
"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.
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?
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?
10.22.2006
Another Fine Day of Healing Through Art
I am pretty sure I am developing Stockholm Syndrome. Evidence?
Sign #1: It is 80 degrees on my porch, but I spent 8 hours in a 7 degreed fog-banked class and today, well it didn’t seem so bad (at least up until the 3:30 pm community healing dance. That blew it up for me…. So let’s give this sign only 1/2 credit.)
Sign #2: I make it through the day without logging every minute like some paranoid attorney.
Signs #3-10: I am beginning to appreciate my teacher.
A. I find myself beginning to believe that my teacher is secretly talented like Picasso, knowing how to do phenomenological studies but choosing not to. this is not a good sign.
B. I found out today that we don’t have two teachers, we have three. One, as you may recall, is with us spiritually because she remains physically in Florida. The other is M. P., my professor’s son’s dear friend who was like a part of their family, who was killed on Mount Tam many years back. My professor stops at the site of his death to speak with him every morning, at which point they have a sort of team meeting on what MP wants to do that day in class. This one strikes me as more reasonable than the Florida co-teacher-spirit. Until Teacher-In-Flesh says, “I was talking to him this morning on the way in and he told me that I forgot to tell you a lot of stuff. So the first thing is.... hey, what does that say?" (he cocks his head at words scrawled all over the board. So much for MP’s input today.) So he gets all off-kilter and looks at the chaos known as his written mind/Matthew's words to him, which he now cannot decipher, on the board.
C. I even appreciated that as he tilted his head at the board, it was all silent for several minutes before his next professorial bomb-drop quote: "I wanted to thank you for being here, because this class is not a typical class; this class is almost devoid of content, but it is full of emotion and feeling, and it is kind of a mystery." This somehow makes me feel less crazy. (Reminder... Sign #3-10, people, signs #3-10)
D. Plus, a very sweet person in my class checks in about yesterday, saying that “we took a walk, where I gave thanks to the trees, while [my dog] gave thanks to the squirrels, and then the little man and I went to the beach and gave thanks to the sunset together.” And I? I barely found his sentence noteworthy.
And then E: we did many things as a class all day, but I? I shaded and scribbled and blended and generally covered every ounce of my skin and clothing a fine layer of pastel-colored charcoal dust all day. I never was a neat artist. It was almost better than haiku as a Sanity Maintenance Device. And I felt, well, close to ok.
And last but certainly not least, (F) Other Horrified Student is now volunteering for everything, from being an Eagle Man in our community healing bear dance to shaking rattles to reading his spiritual journey poetry.
Maybe Stockholm Syndrome is unavoidable?
Sign #1: It is 80 degrees on my porch, but I spent 8 hours in a 7 degreed fog-banked class and today, well it didn’t seem so bad (at least up until the 3:30 pm community healing dance. That blew it up for me…. So let’s give this sign only 1/2 credit.)
Sign #2: I make it through the day without logging every minute like some paranoid attorney.
Signs #3-10: I am beginning to appreciate my teacher.
A. I find myself beginning to believe that my teacher is secretly talented like Picasso, knowing how to do phenomenological studies but choosing not to. this is not a good sign.
B. I found out today that we don’t have two teachers, we have three. One, as you may recall, is with us spiritually because she remains physically in Florida. The other is M. P., my professor’s son’s dear friend who was like a part of their family, who was killed on Mount Tam many years back. My professor stops at the site of his death to speak with him every morning, at which point they have a sort of team meeting on what MP wants to do that day in class. This one strikes me as more reasonable than the Florida co-teacher-spirit. Until Teacher-In-Flesh says, “I was talking to him this morning on the way in and he told me that I forgot to tell you a lot of stuff. So the first thing is.... hey, what does that say?" (he cocks his head at words scrawled all over the board. So much for MP’s input today.) So he gets all off-kilter and looks at the chaos known as his written mind/Matthew's words to him, which he now cannot decipher, on the board.
