pieces and puzzles
Published by John Settlage on Friday, November 20 at 1:11 PMIn response to Zero's suggestion, I have been making my way through Ted Kooser's Poetry Home Repair Manual. I was curious at first, then intrigued by the fresh set of ideas and techniques about writing in general. The chapters on Working with Detail and Fine Tuning Metaphors and Similies took root in my mind without my knowing it. There was also an article describing metropoems, so named because they are to be written between stations while riding the Paris subway. Combined, these lessons prompted me to pull out a cheap pad and a substantial pen while waiting for the bus.
Truly, I was not looking for a chance or reason to write a poem. But it was a bright November morning and because I was planning to be indoors on campus all day, I chose to look around rather than read something. Up the hill is the Board of Education building that was previously the town middle school and before that, the high school. At my feet, was a jigsaw puzzle piece. It was dry and firm but had sustained enough moisture to have lost its image while also hosting some fuzzy mold. For some reason, this made me wonder about opportunities I might miss that would leave a hole in my life. It also made me contemplate the dangers of moving too fast without thinking of consequences. And what could be lost in the process.
So these ideas tumbled out onto the little yellow pad. The bus filled, as it does in the morning, with one of the widest array of skin tones one could ever imagine. International students tend to cluster in an apartment complex on the edge of our town. Later on the trek, the
bus picks up a few more passengers in the parking lot of an old country general store. On this day, an Asian-American girl boarded along with a scruffy skinny boyfriend. All seats were filled so he took an unsteady position right in front of me. There was no more room to write and the views that were inspiring me were blocked. Instead of forests and ponds, a cheap carabiner with a couple of keys, clipped to the belt loop of brown jeans swayed in front of me.
The view-blocker seemed unsure of how to stand on a bus. He'd grip one strap, then switch to a horizontal bar. And if he was with the girl, he was doing a bad job of being with her. As we approached campus, I noticed him turn toward her and lean in as if he had a secret to whisper. But that was all a prelude to his collapse.
Yep, collapsed. Head into the lap of my seatmate, a south Asian women who was probably horrified by the cross-gender physical contact. He folded into me a little bit but with the heft of a mannequin. A few people moved so he could stretch out on the floor, head on someone's backpack and feet up. He opened his eyes and I recognized the combination of being too warm, standing up, and not eating. That happened to me in a chow line as a Scout years ago. The driver pulled over just on the edge of campus, radioed for an ambulance, and the boy gradually regained his composure and expressed his embarrassment. Because we were at a stop, people trickled off to walk the rest of the way to their labs or cubicles. I stayed because he was right there at my feet and I didn't want to add to his shame by scurrying off. I did vacate when the ambulance arrived, and strolled away.
Mine was not a great first aid performance but fortunately, there was no obvious bleeding or stopped breathing or wacky convulsions. Just a bony young guy with temporary loss of muscle control. Since I had no place to be, I decided to take advantage of the nearby coffee shop where I could finish my creative writing task and move on to more academic pursuits. But as I entered Starbucks, I couldn't find my pad or favorite pen. Not in a pants pocket, not tucked in my coat, neither inside my book bag nor in the outside pouch. I vaguely remembered sliding it under my leg during the slow motion descent of the tipsy passenger. Now it was gone. I've made use of found poetry before but this was the first time I'd lost it. I wondered what the finder might think.
No poem to work on and my desire to buy coffee vanished. So I turned around and continued walking toward campus. A block or so later, the only other white guy on the bus (works at the library: I once saw him reading from a Kindle) was coming toward me — and he was holding out my pad and pen. We exchange awkward scholarly chit-chat, barely speaking of the bus/ambulance incident. He went his way and I went mine. I'm sure I'll see him again on the bus but I don't have anything profound to share except to thank him for his conscientiousness. And after all that, I'm not sure I'd be all that pleased if I went back to read my SFD of a poem.
