It is routine, in every understandable essence of the word. A Pavlovian bell rings, signaling the end of another period. It also tolls its magic spell creating an internecine era ever so briefly. Yet another parcel of time gone and this is its knell. No taps will sound. In an odd sense, just the opposite will occur.
From my vantage point the visage is illuminated by the dull glow of fluorescence glinting off the din of linoleum. Wave after wave of voices rolled in a tsunami of sound. The crashing and clanging of lockers coated in layers of institutional colors resound, echoing a faded Greek chorus claiming the truth in an incoherent tongue. This sensory experience elicits prayers for deprivation.
As if heeded by well-heeled wranglers, the desks are filled. Funneled and filed it is another expression of routine. A calculated expression taught, learned, forgotten, re-taught…ad infinitum, ad nauseum…And for the next sliced period of time, chaos is maneuvered, sometimes, rarely, controlled. Nonetheless, it will all end in a timed release. A causation for celebration rewarded with a pass.
Imagine this regular and metered time as something similar to riding on a subway. An odd but effective analogy to say the least. For me, it always feels like that. While my exposure to public transportation has been limited, it was memorable nonetheless. The dull tile, the humming lights and the chipped paint seems to being the experience all together. Yet, there is an essential component missing…Noise…Yes, noise. This is the distinctive brand of both the subway, as I remember it, and the hallway between classes, as I have experienced it. Noise, a Doppler wall of it, traveled seamlessly with the migrating herds of students.
This final aspect of the subway/hallway was the most terrifying and painful for me. This crushing wall of sound always made me want to beat a hasty retreat back into my own acoustically hostile classroom. While cinderblocks may be more cost-effective in regards to construction costs, they are prime material for reflecting and amplifying sound. But, I do have some modicum in regulating the volume and ultimately the amount of locust-like chattering noise within my own classroom.
It is this maelstrom of sound that we stand. Teachers as hall guardians. Just putting those words together evokes some latent twentieth century avant garde surrealism. I can almost imagine the painting silently standing in a museum, just like us. And this is where the metaphor of the subway returns…
Stepping out upon the jarring command, we exchange glances and sometimes words. Regardless of which it is always cryptic to any outsider. The meanings are always revealed afterwards, once the last bell had sounded. The time of day does not affect these exchanges. In the morning the caffeine has yet to take affect despite the scents of brewing and percolation wafting into the hall from numerous rooms. Then, by the afternoon, the grind is showing. This is true for all parties involved.
The tenure of noise and talking seems to rise and fall in some seemingly pre-arranged orchestrated movement. Glances, small talk and technical questions fill these few minutes. Only the vocal ranges of separate student from teacher in this milieu. In this instance, adolescence becomes the great equalizer, especially for some boys.
Like subway trains passing with regularity the day progresses. From bell to bell it is a different ride with the same destination. And similar to the subway, you quickly learn when and who to speak to and make eye contact with. Sometimes it is better to say nothing at all and look away always taking relief in knowing that soon the passing with happen again and another route will come open.
Clarity comes with time. It is evoked with each passing storm and the calm that follows. While the routes change little, it is these minor deviations that add to the adventure. And, each journey brings along different sojourners with each class. Most times it is the students. Sometimes, it is fellow teachers. Given time, the passing periods evolve from internecine eras between classes to breaks between school years as we progress through this school and life.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Condolences for a Cockroach
This is such a strange mixture of the weird and the everyday that it is difficult to truly know where to begin. I suppose like any piece of literature, which this is only a part of technically, the scene needs to be set. School had just let out, and I was relocating to the central office building where I would be working out of for the next contract year. I still had two weeks left on this contract, so I had set myself up a makeshift office until proper arrangements could be made. As with most academic locations, the male gender is a rare sight. As such, I pretty much had the men’s restroom across the hall mostly to myself. And that’s where this particular and peculiar adventure began.
During the course of the business day it becomes necessary to relieve one’s self. In fact, with age, it often becomes a little more frequent. To boot, I have come that certain age of wisdom that marks the journey of a maturing male, that I no longer purchase coffee. No, I merely rent it for an uncertain amount of time. So, I was returning, or recycling, my morning coffee in the men’s room when I chanced upon an uncertain sight that left me puzzled for a good part of the day.
Standing at the far urinal I was captivated by what might be perhaps the oddest sight I had beheld, up to that particular point. Lying in the urinal next to me was a deceased cockroach. As with most of the non-executed varieties, it was on its back. Nothing shocking, per se, with this post mortem state. However, it is what was beside this deceased insect that troubled me. It was another cockroach. A living one. I was transfixed. Of course, the thought running through my head was one that probably anyone would have had. Is he going to eat the other one…?
