Balancing the Madness

I have been trying to read for pleasure in an attempt to balance the madness that is right now.  

I am keeping to essays and poetry, both of which, like TVDs as opposed to movies, are much less of a time commitment, as time is a commodity right now.

From The Algebra of Infinite Justice by Arundhati Roy

          excerpt taken from "The End of Imagination"

"To love.  To be loved.  To never forget your own insignificance.  To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you.  To seek joy in the saddest of places.  To pursue beauty to its lair.  To never simplify what is complicated and never complicate what is simple.  To respect strength, never power.  Above all, to watch.  To try and understand.  To never look away.  And never, never, to forget." 

[on living while you are alive]

From Beautiful Losers by Leonard Cohen

"What is a saint?"

"What is a saint?  A saint is someone who has achieved a remote human possibility.  It is impossible to say what that possibility is.  I think it has something to do with the energy of love.  Contact with this energy results in the exercise of a kind of balance in the chaos of existence.  A saint does not dissolve the chaos; if he did the world would have changed long ago.  I do not think that a saint dissolves the chaos even for himself, for there is something arrogant and warlike in the notion of a man setting the universe in order.  It is a kind of balance that is his glory.  He rides the drifts like an escaped ski.  His course is a caress of the hill.  His track is a drawing of the snow in a moment of its particular arrangement with wind and rock. Something in him so loves the world that he gives himself to the laws of gravity and chance.  Far from flying with the angels, he traces with the fidelity of a seismograph needle the state of the solid body landscape.  His house is dangerous and finite, but he is at home in the world.  He can love the shapes of human beings, the fine and twisted shapes of the heart.  It is good to have among us such men, such balancing monsters of love."

These thoughts help me to realize that my driving passion is love.  Those who do not understand my pursuits in life, who write me off as a hippy wanting to study trivial matters, who think it strange that I want to better understand human beings and the effects of history on us and the ways in which we will affect the history that has yet to come, are not guided by the same passions.  I will try to love and understand those people as well, as they are human beings just as I am.

Here's to Feeling Good, Here's to Feeling Bad

Einstein said that one should "try not to become a man of success but rather try to become a man of value."

He was smart guy, but still not smart enough to use gender neutral language.   This idea of success and how to define it is always pressing on my heart.  How do I know that I have been successful?  When will I know?

I question what Einstein would have classified as "value."  Does value amount to goodness?  Is being good doing the right thing?  What is the right thing?  Life never stops punching me in the face with questions. 

My life has become a terribly stressful attempt to prove myself.  I have spent three months on a paper that is still incomplete and that, with deadlines fast approaching, I am turning my nose up at.  It isn't good enough.  I am not good enough.  

22 pages, three months, 400 cups of coffee, and 40 books later, I am still not satisfied.  

I do not feel that I have been 'successful' at accurately representing my skills.  

When is good enough good enough?  How will I measure my success?

What if I don't get accepted to any of these schools?  

After all of this work?

I will sit tomorrow with this paper and try to wrap it up.  It will then only be the first of many drafts.  I have never set out on a task quite as daunting as this.  It makes me question my discipline, my drive.    

The GRE studying is a totally different.  If success is measured by discipline then I am a failure.  I have learned new words, but I love words so that isn't hard.  I can't do math.  My brain, my heart, my spirit - none of which are interested in the Pythagorean theorem.  

I have felt, more than anything, like an underachiever lately.  I find that my frustration sprouts from my ability to be so easily distracted with feelings and thoughts.  My little journal is always begging me to reflect on the day.  I feel that discipline helps drive success.  How am I supposed to be successful and balance all these emotions that are in me?  Hypnotists?  

I feel successful as an activist for the first time in my life.

I sponsor my school's Gay/Straight Alliance (GSA) and I have been pretty successful at exciting my students.

I have been successful at ensuring that my students are protected and feel safe to be themselves...whatever that means.

I have come up against slight conflict within my rather conservative school, but surprisingly, have stood strong.  I have never been one to back down, but on the same token, have never been one to get myself into conflict that I must stand strong.  I don't mind this kind of conflict though - conflict I believe in, conflict that protects my 1st Amendment rights, my student's safety, and awakens the activist in all of my students.  It is exciting.  I have been successful at this.  

Tomorrow I will be attending a candlelight vigil to oppose Proposition 8.  

My closest friend at work is a lesbian and has been with her partner for 8 years.  They are in love.  