So these ideas tumbled out onto the little yellow pad. The bus filled, as it does in the morning, with one of the widest array of skin tones one could ever imagine. International students tend to cluster in an apartment complex on the edge of our town. Later on the trek, the
bus picks up a few more passengers in the parking lot of an old country general store. On this day, an Asian-American girl boarded along with a scruffy skinny boyfriend. All seats were filled so he took an unsteady position right in front of me. There was no more room to write and the views that were inspiring me were blocked. Instead of forests and ponds, a cheap carabiner with a couple of keys, clipped to the belt loop of brown jeans swayed in front of me.The view-blocker seemed unsure of how to stand on a bus. He'd grip one strap, then switch to a horizontal bar. And if he was with the girl, he was doing a bad job of being with her. As we approached campus, I noticed him turn toward her and lean in as if he had a secret to whisper. But that was all a prelude to his collapse.
Yep, collapsed. Head into the lap of my seatmate, a south Asian women who was probably horrified by the cross-gender physical contact. He folded into me a little bit but with the heft of a mannequin. A few people moved so he could stretch out on the floor, head on someone's backpack and feet up. He opened his eyes and I recognized the combination of being too warm, standing up, and not eating. That happened to me in a chow line as a Scout years ago. The driver pulled over just on the edge of campus, radioed for an ambulance, and the boy gradually regained his composure and expressed his embarrassment. Because we were at a stop, people trickled off to walk the rest of the way to their labs or cubicles. I stayed because he was right there at my feet and I didn't want to add to his shame by scurrying off. I did vacate when the ambulance arrived, and strolled away.
Mine was not a great first aid performance but fortunately, there was no obvious bleeding or stopped breathing or wacky convulsions. Just a bony young guy with temporary loss of muscle control. Since I had no place to be, I decided to take advantage of the nearby coffee shop where I could finish my creative writing task and move on to more academic pursuits. But as I entered Starbucks, I couldn't find my pad or favorite pen. Not in a pants pocket, not tucked in my coat, neither inside my book bag nor in the outside pouch. I vaguely remembered sliding it under my leg during the slow motion descent of the tipsy passenger. Now it was gone. I've made use of found poetry before but this was the first time I'd lost it. I wondered what the finder might think.
No poem to work on and my desire to buy coffee vanished. So I turned around and continued walking toward campus. A block or so later, the only other white guy on the bus (works at the library: I once saw him reading from a Kindle) was coming toward me — and he was holding out my pad and pen. We exchange awkward scholarly chit-chat, barely speaking of the bus/ambulance incident. He went his way and I went mine. I'm sure I'll see him again on the bus but I don't have anything profound to share except to thank him for his conscientiousness. And after all that, I'm not sure I'd be all that pleased if I went back to read my SFD of a poem.
exact measure
Published by John Settlage on Saturday, November 14 at 10:17 AMNot much in my world relies upon exactitude. On those occasions where exact amounts arise, such as having just the right amount of change for a coffee, it surprises me. I'm not burdened by being inexact. I don't believe knowing, for example, what kind of gas mileage my car gets really would make my life any more full. Instead, general numbers about how many breaths a person takes in a day or average lifespan suits me just fine.
Over time, it has become harder to tally. For the longest time, I could remember the seating chart from my fourth grade class. And I could count how many times I had taught a lesson on electricity or enumerate the students who'd survived my science methods courses. Alas, too many circuits and too many sections have gone by for me to give an accurate count. However, I can give an exact number (actually a volume) for an experience even though I anticipate that will be flooded an
d washed away before too long. Here it is: in my life, I have consumed exactly a half-glass plus one full bottle of Connemara. And the only reason that I finished the bottle was that I bought a new one during our recent trip to Washington, DC. The new recruit has replaced the empty, fallen soldier.This is not simply a beverage that displaced my previous admiration for Jameson and Tullamore Dew. This Irish whiskey has a mystical quality. For one, it has a very interesting and distinctive flavor. Another blogger fascinated by whiskeys ended his review of Connemara in this way:
Very drinkable, even quaff-able, with sweetness, and an interesting summer weeds type of presence. And plenty of peat, but don't expect a peat beast; this is driving-through-the-country window-seat-peat.