C. I even appreciated that as he tilted his head at the board, it was all silent for several minutes before his next professorial bomb-drop quote: "I wanted to thank you for being here, because this class is not a typical class; this class is almost devoid of content, but it is full of emotion and feeling, and it is kind of a mystery." This somehow makes me feel less crazy. (Reminder... Sign #3-10, people, signs #3-10)
D. Plus, a very sweet person in my class checks in about yesterday, saying that “we took a walk, where I gave thanks to the trees, while [my dog] gave thanks to the squirrels, and then the little man and I went to the beach and gave thanks to the sunset together.” And I? I barely found his sentence noteworthy.
And then E: we did many things as a class all day, but I? I shaded and scribbled and blended and generally covered every ounce of my skin and clothing a fine layer of pastel-colored charcoal dust all day. I never was a neat artist. It was almost better than haiku as a Sanity Maintenance Device. And I felt, well, close to ok.
And last but certainly not least, (F) Other Horrified Student is now volunteering for everything, from being an Eagle Man in our community healing bear dance to shaking rattles to reading his spiritual journey poetry.
Maybe Stockholm Syndrome is unavoidable?
Day Tres, Part Deux
OK, here is a Choose Your Own Adventure moment (you KNOW you miss that line of books) from the pre-computer age:
(Pg. 13) You go to the restroom at the end of a class break, where you realize you can:
Choice A: Return to your classroom. (Turn to page 54... where you are eaten by drum-wielding love monsters. They will of course only eat you because, like Jeffrey Dahmer, they just want to be closer to you.)
Choice B: Back slowly out of the building with your backpack in hand. Head to the public library and then to Dolores Park. Read. Accept baked goods from strangers in the form of Rice Krispy Treats offered on a cake plate by a random white and pink haired woman who reportedly made too many for the band that is playing on the other side of the park. Chew and wait to see visions (NOT on the level of Alex Grey but...) or die. Take a nap. Move feet to music. Become human hurdle for small leaping dogs. Turn over. Continue to nap. Concern your friends by disclosing that you have agreed to go on a date with someone whose name you never even caught and whom you are probably not interested in and whom you know nothing about EXCEPT that their favorite word is SNACKS. Watch friends appear appalled that this last bit of trivia was sufficient for you to agree to meet them. Wonder aloud briefly whether any cafes or restaurants in San Francisco serve snacks. (Turn to page 46... where you get more choices.... mostly about snacks....)
(Pg. 13) You go to the restroom at the end of a class break, where you realize you can:
Choice A: Return to your classroom. (Turn to page 54... where you are eaten by drum-wielding love monsters. They will of course only eat you because, like Jeffrey Dahmer, they just want to be closer to you.)
Choice B: Back slowly out of the building with your backpack in hand. Head to the public library and then to Dolores Park. Read. Accept baked goods from strangers in the form of Rice Krispy Treats offered on a cake plate by a random white and pink haired woman who reportedly made too many for the band that is playing on the other side of the park. Chew and wait to see visions (NOT on the level of Alex Grey but...) or die. Take a nap. Move feet to music. Become human hurdle for small leaping dogs. Turn over. Continue to nap. Concern your friends by disclosing that you have agreed to go on a date with someone whose name you never even caught and whom you are probably not interested in and whom you know nothing about EXCEPT that their favorite word is SNACKS. Watch friends appear appalled that this last bit of trivia was sufficient for you to agree to meet them. Wonder aloud briefly whether any cafes or restaurants in San Francisco serve snacks. (Turn to page 46... where you get more choices.... mostly about snacks....)
10.21.2006
Season Two, Grad School Woes, Back With Fresh Episodes
Sorry for the reruns on the blog, people, but it has gotten too unbelievable to write about even. I know I babble a lot on the blog, but the too personal? The too don't-know-where-it-fits-yet? The too I-wanna-remember-or-forget? The too traumatic? Those don’t make it to public consumption. Ya know how that goes.
As many of you have heard first-hand, I and my laryngitis have been busily working on our future as a lounge singer/ motivational speaker against smoke inhalation for at least a few weeks now. It certainly hasn’t helped to be doing crazy school-wide events or running an assembly for 1200 students when you have to welcome everyone but the mic.... not working. So you get to do the shout out in the most literal sense. Nice.