If this piece has not turned your stomach thus far, this particular pondering should not repulse you. It is noted that cockroaches eat anything. I am sure this includes each other. Being that it was a slow day at the office, I decided to spend a little more time in observation. Since I am there is only one other male employee in my hall, and he was out for a meeting, I did not have to concern myself with conjuring up any excuses for standing at the urinal and staring into the bottom of the other one.
The other cockroach just stood there, its antennae moving methodically. That was all that moved. However, it did set my mind to wondering. Was this particular cockroach paying its last respects to a dead relative, a fallen comrade? It struck as quite odd that the living cockroach did not try to flee when I took a half step towards it after washing my hands. I just stood there, it antennae still moving rhythmically. It was hypnotic. But how could I think that something that is commonly the object of shared scorn could afford such a humane treatment. What was it?
I tucked the whole incident into the recess of my consciousness and exited the restroom. Still, no movement from the living one except for the methodical antennae wave. As soon as I was seated at my desk, the entire experience passed with a muffled chuckle. I marked the time with the clacking of keys on my laptop and the numbers on the calendar moved over a single square.
The next day, morning routine played itself out and the laptop keys continued clicking in their timekeeping duties. Almost like clockwork, it was time for a restroom break. Dancing with somnambulance, I entered the restroom and continued with my regular routine. Looking to the side, I noticed that the deceased cockroach was gone. Shaken from my trance, I looked around. Exiting, I caught sight of the deceased with friend still beside him in the corner.
It was truly an awkward situation. I didn’t know what to do. Oddly enough, two hallmarks of cultural literacy swirled through my mind seemingly out of nowhere. The connections make sense, but the choices were purely unpremeditated. Looking down at the deceased and living cockroaches, I immediately thought of Kafka’s “Metamorphoses” and Disney movies.
I know my confusion over what to do next stem from these two sources. What struck me as odd was that I was even haggling with myself over what to do. I wasn’t sure whether to express my condolences or use a paper towel to scoop these two up and send them down the porcelain waterslide for their final ride. It should have been a simple motion of tear, swoop, dunk and flush. A simple symphony of actions that would have required no thought at all. However, something kept nagging at me in the back of my mind.
Allow me to quell any fears and misgivings you may have at this point in reading this piece. I did not offer my condolences to the cockroach standing beside the dead one. Luckily, common sense caught up with me and revealed the foolishness of that particular inclination. However, I did pause for a moment and take in the sight one last time before returning to work. I cannot say specifically if it was awe, respect or just plain credulity that made me take a final look. But I did.
I am not sure, anatomically, if the one cockroach standing beside the deceased one and I looked each other in the eyes, but we looked at each other. I moved on and went about my work. The day ended as others have that preceded and followed. Yet, I cannot say that my perspective was broadened and shifted just by a fraction. I am not really sure that this experience has changed me measurably or given me some extraordinary insight in to existence. All I can say is that I experienced this odd circumstance and it has stuck in my memory.
During the course of the business day it becomes necessary to relieve one’s self. In fact, with age, it often becomes a little more frequent. To boot, I have come that certain age of wisdom that marks the journey of a maturing male, that I no longer purchase coffee. No, I merely rent it for an uncertain amount of time. So, I was returning, or recycling, my morning coffee in the men’s room when I chanced upon an uncertain sight that left me puzzled for a good part of the day.
Standing at the far urinal I was captivated by what might be perhaps the oddest sight I had beheld, up to that particular point. Lying in the urinal next to me was a deceased cockroach. As with most of the non-executed varieties, it was on its back. Nothing shocking, per se, with this post mortem state. However, it is what was beside this deceased insect that troubled me. It was another cockroach. A living one. I was transfixed. Of course, the thought running through my head was one that probably anyone would have had. Is he going to eat the other one…?
If this piece has not turned your stomach thus far, this particular pondering should not repulse you. It is noted that cockroaches eat anything. I am sure this includes each other. Being that it was a slow day at the office, I decided to spend a little more time in observation. Since I am there is only one other male employee in my hall, and he was out for a meeting, I did not have to concern myself with conjuring up any excuses for standing at the urinal and staring into the bottom of the other one.
The other cockroach just stood there, its antennae moving methodically. That was all that moved. However, it did set my mind to wondering. Was this particular cockroach paying its last respects to a dead relative, a fallen comrade? It struck as quite odd that the living cockroach did not try to flee when I took a half step towards it after washing my hands. I just stood there, it antennae still moving rhythmically. It was hypnotic. But how could I think that something that is commonly the object of shared scorn could afford such a humane treatment. What was it?