How about that! Makes me want to drive through the countryside with the windows down. Before the winter is over, because I'm the lone local consumer, the tally may reach 2 bottles plus half a glass. But in May, I expect to lose track because the other mystical aspect of Connemara is with whom it was first tasted. Already, I'm making luggage choices based upon whether I need to bring this beverage with me (which would require checked bags) or if we could locate it in the Denver area (not an easy thing to determine online). Even then, I'd still be able to maintain a fairly exact measure of my consumption. Should a semester in Ireland come to pass -- well, then my accounting would go to hell.
Key to the Connemara mystique is that the two of imbibed just a few hours before the start of our last Crossroads. The distinct, brief exposure of both produced sensations carrying forward into the future. Just a half-glass opened up a whole new world of sipping; only a half-hour of talk about a possible project similarly offered a host of possible ventures. I've made gains on my research project, which includes forging some formal and helpful alliances. Also, there's a still-corked full bottle of peaty elixir that will carry me over until my compadre is in his proper spot in an adjacent chair. Such evenings (or noontimes) are the exact measures that create mileposts by which I can evaluate the delight-full qualities of my life.
Key to the Connemara mystique is that the two of imbibed just a few hours before the start of our last Crossroads. The distinct, brief exposure of both produced sensations carrying forward into the future. Just a half-glass opened up a whole new world of sipping; only a half-hour of talk about a possible project similarly offered a host of possible ventures. I've made gains on my research project, which includes forging some formal and helpful alliances. Also, there's a still-corked full bottle of peaty elixir that will carry me over until my compadre is in his proper spot in an adjacent chair. Such evenings (or noontimes) are the exact measures that create mileposts by which I can evaluate the delight-full qualities of my life.
notes to myself
Published by John Settlage on Friday, October 16 at 5:53 PMJust before rushing out the door to attend a national conference a couple of years ago, I printed out a personalized schedule without reading it carefully. In the weeks leading up to the conference, whenever I came across an interesting author, I'd search for his or her name on the conference program. If they were presenting and it sounded intriguing, I would mark it. But the hurriedly printed version only gave times, dates and locations. Dutifully, I followed the itinerary and showed up at various ballrooms and salons not knowing what was in store. It worked out better than anyone could have imagined. My pre-conference self did a fantastic job with selecting sessions that would have escaped my notice during the unsystematic searches on-site (e.g., "okay, what's available this afternoon?"). What I needed to know was provided for, just when I needed it, through a note I'd generated for myself.
Sometimes the notes to myself have been generated by another person ... but I had left them in an odd place to discover at some unanticipated moment. The poet Naomi Shihab Nye has been doing this for me lately. When I thought I had only first discovered her, I realized I'd actually heard someone else read one of her poems long ago. Yesterday, I found myself reading another of her poems in a compilation I'm certain I had been through before. One of her poems is one I've printed a couple of times and jammed into my bookbag with the expectation I'll pull it out of a mass of papers, re-read it, and remember what matters. In particular, The Art of Disappearing ends with a reminder that strikes me as bold and clear -- and memorable:
Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second
Then decide what to do with your time.
Occasionally, I leave notes to myself that I can't quite decipher. For example, I was double-checking the travel
time required for Sue and me to reach our favorite restaurant*. I typed the town's name into the mapping search engine and then used the "search nearby" feature. This place is called Still River Cafe and it is a culinary gem in the middle of nowhere. But as I typed, the search engine suggested I was looking for rivera nocturnal landscape — which brought nothing to mind. It was as if a ghost was writing for me, just like in a Harry Potter scene where a deceased boy writes replies into the book where Harry quills in his questions. Later, I pieced together that this was a Diego Rivera painting (adjacent) that reminded me of a photo Zeroeth took during a teacher trip. Even though this was not an example of a note to myself (at least not that I can yet pinpoint) it is evidence I leave scraps here and there.