But it perversely could be helpful when you are required to spend a balmy, san-francisco-october weekend indoors.... For 16 hours.... Because at least you can pull the pity card and, in your voice that sounds like a boy in the throws of adolescent hormonal changes, you can blink and whisper to your professor that you just might not make it through the day.
In one very complicated sentence, he simultaneously tells me to do what I need to do (that'd be.... Um option a. LEAVE?) AND changes the ENTIRE agenda of the day to have the whole class do a healing ritual on me (E, you either predicted it, or you 'manifested' it. I choose to believe the former, b/c otherwise I am gonna have to be pissed, girlfriend sistergirl. You don’t even know your power).
Professorial Opening Statement, 9:12 am: "This is a weekend in which we work on more practical applications of healing and art.... And around that I will do some dance and poetry with you."
On board is the first half of our agenda. On board is also the second half of the agenda, reportedly.
Feel free to check out the photos. A treat to the person who can figure out the board agenda most accurately:
Yes, that does say, "You are 1/2." There were objections to this one from some in the group. Good to know what we all find objectionable here.
So today I learned my professor was once fired from this illustrious institution. It turns out he was fired for none of the behaviors that I have outlined for y'all this semester so far; he was fired for giving everyone in his class As. Greeeeaaaaaaaaat. Which might make one wonder how it is we are all here together again. This would be confusing were we not already in an alternate universe.
9:16 am: My friend Other Horrified Student is MIA.
9:54 am: Other Horrified Student has arrived to find people in a circle crying as they check in. And he looks very, very worried. He sits on a stool at the end of the room, one cheek away from fleeing.
10:06 am: "Sacred space is not bound by space or time." Yes, it just keeps following me around, this blanket of the sacred. I feel a bit warm, really. Maybe a little feverish, actually. Can someone open a window?
10:10ish -11-something a.m.... Proof that time slows down when shit starts happening. This was the longest 50 minutes of my life, and that is only slightly an exaggeration. I experienced being healed by 30 wonderful, beautiful, well intentioned people. I am pronounced "looking better" and patted on the back for my good work. Words fail me; I bite my lip a lot. Surprisingly, my voice is no longer raspy. In fact, it has completely left me. Maybe in a 'screw this shit' moment. But again, it just might be the shock of the whole experience. I remain truly beyond words to describe this chunk of time. How fortunate for all of you.
11:40 am: Taking our focus off formerly-known-as-sick, shell-shocked me, we have moved on to a guided visualization in which we stick our Inner Critics in lock boxes within our minds, proof that healing too has room for violence. I am no fan of locking everyone up, but word on the Inner Critic lockdown movement. Now we are drawing or writing what we saw. We are not to question what we saw in our visualizations. I saw many things. Most appeared related. Some appeared to be focused on wishing I had worn socks on my feet. I call this my Inner Coldy. I also saw a sandwich. I saw lying in grass. Are visualizations and fervent desires distinct?
Maybe I can manifest a sandwich. Falafel? Hmmm, I love falafel. I am getting a cleansing real time here. He waves a wing at me while I type this. Sage smoke makes my eyes water a little, but I can type and stare at him at the same time. He is healing me and I am ungrateful, unworthy, and increasingly concerned about my mental health as I begin to appreciate him in an odd way. I thank him.
In his efforts to heal me, he sets off the fire alarm. Sometimes you manifest too much power. We ignore the bell clanging of the fire alarm; we continue to draw/write. Perhaps he will be fired for this. Which certainly means he can’t be rehired for at least one more year. He puts down books in the four directions of the Medicine Wheel. He offers crayons and markers to the Medicine Wheel, too. I make a mental note to donate some Smelly Markers to him, since they make everything in my life a little brighter.
He reminds us that Art-Healing in hospitals can be a lucrative career. He is very practical in his own way. At least my teacher has not changed his name to something just-a-little-more-'Native,' in the stereotype sense of the word. He retains his Judeo-Christian boy name. Bless him for that. The fire alarm, realizing that it will be forever ignored, somehow resets itself without anyone actually coming in to make sure we are alive. This must be manifesting or the divine feminine. Or perhaps the patriarchy hatin' on the divine feminine? My ability to become sarcastic has grown leaps and bounds in this class. What joy. I know what we all wanted was a sarcastic Sarah.