I tucked the whole incident into the recess of my consciousness and exited the restroom. Still, no movement from the living one except for the methodical antennae wave. As soon as I was seated at my desk, the entire experience passed with a muffled chuckle. I marked the time with the clacking of keys on my laptop and the numbers on the calendar moved over a single square.
The next day, morning routine played itself out and the laptop keys continued clicking in their timekeeping duties. Almost like clockwork, it was time for a restroom break. Dancing with somnambulance, I entered the restroom and continued with my regular routine. Looking to the side, I noticed that the deceased cockroach was gone. Shaken from my trance, I looked around. Exiting, I caught sight of the deceased with friend still beside him in the corner.
It was truly an awkward situation. I didn’t know what to do. Oddly enough, two hallmarks of cultural literacy swirled through my mind seemingly out of nowhere. The connections make sense, but the choices were purely unpremeditated. Looking down at the deceased and living cockroaches, I immediately thought of Kafka’s “Metamorphoses” and Disney movies.
I know my confusion over what to do next stem from these two sources. What struck me as odd was that I was even haggling with myself over what to do. I wasn’t sure whether to express my condolences or use a paper towel to scoop these two up and send them down the porcelain waterslide for their final ride. It should have been a simple motion of tear, swoop, dunk and flush. A simple symphony of actions that would have required no thought at all. However, something kept nagging at me in the back of my mind.
Allow me to quell any fears and misgivings you may have at this point in reading this piece. I did not offer my condolences to the cockroach standing beside the dead one. Luckily, common sense caught up with me and revealed the foolishness of that particular inclination. However, I did pause for a moment and take in the sight one last time before returning to work. I cannot say specifically if it was awe, respect or just plain credulity that made me take a final look. But I did.
I am not sure, anatomically, if the one cockroach standing beside the deceased one and I looked each other in the eyes, but we looked at each other. I moved on and went about my work. The day ended as others have that preceded and followed. Yet, I cannot say that my perspective was broadened and shifted just by a fraction. I am not really sure that this experience has changed me measurably or given me some extraordinary insight in to existence. All I can say is that I experienced this odd circumstance and it has stuck in my memory.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Quit Killing My Superheroes!
Enough is enough…all right!? I mean, how much more can a guy take? Adding insult to injury was never attractive, nor the proper thing to do. It’s not like I didn’t have enough dings in my body from shopping on Black Friday that I needed to be hit again. This time, sucker punched. Not only that, but I am still healing from the deep cut experienced a couple of years ago.
Confused?...So am I. To use ghetto parlance, “Why they gotta be hatin’?” Today, while decompressing from a brief exposure to Black Friday shopping, I perused the Internet. Totally harmless, right? So I thought. I went to a completely innocuous site. It is a site I visit regularly to get my news of the world. Completely credible. It’s FoxNews.com. It was then and there that I discovered some bonehead at DC Comics decided to knock off Batman. I mean totally whack the poor bastard. I thought it was a complete disregard for protocol and manners. The smug S.O.B. actually sounded upbeat and chipper about the whole matter in the interview. Damned punk!
Technically, Batman is not actually dead. Yeah, right! Supposedly, Bruce Wayne was killed by a mysterious stranger claiming to be none other than his long-thought dead father. Weird and creepy, but a cool Shakespearean plot twist. Excellent for Hamlet or Macbeth, but not for the Dark Knight. No way, no how. Perhaps I am a bit too much of a traditionalist, but you just don’t treat superheroes that way. It’s disrespectful.
Of course, there is still the unresolved issue of the assassination of Captain America that occurred two years ago. Now, I can’t bellow and whine too much, because I always get a great lesson out of it for my American History classes each year. However, you still don’t need to go off and kill an icon such as Captain America or Batman on a whim. I believe the blame rests squarely on two individuals equally.
The editor and writer should both have their heads on a block for this lame brained move. Cruel and unusual punishment you say? Go ask Bruce Wayne and Steve Rogers what they think about this bold editorial move? I mean, I see no need for a head if you are not going to use it or its only use is as a rectal probe. Killing off a major superhero seems like a wimpy way of boosting sales or to get out of an embarrassing spot of writer’s block. It is just totally unacceptable. If it’s a tight creative spot your crew can’t get out of, maybe you don’t have the right people doing the job…
A bit too rash in my response? I think not…Just look at the other headlines swarming the news today and take a little reality trip with me. Senseless terrorist bombings in India, stocks still shaky, and employment a gamble at best is what most of us have to deal with. Now untie this paradox for me. Why kill off national and cultural icons now?