time required for Sue and me to reach our favorite restaurant*. I typed the town's name into the mapping search engine and then used the "search nearby" feature. This place is called Still River Cafe and it is a culinary gem in the middle of nowhere. But as I typed, the search engine suggested I was looking for rivera nocturnal landscape — which brought nothing to mind. It was as if a ghost was writing for me, just like in a Harry Potter scene where a deceased boy writes replies into the book where Harry quills in his questions. Later, I pieced together that this was a Diego Rivera painting (adjacent) that reminded me of a photo Zeroeth took during a teacher trip. Even though this was not an example of a note to myself (at least not that I can yet pinpoint) it is evidence I leave scraps here and there.The final note to myself to report upon arose during breakfast when I was lucky enough to reconnect with the guy who hosted me during a trip to Cape Town a few years ago. He travels here to interview applicants for the spring honors program as well as student nurses for their fall expeditions to his country. He inquired (as I feared and hoped he would) about prospects for education students. I shared with him my pessimism. Somehow, because he was quietly chewing or I needed to continue, i explained my ambition had been to help students see diversity and poverty in a dramatically different setting such that they could return home to see those conditions here with fresh eyes. The words came so easily that upon hearing them, I recognized them as something I had expressed before when a South Africa trip was still a possibility. Now those ideas have come to the surface again and I'm looking for an angle to pursue such an opportunity. A verbal note to myself that I was carrying in my skull but had been forgotten until I shared it with myself.
- - - - - - - - - * The sky was very overcast but there was a break in the clouds to the west at 6:30. It was not a lightness that illuminated nor a glow that gave warmth. Instead, it created the ache that comes from knowing that it will become much darker and colder — and these times will be of sufficient duration it might be that warmth and light won't return until after life has departed from the body. It seemed the perfect conditions to see deer along the country road. I announced this sensation and less than fifteen minutes later we passed, untouched, through a herd of whitetail as they ambled across the blacktop. Another message from and to myself.
just might work out
Published by John Settlage on Wednesday, October 14 at 7:57 PMMost teachers know about the great fun of preparing for a new group of students. Everybody is new, anything is possibility, and every thing is beautiful ... in its own way (see pop culture reference in a this unique video). Later we discover how foolish it was to plan for students in two separate courses to do the same assignment and have it due the same week. In this case, despite the workload it's a good idea. In brief, they are to find a cute or clever or classic hands-on activity and upgrade it so it incorporates effective teaching practices (e.g., learning cycle, process skills, standards-based, inquiry, differentiation, etc.). I'm sure once I finally open the pile of papers and associated email messages that it will work out.
What this is competing against are my efforts to generate two complementary NSF proposals. I have not had the best of luck winning sizable grants but on this occasion, I am emboldened. For one, the idea has stirred great enthusiasm and interest among those who may be involved, including colleagues in the Ed Leadership department and someone else at another university down the road. In addition, I'm getting some badly needed advice from people I've never met. To one in particular I sent a bold email asking for a copy of his recently funded project. Not surprisingly, he declined but we've since arranged for a consultation phone call later this week. Also, we have a great budget guy at our institution and he sent back a revised spreadsheet that corrects some of my mistakes. Having this means I can see for myself the financial implications of dropping from 3 to 2 graduate assistants. That change allows me to increase travel funds for fieldworkers and still bring us in under budget.
If there's anything unfortunate in all of this is that the two tasks are competing with each other. There's less than a month left to align all the pieces, obtaining all the necessary supporting documents and finalize a compelling description about what we'll accomplish in the NSF project. Even though I'd rather do some wordsmithing, this late in the day is not a good time to undertake such a creative intellectual task. What makes it so fun is that the proposed project is similar to writing a syllabus: it's all possibilities and exciting ones at that. The additional encouragement from friends and strangers, far and near, only makes it more grinnable.