More in love than many I have met.  Their relationship works better than many straight couples I have known.  

Damn sure works better than the relationships that I have been a part of.  It is a terrible tragedy to me that this 

phenomenal lady can't ceremoniously join in union with the love of her life, simply because the love of her life is also a her.

It is inspiring to me that my students are willing to stand for the fights they believe in and be so selfless at such a young age.

I wish I had been as successful at being a good person at such a young age.  It took me a lot longer to realize that the world is much, much larger than me.  

Life really is about balance:  with understanding the realities of love, with one's self, with ones thoughts, being sure to live deliberately but also indulge in impulse at times, balance of waking and sleeping, work and sanity, reality and daydreaming, doing and being.  It is difficult in remembering to give the difficulty of finding balance when looking upon yourself with a critical eye.  I do try.

Oh, oh, I am also very good at making Hot Toddy's.  That, for sure, is one of my successes.  

December 1 = GRE

December 15 = Deadlines for NYU and UT Austin

Obama-Rham-a!

I am still reeling and I am so hopeful and I care. I really just cannot believe it.

November 5, 2008...

a New York Times was impossible to find (if any of you have an extra...please send it to me).
my students saw my hope as I became emotional talking about what this means for the future of our country and for them
I experienced something that I never imagined I would - good history
I was, for the first time in my life, truly, proud to be an American.

I was the best kind of tired I have ever been on Wednesday as I could not sleep Tuesday night. I lay awake not believing what happened...giggling to myself and thinking that maybe, just maybe, our country has finally wisened up. I lay awake in confusion because I have never had this much hope in one leader, I have never been so moved by choices this nation has made, and I have never felt that my voice was heard. Time for never to be put to rest.

Wednesday I sat looking at my students knowing that the days of doubting oneself due to societal representations are numbered. Thinking that these kids and their kid's kids will grow to truly believe that they can be anything they want to be. I don't remember ever feeling so happy. My african american boys have an idol other than a rapper or an NBA star now...they have the President of the United States of America. It fuels my desire to go back to school even more, study history, witness our nation's history morph and change, and teach tolerance.

I didn't know much about Biden when Obama picked him, but I do know a lot about ole' Rahm Emmanuel. I know he's a badass. I know that he is a good person (well, as far as politicians go) and I know that he will do a great job! Finally we have people in the White House who care about people! Not people who care about money and put on this facade of caring about the lives of the soldiers they are sending to die.

More things that make me happy right now:

This article drawing parallels to the West Wing and our made for t.v country.

and the end of an era, thanks Edward Gorey:

Mid-Election Day Reflection

From this morning as I was waiting to vote:

Ms. Pearl just arrived to vote for the man who, according to Michael Eric Dyson will "integrate economic Viagra" into our nations troubled economy.  Ms. Pearl is fragile, she walks with the assistance of a cane and is accompanied by her grandchildren who also bear the wrinkles of laughter and age around their eyes and mouths.  Ms. Pearl is African-American.  I imagine that at some point in the development of her wisdom Ms. Pearl wasn't allowed to punch the ballot.  I imagine that at some point in her life she was told that her opinions were insignificant which inherently suggests that she was too.  It is our opinions, our beliefs, our hope, that carry us through this unbelievable time.  Our hopes, not fears, that inspire us to wait in line for three hours, but allow people like Ms. Pearl to do the honors without waiting.  She has been waiting long enough.  We all have.  I am so proud to experience, in my life, this day where an African-American can stand equally among men, can believe in a nation that has not believed in him for centuries, and can find support from community members across the world.  I am hopeful.  I want Ms. Pearl to experience this equality; to witness this highly qualified man being sworn in as President of the United States of America - for American to finally, truly become united again as a people; not a party, not a color, but people.

Today makes my heart too full.  I am crossing my fingers.  I am so, so, so hopeful.  

Either way, whatever happens, today I am proud to be an American.  

Gangs and Gays

The past few weeks have been a demon hell ride:
writing sample research and development, GRE study and practice, grading papers about the role of violence in a establishment or dissolution of a civilization, trying to be a human being and remember that I have friends other than my cat, etc.

I have been guilty of getting sucked into that lack of time, that lack of thinking space that I usually allot myself. Well, yesterday and today are worth being mentioned.