Perhaps you might answer to shake things up a bit. Or maybe to grab peoples’ attention and make them sit up for a moment. Aren’t we already doing enough of that? Don ‘t we deserve a little respite for the over taxing stimulus and sensations thrown at us every waking moment of every day? Maybe I am just yelling at a wall here, but it works. Just looked what happened in Berlin in 1989. Don’t stop speaking, even if you the only voice. Listen to us you corporate greed mongers, and quit killing our superheroes.
Confused?...So am I. To use ghetto parlance, “Why they gotta be hatin’?” Today, while decompressing from a brief exposure to Black Friday shopping, I perused the Internet. Totally harmless, right? So I thought. I went to a completely innocuous site. It is a site I visit regularly to get my news of the world. Completely credible. It’s FoxNews.com. It was then and there that I discovered some bonehead at DC Comics decided to knock off Batman. I mean totally whack the poor bastard. I thought it was a complete disregard for protocol and manners. The smug S.O.B. actually sounded upbeat and chipper about the whole matter in the interview. Damned punk!
Technically, Batman is not actually dead. Yeah, right! Supposedly, Bruce Wayne was killed by a mysterious stranger claiming to be none other than his long-thought dead father. Weird and creepy, but a cool Shakespearean plot twist. Excellent for Hamlet or Macbeth, but not for the Dark Knight. No way, no how. Perhaps I am a bit too much of a traditionalist, but you just don’t treat superheroes that way. It’s disrespectful.
Of course, there is still the unresolved issue of the assassination of Captain America that occurred two years ago. Now, I can’t bellow and whine too much, because I always get a great lesson out of it for my American History classes each year. However, you still don’t need to go off and kill an icon such as Captain America or Batman on a whim. I believe the blame rests squarely on two individuals equally.
The editor and writer should both have their heads on a block for this lame brained move. Cruel and unusual punishment you say? Go ask Bruce Wayne and Steve Rogers what they think about this bold editorial move? I mean, I see no need for a head if you are not going to use it or its only use is as a rectal probe. Killing off a major superhero seems like a wimpy way of boosting sales or to get out of an embarrassing spot of writer’s block. It is just totally unacceptable. If it’s a tight creative spot your crew can’t get out of, maybe you don’t have the right people doing the job…
A bit too rash in my response? I think not…Just look at the other headlines swarming the news today and take a little reality trip with me. Senseless terrorist bombings in India, stocks still shaky, and employment a gamble at best is what most of us have to deal with. Now untie this paradox for me. Why kill off national and cultural icons now?
Perhaps you might answer to shake things up a bit. Or maybe to grab peoples’ attention and make them sit up for a moment. Aren’t we already doing enough of that? Don ‘t we deserve a little respite for the over taxing stimulus and sensations thrown at us every waking moment of every day? Maybe I am just yelling at a wall here, but it works. Just looked what happened in Berlin in 1989. Don’t stop speaking, even if you the only voice. Listen to us you corporate greed mongers, and quit killing our superheroes.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thinking about being thankful
It is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. The bird is in the midst of its thawing bath, the pumpkin pie cheese cakes are cooling and the banana bread is finishing its tour of duty in the oven. Forecasts call for a rainy cool front to cone through sometime tomorrow. Luckily I have firewood split and plan on bringing in an extra load first thing tomorrow. But not everything is routine or rosy.
I don’t have to tell anyone about the anxiety gripping the nation. It’s as if the Grinch came early and came hard. And I don’t have any pat answers or solutions to the problems we are wrestling with. I always remember what I was once told when I found myself in a state of seemingly unending existential dread and anxiety. Basically the maxim goes that you can cry in your cornflakes, but it only will make them soggier. With this in mind, I did what most red-blooded Americans do. I jumped on the internet.
Nostalgia quickly set in. I have been assured this is a terminal issue, especially with history teachers. I wanted to listen to music. Something soothing. Something with soul. Something with a message of hope. I had recently changed my setting on my Gmail account to one with backgrounds of outer space. This tripped the memory fantastic.
As the seasons have changed, my mood has moved with the stars. Saturn and Venus are about to align in their interstellar dance. I joked with my wife on night on our regular constitutionals around the block with our dog, that this was our dance playing out among the heavens. After sixteen years of connubial bliss, no questions were asked about which plant was who in the duet. This got me thinking about Vangelis.