What this is competing against are my efforts to generate two complementary NSF proposals. I have not had the best of luck winning sizable grants but on this occasion, I am emboldened. For one, the idea has stirred great enthusiasm and interest among those who may be involved, including colleagues in the Ed Leadership department and someone else at another university down the road. In addition, I'm getting some badly needed advice from people I've never met. To one in particular I sent a bold email asking for a copy of his recently funded project. Not surprisingly, he declined but we've since arranged for a consultation phone call later this week. Also, we have a great budget guy at our institution and he sent back a revised spreadsheet that corrects some of my mistakes. Having this means I can see for myself the financial implications of dropping from 3 to 2 graduate assistants. That change allows me to increase travel funds for fieldworkers and still bring us in under budget.
If there's anything unfortunate in all of this is that the two tasks are competing with each other. There's less than a month left to align all the pieces, obtaining all the necessary supporting documents and finalize a compelling description about what we'll accomplish in the NSF project. Even though I'd rather do some wordsmithing, this late in the day is not a good time to undertake such a creative intellectual task. What makes it so fun is that the proposed project is similar to writing a syllabus: it's all possibilities and exciting ones at that. The additional encouragement from friends and strangers, far and near, only makes it more grinnable.
gone crazy
Published by John Settlage on Sunday, October 11 at 12:43 PM
Earlier this year, there was discussion about whether it might not be best to envision colleagues as mental patients. In a very pragmatic sense, this construct held true due to its verifiability in multiple sites. Turns out this may be more than idle speculation in light of empirical evidence.According to a recent article, mental disorders by people may reach a 60% incident rate by age 32. And even higher values as one ages. Here's a quote from the researcher as reported in Science News:
Life flu, if you follow a cohort of people born in the same year, as they age almost all of them will sooner or later have a serious bout of depression, anxiety or substance abuse problem.What should be comforting to me is that I already suspected as much, which suggests I may have greater interpersonal sensitivity than I might have believed. What is subsequently discomforting is the seeming inevitability of this for me. I suppose if I am to continue my contrarian ways, I should avoid anxiety and depression by opting for cannabis dependence. On such a sunny autumn afternoon, perhaps I should perform a google image search to see whether I can begin a leaf collection that will place me on the normal path to mental disorders.
indulgences
Published by John Settlage on Sunday, October 4 at 10:15 AMFirst weekend in October and there are many indulgences. Two days of intermittent rain extended the period of nightfall such that I have slept all night and past 8 am for two nights in row. While the clouds prevented us from gazing at the full moon, there is still a Chinese mooncake waiting to be eaten. Dense, glutinous, sweet — it almost certainly transport billions to their childhoods upon the first bite. Me: I learned how lotus paste tastes and am not surprised the hard-boiled egg yolks are not common within most past pastries I have encountered.
We drove across the border in search of an orchard recommended by a local friend. Along the way, the steering wheel all but jumped out of my grip as we approached a sign indicating it was New England’s largest liquor store. The parking lot was full and inside we were greeted by a costumed scarecrow (note: purchased costumes such as lobsters are far superior) and clots of people. Turns out it was Octoberfest and the locals were swarming around tables for beer tasting. On the periphery, others hovered with their bratwurst. We made our way around one soggy swarm to an aisle of whiskey and a section from the isles of the United Kingdom. Four different styles of Tullamore Dew varying in supposed age and by bottle design. Nearby, distinguished and aloof, was my choice of a tall cardboard sleeve or a regularly corked bottle with the hazy landscape of Connemara in western County Galway.
Further, weaving on narrow damp roads toward the orchard, my co-pilot asked what I might want to eat at this place. Bratwurst was on my mind and her response indicated that was a feeble hope. We parked in a meadow and walked toward the store and apples. We heard music. Turned out there was a live band doing a very decent job generating southern rock from beneath a shelter that held a dozen or so picnic tables. A trailer was selling onion rings, french fries and other greasy foods. And so I had my bratwurst with kraut. There were goats and llamas to survey. A weedy pen held a sign explaining the world distribution of the emu but none was to be seen. Sue tossed a piece of my brat bun to a chicken who then fell head over claws in love. We ambled back toward the music, selected a peck of Galas, and headed down the road.