Yesterday was the PSAT (oh I feel your pain lil' babies!) and then the kids left at 12:40. As me and my friends ate our FREE (that's right, the only time we get any perks is on half days...free tacos!) meal some hunky, hunky cops came into the meeting area. These cops: Officers Biff and Buff began to set up their aesthetically disappointing poster boards decorated with a variety of belts and bandannas as well as doodling (very familiar doodles) by kids that are of the middle and high school persuasion.

Biff apologized for some bogus news story that featured my high school as one riddled with gang members and Buff plugged he and his partner's fervid need to rid the streets of hoodlums and caricaturists. It was bizarre to think that my little dudes and ladies were being bossed by an older gang man and that 12-year olds had guns and there is basically nothing we can do about it if they are already involved. Our options as per Biff and Buff are 'turn them in' or 'turn them in.'
Heavy business.

There is the gang segment; the downer. Moving on; the inspiration.

I am the sponsor for my schools gay/straight alliance. It is called Spectrum, like the rainbow, and I am really proud that my school allows it. I think our students need the support and need to know that they can be gay, who cares!?! They are still capable and wonderful little babes.
Today these two great people came in to speak during lunches who represent the Atlanta chapter of PFLAG (Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays). This group works to educate families, assist families, and support people who have recently "come out of the closet." The man and wife duo have two gay sons and one straight daughter and shared their story with the kids who chose to attend the meeting. They also discuss the need for our school to be a safe environment for these kids. Because my attitude about being gay or whatever you are is "So what? You are still a human being" I never considered the need to 'fight' for the rights of gays in my school. However, I whole-heartedly see the need to support them and make them feel safe. That was until I was reminded today that groups and organization exist in the world that work to convince these children that they are wrong or damaged and their 'illness' can be cured. I realized that my counselors in the office don't have any resources to support our GLBT community at school or to educate their families on support groups that can help the family stay together and try to understand. I have placed brochures in my principals boxes as well as my counselors. I wanna fight to make our school a safe place...a real safe place where people can be respected and honored for whatever they are. Kids 'come out' often, last semester I had two boys begin to question their sexual preferences. One, an African-American young man, had a really hard time with it. He spent most his time with the school psychologist. It was a very hard time for him.

In terms of today, I realized that being pro-active isn't always synonymous with putting up a 'fight' and that doing things like this, which seem small, really can make a huge difference. [cue sentimental melody] The couple who came to speak with us wants to do a PR video for PFLAG and they want our group to be in it.

Let's get that education going!

Past, Present, and the Road of Forgetting

I had to leave work today early.  I was sick because I haven't been tending to myself enough.  I have this problem where I get myself into too much and overdo it, especially when I need to reduce the amount of down time I have so that risky thoughts do not move furtively to the forefront of my imagination.  I have burnt out and need a weekend of recovery.  Unfortunately this weekend is going to serve as a reminder of my very recent past and it's troublesome relationship with my present.

I have always considered that understanding and appreciating one's past, analyzing one's past, and reflecting upon one's past is a means to an end where growth and knowledge of oneself and one's purpose flourish.  I have attempted to excavate the terrain of my past, which at times has been very rocky, seeking out my individualism, my purposeful division from other's in order to reevaluate me, my identity.  Basically, I am pro-past. 

However, I am pro-past as a means of understanding oneself more wholly and purely on an individual basis.  I am not a pro-paster who would recommend maintaining an open connection to what was.  The process of losing, moving on, or being done is one that has an end-point.  Classes in school, books, seminars, lunch dates, relationships; these all have an end and become the past.  In my opinion, there is a shelf-life for reflecting: as soon as possible.  These times vary depending upon the situation, of course.  I say all of this to say that I am pro-past with an understanding that the past must only actively exist for as long as it takes to get what you need out of it, then must be tucked away into a cubbyhole in our brains or hearts so that we may continue with the present.  

Tonight I picked up Edward Said's Culture and Imperialism which is some pretty awesome stuff.  Heavy thoughts, heavy reading, but phenomenal ideas and explanations.  My reading in that book led me an essay by T. S. Eliot entitled "Tradition and the Individual Talent" which discusses the connection between the present and the past regarding poets (it also discusses how all poets are crazy as a steel toed sandal and less emotionally aware than your average Sully cat...on which I totally agree).

Eliot argues that the poet is always affected by the past through the "old, dead poets" and the influences they have had upon him, which is similar to Harold Bloom's ideas in The Anxiety of Influence (except Bloom saw this as a catalyst for anxiety).  Eliot argues that "the difference between present and the past is that the conscious present is an awareness of the past in a way and to an extent which the past's awareness of itself cannot show."  Okay, so shelf life?  To be knowledgeable of what a past encapsulates, but to move forcefully into the present as if the past is history...because it is.