Odd, I know. Things seem to work out this way. But I remember watching Cosmos on PBS, thinking that Carl Sagan was related to our nerdy, Northern neighbor across the street and loving the music. Of course, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, the track was available online for my listening pleasure. And listen I did.
Not only did I listen to that particular track, but many others that evening. It was a beautiful stroll down memory lane, literally. It was blissful and relaxing. I am sure that there is some sort of psychological and/or physiological, and possibly theological, aspect and explanation of this particular phenomenal experience. However, I don’t want to know and do not particularly care for an explanation. I am happy as is.
And that’s when it hit. I was happy. It was wonderful. Looking around, seeing the mess we are currently in, I was still smiling. Why? Because I found some things to be grateful and thankful for. Of course, I am always thankful for my family, my country, and most of all for my Savior. But time and again, little things pop up that add to these staples.
This was one of those times. Amidst all of these calamities and woes, I found that I was thankful for being born and growing up when I did. The 1970s and ‘80s saw their own share of troubles, and we lived through them just fine. I know we will make it through these. But something more tangible and sweeter came out of this dim epiphany. For me, it was more important.
Still listening to the Cosmos Theme by Vangelis and blissfully tripping through my dusty synapses of memories, I realized that some of my teachers were none other than Carl Sagan. Along with the late Dr. Sagan was the indomitable Jacques Cousteau. It was because of Cousteau that I took French as my foreign language in high school. I believe that to be successful on PBS I had to wear a read beanie cap and speak with a French accent. Perhaps, this was part of the reason I was also a swimmer in high school. Many others made the list, such as Mr. Rogers, Jim Henson, and Jane Goodall. While this is not necessarily a complete list, it did show me something or two about being thankful. Thankful for having these individuals share their experiences and wonder with me, even if it was through a television set. Thankful for their inspiration and excitement that led me to living a life of the mind, even if I am a middle school teacher. Thankful, that even in the dark days of the Cold War and the Energy Crisis, they showed me that there was still so much to hope for a dream for…Thank you…
I don’t have to tell anyone about the anxiety gripping the nation. It’s as if the Grinch came early and came hard. And I don’t have any pat answers or solutions to the problems we are wrestling with. I always remember what I was once told when I found myself in a state of seemingly unending existential dread and anxiety. Basically the maxim goes that you can cry in your cornflakes, but it only will make them soggier. With this in mind, I did what most red-blooded Americans do. I jumped on the internet.
Nostalgia quickly set in. I have been assured this is a terminal issue, especially with history teachers. I wanted to listen to music. Something soothing. Something with soul. Something with a message of hope. I had recently changed my setting on my Gmail account to one with backgrounds of outer space. This tripped the memory fantastic.
As the seasons have changed, my mood has moved with the stars. Saturn and Venus are about to align in their interstellar dance. I joked with my wife on night on our regular constitutionals around the block with our dog, that this was our dance playing out among the heavens. After sixteen years of connubial bliss, no questions were asked about which plant was who in the duet. This got me thinking about Vangelis.
Odd, I know. Things seem to work out this way. But I remember watching Cosmos on PBS, thinking that Carl Sagan was related to our nerdy, Northern neighbor across the street and loving the music. Of course, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, the track was available online for my listening pleasure. And listen I did.
Not only did I listen to that particular track, but many others that evening. It was a beautiful stroll down memory lane, literally. It was blissful and relaxing. I am sure that there is some sort of psychological and/or physiological, and possibly theological, aspect and explanation of this particular phenomenal experience. However, I don’t want to know and do not particularly care for an explanation. I am happy as is.
And that’s when it hit. I was happy. It was wonderful. Looking around, seeing the mess we are currently in, I was still smiling. Why? Because I found some things to be grateful and thankful for. Of course, I am always thankful for my family, my country, and most of all for my Savior. But time and again, little things pop up that add to these staples.
This was one of those times. Amidst all of these calamities and woes, I found that I was thankful for being born and growing up when I did. The 1970s and ‘80s saw their own share of troubles, and we lived through them just fine. I know we will make it through these. But something more tangible and sweeter came out of this dim epiphany. For me, it was more important.