Breakfast on Sunday was a caramel apple we bought at another orchard the same day. The whiskey sits next to the coffee maker (temporarily) and I resist the indulgence of a snort or a sniff. It ought to be enough to enjoy the lightening sky where I am instead of attempting a mental escape. A reverse recollection would accompany the odor of peat-smoked malt, perhaps a vous jàdé experience where I know in the future I’m going to remember this moment. Quite sadly, I discover there are no cheap flights later this month between Hartford or Providence and Salt Lake City. The whiskey find then is a somewhat hollow victory. Somehow or another there has to be a way to indulge this increasing desire long before May 1 in Denver. Wheels begin to turn.
We drove across the border in search of an orchard recommended by a local friend. Along the way, the steering wheel all but jumped out of my grip as we approached a sign indicating it was New England’s largest liquor store. The parking lot was full and inside we were greeted by a costumed scarecrow (note: purchased costumes such as lobsters are far superior) and clots of people. Turns out it was Octoberfest and the locals were swarming around tables for beer tasting. On the periphery, others hovered with their bratwurst. We made our way around one soggy swarm to an aisle of whiskey and a section from the isles of the United Kingdom. Four different styles of Tullamore Dew varying in supposed age and by bottle design. Nearby, distinguished and aloof, was my choice of a tall cardboard sleeve or a regularly corked bottle with the hazy landscape of Connemara in western County Galway.
Further, weaving on narrow damp roads toward the orchard, my co-pilot asked what I might want to eat at this place. Bratwurst was on my mind and her response indicated that was a feeble hope. We parked in a meadow and walked toward the store and apples. We heard music. Turned out there was a live band doing a very decent job generating southern rock from beneath a shelter that held a dozen or so picnic tables. A trailer was selling onion rings, french fries and other greasy foods. And so I had my bratwurst with kraut. There were goats and llamas to survey. A weedy pen held a sign explaining the world distribution of the emu but none was to be seen. Sue tossed a piece of my brat bun to a chicken who then fell head over claws in love. We ambled back toward the music, selected a peck of Galas, and headed down the road.
Breakfast on Sunday was a caramel apple we bought at another orchard the same day. The whiskey sits next to the coffee maker (temporarily) and I resist the indulgence of a snort or a sniff. It ought to be enough to enjoy the lightening sky where I am instead of attempting a mental escape. A reverse recollection would accompany the odor of peat-smoked malt, perhaps a vous jàdé experience where I know in the future I’m going to remember this moment. Quite sadly, I discover there are no cheap flights later this month between Hartford or Providence and Salt Lake City. The whiskey find then is a somewhat hollow victory. Somehow or another there has to be a way to indulge this increasing desire long before May 1 in Denver. Wheels begin to turn.
first day discoveries
Published by John Settlage on Monday, August 31 at 6:55 PMI am reminded that the routines of preparing for a first day of a new semester should not be completely crowded out by preparations for something more exciting.
- Copying a syllabus a week in advance, putting it on color paper, and stapling the two pages together is all wasted effort if you fail to move it from your home-office floor into your book bag for the first day of class.
- Emailing your syllabi to your department's administrative assistant, even before it is requested, means you have copies in your email outbox -- even if you wrote the syllabi on a different computer.
- Baking soda dissolves and mixes with water much more readily that does corn starch. While green and semi-solid, unless oobleck is made from a box that say CORN STARCH instead of BAKING SODA (even though they look like the same box) then it's just as well to dump the slurry down the drain.
- Recycling an old powerpoint slide show can, with just a little bit of Q&A, fill the time during which students would have been investigating oobleck.
- Except for the corn starch, I have all the equipment needed to make oobleck for the next time class meets. Since Labor Day is next Monday, that means there are two weeks to remember to buy the right box.
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