Lunchtime comes and we are set free. I go off to lie down on the grass. And eat a sandwich. A symbol of both connecting these two worlds I am to spend my Saturday in and making my dreams a reality.
TO BE CONTINUED THIS AFTERNOON....
As many of you have heard first-hand, I and my laryngitis have been busily working on our future as a lounge singer/ motivational speaker against smoke inhalation for at least a few weeks now. It certainly hasn’t helped to be doing crazy school-wide events or running an assembly for 1200 students when you have to welcome everyone but the mic.... not working. So you get to do the shout out in the most literal sense. Nice.
But it perversely could be helpful when you are required to spend a balmy, san-francisco-october weekend indoors.... For 16 hours.... Because at least you can pull the pity card and, in your voice that sounds like a boy in the throws of adolescent hormonal changes, you can blink and whisper to your professor that you just might not make it through the day.
In one very complicated sentence, he simultaneously tells me to do what I need to do (that'd be.... Um option a. LEAVE?) AND changes the ENTIRE agenda of the day to have the whole class do a healing ritual on me (E, you either predicted it, or you 'manifested' it. I choose to believe the former, b/c otherwise I am gonna have to be pissed, girlfriend sistergirl. You don’t even know your power).
Professorial Opening Statement, 9:12 am: "This is a weekend in which we work on more practical applications of healing and art.... And around that I will do some dance and poetry with you."
On board is the first half of our agenda. On board is also the second half of the agenda, reportedly.
Feel free to check out the photos. A treat to the person who can figure out the board agenda most accurately:
Yes, that does say, "You are 1/2." There were objections to this one from some in the group. Good to know what we all find objectionable here.
So today I learned my professor was once fired from this illustrious institution. It turns out he was fired for none of the behaviors that I have outlined for y'all this semester so far; he was fired for giving everyone in his class As. Greeeeaaaaaaaaat. Which might make one wonder how it is we are all here together again. This would be confusing were we not already in an alternate universe.
9:16 am: My friend Other Horrified Student is MIA.
9:54 am: Other Horrified Student has arrived to find people in a circle crying as they check in. And he looks very, very worried. He sits on a stool at the end of the room, one cheek away from fleeing.
10:06 am: "Sacred space is not bound by space or time." Yes, it just keeps following me around, this blanket of the sacred. I feel a bit warm, really. Maybe a little feverish, actually. Can someone open a window?
10:10ish -11-something a.m.... Proof that time slows down when shit starts happening. This was the longest 50 minutes of my life, and that is only slightly an exaggeration. I experienced being healed by 30 wonderful, beautiful, well intentioned people. I am pronounced "looking better" and patted on the back for my good work. Words fail me; I bite my lip a lot. Surprisingly, my voice is no longer raspy. In fact, it has completely left me. Maybe in a 'screw this shit' moment. But again, it just might be the shock of the whole experience. I remain truly beyond words to describe this chunk of time. How fortunate for all of you.
11:40 am: Taking our focus off formerly-known-as-sick, shell-shocked me, we have moved on to a guided visualization in which we stick our Inner Critics in lock boxes within our minds, proof that healing too has room for violence. I am no fan of locking everyone up, but word on the Inner Critic lockdown movement. Now we are drawing or writing what we saw. We are not to question what we saw in our visualizations. I saw many things. Most appeared related. Some appeared to be focused on wishing I had worn socks on my feet. I call this my Inner Coldy. I also saw a sandwich. I saw lying in grass. Are visualizations and fervent desires distinct?
Maybe I can manifest a sandwich. Falafel? Hmmm, I love falafel. I am getting a cleansing real time here. He waves a wing at me while I type this. Sage smoke makes my eyes water a little, but I can type and stare at him at the same time. He is healing me and I am ungrateful, unworthy, and increasingly concerned about my mental health as I begin to appreciate him in an odd way. I thank him.