Still listening to the Cosmos Theme by Vangelis and blissfully tripping through my dusty synapses of memories, I realized that some of my teachers were none other than Carl Sagan. Along with the late Dr. Sagan was the indomitable Jacques Cousteau. It was because of Cousteau that I took French as my foreign language in high school. I believe that to be successful on PBS I had to wear a read beanie cap and speak with a French accent. Perhaps, this was part of the reason I was also a swimmer in high school. Many others made the list, such as Mr. Rogers, Jim Henson, and Jane Goodall. While this is not necessarily a complete list, it did show me something or two about being thankful. Thankful for having these individuals share their experiences and wonder with me, even if it was through a television set. Thankful for their inspiration and excitement that led me to living a life of the mind, even if I am a middle school teacher. Thankful, that even in the dark days of the Cold War and the Energy Crisis, they showed me that there was still so much to hope for a dream for…Thank you…
Sunday, August 03, 2008
.38 Special
This past school year has been interesting to say the least. After speaking with a few of the veteran experts, I have come to find out that it is actually quite normal. That is, what occurred and my reaction to it. Oddly enough, it coincided with my discovery actually it was my rediscovery of some of my old albums from my teen age years. But, before too much explanation can occur, the scene must be set…
Coming off of a pretty spectacular year that marked my return to public education after a hiatus in Catholic schools…much needed by the way, the sophomore venture did not bode as well. While I literally got to hand pick my schedule…to some extent…It seemed as if the stars were not in alignment or something. Regardless of the reason, it was a horrible year. It was bad enough, that I seriously contemplating r-entering military service. Yes, mustering back into the Army with a full fledged war raging the Middle East. Yep…That’s just how good of a year it was. My principal didn’t help much either.
Anyway, combing through my lost ‘80s albums and blowing dust off of the likes of Bruce Springsteen and Lynrd Skynrd, a little ray of light broke through the clouds. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the technical expertise of my friend and co-worker who just so happened to be the school’s orchestra director. Are you sensing what the next “aha” will be, dear reader? It is indeed true…The possession of a turntable in his classroom added to the adolescent giddiness of listening to these albums. However, undertaking an adventure such as this must be done with the utmost safety. A rigorous schedule was debated upon, set in place, and strictly adhered to during our daily lunch together.
Throughout his years as an orchestra director, my friend had purchased numerous classical albums to share with his students. It makes sense. I, while holding a liberal arts degree from my undergraduate days, was woefully undereducated in a musical sense. Since I like to incorporate as much of the arts into my history classes, my friend agreed to tutor me during our lunches. Of course, the details were left to the sides and most tutorials were in the form of informal conversations over warmed up leftovers while listening to a particular classical masterpiece. Suited me just fine.
Yet, classical was not to be the weekly mainstay for long. Music has always served as some sort of metaphysical balm for me. It just has. Whether it defies explanation for not, I don’t know and really do not care to know. I think too much analysis just might spoil some of the mystery and in the end most of the enjoyment. I was pleased to find out that my friend was a jazz fan. It came about rather serendipitously as he was burning copies of practice discs for the students. He had some Dixie Land and rag time jazz lounging under one of the many piles leaning on his desks.
Soon, Hayden and Bach made way for the Dukes of Dixie Land, Jelly Roll Morton and Scott Joplin. I found, rather bluntly, that tastes in jazz run about as circuitous and random as those in most other musical genres. Imagine my surprise when my friend went on a tirade about Miles Davis and John Coltrane as we were discussing our appreciation of jazz. This brought the discussion to an interesting halt as my next remark was to offer to bring some of my Coltrane and Davis to listen to the next day during lunch. Luckily, my mind caught my mouth, truly a miracle in my experience, and I did not make the offer. Therefore, it did not have to be embarrassingly withdrawn.
Needless to say, our classical consumption varied from week to week and even day to day, especially after Spring Break and the TAKS test. Ugh! Where does the ‘80s southern rock group fit into the picture I am sure you are asking. The answer is simple and direct…Fridays. No, not the chain restaurant rather the day of the week. Fridays were our ‘80s rock days. Of course, we did have a few refugees from the late ‘70s, but there really didn’t need to be a strict entrance policy as far as we were concerned. The only qualifications were round, vinyl and playable. The rest was up to pure chance as to whether the album would be played in its entirety or quickly shuffled off and deftly replaced by another. I suppose it was something akin to our own version of the “Gong Show.”
The Friday that I place the .38 Special album “Tour De Force” and set the needle to it, everything stopped. My blood pressure dropped and I think I smiled at work for the first time in months. It was sheer bliss. Of course the music was, and will always be awesome, but to add the pops and light scratches in the background that it the trademark of all albums was pure rapture. Of course, my friend loved the music as well. Being younger, it was a band that he was not quite as familiar with. It was now my turn to educate him. Ah, yes…the wonders of Southern rock in all of its manifestations. I can almost smell the magnolias with the moss hanging from their boughs. Well…enough of that, for now.