Currently in my life I am struggling with ideas of past becoming too involved with my present and the ways in which that past seems to haunt me, to not let me go.  In the application of Eliot's ideas to my own personal problem I think he is supporting my pro-past decision (shelf life, cubby hole)...I think.  Or is it better to deny our past the credit it deserves with the universal knowledge that the experiences we have become a part of who we are?  I think it is indeed anxiety-inducing to understand that there is a solid, complex connection between the past and the present,  and if gone without being attended may seep into our subconscious and twist the tales of history (see slavery in the United States) because often the past is meant to be forgotten, we are meant to 'write another chapter,' and prodding into the depths of what should be forgetfulness can really be gut-wrenching (on both an individual and national level).  When though, if we continue to live solely in the present without acknowledging it's friendliness to the past, do we learn?  If we aren't learning from our uncomfortable pasts we maintain a static notion of identity, but where do we find the strength to continue to poke the rotting animal within to find answers when this animal suffered a painful death, one that we do not wish to revisit often?

Paper Progress and Archiving Oldies

Proving myself to graduate schools may be the death of me.

I set aside today for the latter half of my introduction to this paper.  My to do list said this:

Establish idea of community, establish idea of classroom community in my classroom, identify which characteristics are transcendent, then establish the two communities I will be analyzing.

I basically spent all day thinking of community.  To define community is...not possible.  What is community?

I am not well versed in scholars of sociology or anthropology so spent my day looking for those people.

I then lost my focus and my brain shut down.  

Man.

Tomorrow I get back to it.  When I know I need someone to support my idea in this intro part, which won't be research heavy, I am just going to enter brackets.  Maybe that will keep me focused.

Speaking of not being focused on one topic...

Someone once told me that I was not a writer.  This someone also determined that I was inadequate in other aspects of my life, according to this person, which means very little to my sense of self or worth in my life.  The thought that I, someone who writes for various purposes every day, discusses writing every day, teaching writing every day, and reads books (that were written) every day, is not a writer has recently caused me to ponder what qualifies one as a writer.  I think I am a writer, whether I publish in paper back journals or win awards for what I compose.  What is a writer?  What is community?  Unanswerable questions may be the death of me actually.

So many questions.

I have written more with my students...they are writers, right?

"The 'Art' of Forgetting"

Dedicated to a man and woman who wore their heads on their necks upside down and backwards and to the things that they wished out of their lives and the things they maybe wanted back one day.

If only my mailbox could muster the courage to form the words you must’ve meant.

As if a little glitter is enough to patch up a hole in the wall that begs the bitter wind enter safely.
Or a check hidden in a fold could buy back skinned knees, honor roll certificates, pre-fem playground games, post-pubescent heart troubles, the first rally, the first and second graduations.
All things spectacular, mediocre - a fall from Grace,
a journey to enlightenment - have rushed past without your knowing.

Hallmark certainly doesn’t erase snotty noses, smoking barrels, swallowed fearlumps, or sheets hiding tiny, tear-stained faces from a troubled memory.

The days of sugar and spice and everything nice are long gone and the evenings completed by mothball scented animal crackers have been tucked into the pockets of forgetting.
The only thing worse than a Driftwood Dad is the older generation of bandits that acted as his accomplices.

And if you knew me at all you would know that I hate pink and don’t believe in angels.

------------------------------------------------------

Thinking more on writing and writers I thought that maybe what makes a writer a writer, aside form skill and public acceptance, is one's courage or ability to share what s/he writes.  I have books of secrets, archives of baby thoughts dating back to 1996, but never had courage to publish or share.  I was published when I was in kindergarten though.  That is a fact.  A story I wrote in elementary school was published in a journal and I was in the newspaper along with a friend of mine for this achievement.  Does this qualify me and my abilities?  Great!

Here is this piece, and here's to sticking it to those who think they have all the answers, but are truly grasping for straws.

"Tiresius Bound"

Knee deep in the entrails of then – of nevermore
The son of the Shepard seeks truths in the sewage of yesterday’s massacre.
Veils of ignorance, of falsehood, slurp in excrement scraping along behind the staff that clanks the rusted and forgotten pipes.
Seeking ablution for becoming lost in this wasteland.
Following only the sounds of filth flowing into an
unknown abyss the blind prophet seeks his grail of contentment.