In his efforts to heal me, he sets off the fire alarm. Sometimes you manifest too much power. We ignore the bell clanging of the fire alarm; we continue to draw/write. Perhaps he will be fired for this. Which certainly means he can’t be rehired for at least one more year. He puts down books in the four directions of the Medicine Wheel. He offers crayons and markers to the Medicine Wheel, too. I make a mental note to donate some Smelly Markers to him, since they make everything in my life a little brighter.
He reminds us that Art-Healing in hospitals can be a lucrative career. He is very practical in his own way. At least my teacher has not changed his name to something just-a-little-more-'Native,' in the stereotype sense of the word. He retains his Judeo-Christian boy name. Bless him for that. The fire alarm, realizing that it will be forever ignored, somehow resets itself without anyone actually coming in to make sure we are alive. This must be manifesting or the divine feminine. Or perhaps the patriarchy hatin' on the divine feminine? My ability to become sarcastic has grown leaps and bounds in this class. What joy. I know what we all wanted was a sarcastic Sarah.
Lunchtime comes and we are set free. I go off to lie down on the grass. And eat a sandwich. A symbol of both connecting these two worlds I am to spend my Saturday in and making my dreams a reality.
TO BE CONTINUED THIS AFTERNOON....
10.18.2006
Love It Or Hate It, Ya Can't Stop the Depth of Sucka Free Propositions
(Note the middle square there.) A thousand reasons to vote, plus several reasons to roll one's eyes while doing it...
10.15.2006
I Heart T4SJ... Even though we are always roping me into stuff I don't wanna do....
Now normally, my T4SJ compadres do what any good grass-roots organizing force would do... wait for someone to miss a meeting and use the opportunity to sign that someone up to do stuff. That is standard and therefore margninally acceptable. But in a flip-script, this year we apparently took on the spirit of "one, two, three, not me!" organizing, which resulted in me being informed I was running a workshop at the conference (Saturday) as we stuffed folders for the conference (Thursday night). I should be grateful I was told. Their punishment was that they had to come up with a topic (um.... games, games, games.... a.k.a. teambuilders-for-social-justice) that I could do in my sleep. So here is THE FLAVA of an SB workshop for teachers off the cuff and after 7 hours of sleep spread over 4 nights.
But I really must give a shout out to T4SJ because this was the biggest, tightest conference yet, with a dope after-party and all (and not just because I had some delicious nibbles and drinks). Which is (one of so many reasons) why Karen Z. is the damned bomb.
But I really must give a shout out to T4SJ because this was the biggest, tightest conference yet, with a dope after-party and all (and not just because I had some delicious nibbles and drinks). Which is (one of so many reasons) why Karen Z. is the damned bomb.
10.04.2006
Largest Urban Farm in the Country: Barred+Trashed
But still cactus is coming back to bloom inside its bulldozed space. That is some deeply disturbing shit. Check it out and then holla about it to whoever will listen (thanks Roberta for the first photo) http://www.southcentralfarmers.com
A shout out to the ever-fabulous Jorge, his ridiculously cute niece, and Hijos de la Tierra for puttin on a good show (ok, shameless promotion moment, but these folks are family, their sound is tight, and they are trying to help the farm, so check their shit out on myspace while you're at it). And that cute band of folks from Oaxaca were dope, too, but I don't remember their name...
And a special shoutout to the borracho waiter at "Skinny's", as Amber likes to call it, who made our day with some serious comfort food. Their menu even has a "everybody's mother's yellow cake with chocolate frosting" option, for those of you who are anti-Auntie Flossie's Floating Sweet Potato Pie.
A shout out to the ever-fabulous Jorge, his ridiculously cute niece, and Hijos de la Tierra for puttin on a good show (ok, shameless promotion moment, but these folks are family, their sound is tight, and they are trying to help the farm, so check their shit out on myspace while you're at it). And that cute band of folks from Oaxaca were dope, too, but I don't remember their name...
And a special shoutout to the borracho waiter at "Skinny's", as Amber likes to call it, who made our day with some serious comfort food. Their menu even has a "everybody's mother's yellow cake with chocolate frosting" option, for those of you who are anti-Auntie Flossie's Floating Sweet Potato Pie.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)