The album would be a mainstay of our Friday repertoire. Perhaps it was the following incident that made this group and their wonderful album suspect with our principal. After first introducing my friend to this newfound wonder from the ‘80s, only getting to listen to one side completely, the bell that ended lunch rang. Entering the crowded hallway amongst the students and teachers, my friend remarked at how he liked the album and wanted me to bring it back next week. I let out a laugh and remarked that sometimes all you need is a .38 Special. Little did I know that the principal was in ear-shot. I quickly assured her that no actual firearms were used during lunch. In fact, I was glad I had the album in hand to prove my innocence. However, this did not squelch the playing of .38 Special or any other ‘80s music during lunch. By the time the school year was winding down, our lunches were mainly filled with Dixie Land jazz and album rock. Oh, well…so much for education in the classical sense. Oddly enough, we did hit a few of the state standards in music education for those students who were lucky enough to be in the room during lunch with our albums spinning. I doubt seriously, however, any DJ gigs will be coming our way. It better…most parties go past my bedtime anyway.
Coming off of a pretty spectacular year that marked my return to public education after a hiatus in Catholic schools…much needed by the way, the sophomore venture did not bode as well. While I literally got to hand pick my schedule…to some extent…It seemed as if the stars were not in alignment or something. Regardless of the reason, it was a horrible year. It was bad enough, that I seriously contemplating r-entering military service. Yes, mustering back into the Army with a full fledged war raging the Middle East. Yep…That’s just how good of a year it was. My principal didn’t help much either.
Anyway, combing through my lost ‘80s albums and blowing dust off of the likes of Bruce Springsteen and Lynrd Skynrd, a little ray of light broke through the clouds. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the technical expertise of my friend and co-worker who just so happened to be the school’s orchestra director. Are you sensing what the next “aha” will be, dear reader? It is indeed true…The possession of a turntable in his classroom added to the adolescent giddiness of listening to these albums. However, undertaking an adventure such as this must be done with the utmost safety. A rigorous schedule was debated upon, set in place, and strictly adhered to during our daily lunch together.
Throughout his years as an orchestra director, my friend had purchased numerous classical albums to share with his students. It makes sense. I, while holding a liberal arts degree from my undergraduate days, was woefully undereducated in a musical sense. Since I like to incorporate as much of the arts into my history classes, my friend agreed to tutor me during our lunches. Of course, the details were left to the sides and most tutorials were in the form of informal conversations over warmed up leftovers while listening to a particular classical masterpiece. Suited me just fine.
Yet, classical was not to be the weekly mainstay for long. Music has always served as some sort of metaphysical balm for me. It just has. Whether it defies explanation for not, I don’t know and really do not care to know. I think too much analysis just might spoil some of the mystery and in the end most of the enjoyment. I was pleased to find out that my friend was a jazz fan. It came about rather serendipitously as he was burning copies of practice discs for the students. He had some Dixie Land and rag time jazz lounging under one of the many piles leaning on his desks.
Soon, Hayden and Bach made way for the Dukes of Dixie Land, Jelly Roll Morton and Scott Joplin. I found, rather bluntly, that tastes in jazz run about as circuitous and random as those in most other musical genres. Imagine my surprise when my friend went on a tirade about Miles Davis and John Coltrane as we were discussing our appreciation of jazz. This brought the discussion to an interesting halt as my next remark was to offer to bring some of my Coltrane and Davis to listen to the next day during lunch. Luckily, my mind caught my mouth, truly a miracle in my experience, and I did not make the offer. Therefore, it did not have to be embarrassingly withdrawn.
Needless to say, our classical consumption varied from week to week and even day to day, especially after Spring Break and the TAKS test. Ugh! Where does the ‘80s southern rock group fit into the picture I am sure you are asking. The answer is simple and direct…Fridays. No, not the chain restaurant rather the day of the week. Fridays were our ‘80s rock days. Of course, we did have a few refugees from the late ‘70s, but there really didn’t need to be a strict entrance policy as far as we were concerned. The only qualifications were round, vinyl and playable. The rest was up to pure chance as to whether the album would be played in its entirety or quickly shuffled off and deftly replaced by another. I suppose it was something akin to our own version of the “Gong Show.”
The Friday that I place the .38 Special album “Tour De Force” and set the needle to it, everything stopped. My blood pressure dropped and I think I smiled at work for the first time in months. It was sheer bliss. Of course the music was, and will always be awesome, but to add the pops and light scratches in the background that it the trademark of all albums was pure rapture. Of course, my friend loved the music as well. Being younger, it was a band that he was not quite as familiar with. It was now my turn to educate him. Ah, yes…the wonders of Southern rock in all of its manifestations. I can almost smell the magnolias with the moss hanging from their boughs. Well…enough of that, for now.
The album would be a mainstay of our Friday repertoire. Perhaps it was the following incident that made this group and their wonderful album suspect with our principal. After first introducing my friend to this newfound wonder from the ‘80s, only getting to listen to one side completely, the bell that ended lunch rang. Entering the crowded hallway amongst the students and teachers, my friend remarked at how he liked the album and wanted me to bring it back next week. I let out a laugh and remarked that sometimes all you need is a .38 Special. Little did I know that the principal was in ear-shot. I quickly assured her that no actual firearms were used during lunch. In fact, I was glad I had the album in hand to prove my innocence. However, this did not squelch the playing of .38 Special or any other ‘80s music during lunch. By the time the school year was winding down, our lunches were mainly filled with Dixie Land jazz and album rock. Oh, well…so much for education in the classical sense. Oddly enough, we did hit a few of the state standards in music education for those students who were lucky enough to be in the room during lunch with our albums spinning. I doubt seriously, however, any DJ gigs will be coming our way. It better…most parties go past my bedtime anyway.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Santa Fe Sojourn
Three days I have been here in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Three days in the land of enchantment, according to the state issued license plates. Three mornings filled with crisp air hikes surrounded by high desert majesty. Three evenings painted by thunder, lightening and glorious rain. For a Texan, this is truly a blessing in mid-July. However, today has been a little different.
This afternoon, the planned expedition was to Santa Fe, the capitol since the 1600s of this wonderful place. I was anxious and excited all during the bus ride. I tried to fool myself with reading a book about Kit Carson and his hand in making New Mexico and the region what it is today. Yet, before these unfounded and unnamable apprehensions could seriously take hold of me, we arrived right off of the old town plaza. The bus pulled in across the street from St. Francis Cathedral and we were all admonished about the seven o’clock departure time with stories of people left behind and the expensive cab fare to return to Montezuma.
The big blue desert sky and streets lined with adobe walls made me as giddy as a kid a Christmas. I suppose in an off-hand sort of way, it was. And the present…and entire afternoon free. Free to roam. Free to photograph. Free to mingle. And to some extent, free to spend. I have always believes, since my first visit to the desert that it is something akin to a spiritual home for me. Luckily, my wife feels the same way. Only the exact latitude differs in our experience.
This last part proved to be something of a sticking point throughout my afternoon sojourn. Caught up in the waves of tourism and commercialism that keeps this town viable, an impending sense of frustration lurked in the cob-webbed corners of my mind. An acidic surge of resentment for a cheapened experience was percolating in the pit of my stomach. How dare something this awesome be degraded for a few bucks. The thoughts fumed exponentially with the growing numbers of other tourists I had to contend with. It was reminiscent of my trip to Disney World. Ugh! Thankfully, with a few deep breaths and some divine redirection, the churning subsided.
Collecting my thoughts at the twilight of this little adventure I couldn’t help but to laugh at myself. This is often the case. Upon further reflection it seems as for the better part of the afternoon my imagination readily outpaced my actual strides through the city. This, however, is not at all uncommon. I am positive that this is some sort of terminal condition. But, I digress.
As I walked through the city streets…isn’t that a line for a song?...of Santa Fe, taking in all of its culture and commerce, my mind ran away with the situation. I began to imagine myself as one of those trendy, haute travel show hosts on cable television. Even more far-fetched, I almost had myself convinced. Luckily I stopped before I launched into a full-fledged monologue. I fooled myself, however, in that I had succeeded in going local. Hah! One look at some of the pictures and I had “tourist” stamped boldly across my forehead. One glance at my reflection in one of numerous shop windows or the shadow I cast upon the sidewalk quickly dispelled that foggy myth. There was no way of getting around the stone cold fact. I might as well embrace it.
But when did this moment of clarity, this mountain top enlightenment, this radical paradigm shift actually occur? Not that precise or otherwise moment in time is vital or necessary. For the sake of discussion, let’s place it at dinner. I enjoyed it immensely. Choosing to dine early out of an ad hoc mixture of cheap tourist boredom and a desire to beat the regular dinner rush, I found the restaurant recommended by one of my classmates…Thank you, Pete! During the course of consuming a monster bowl of fresh green chile stew with fresh tortillas and some local beer, my perspective an attitude seemed to shift…slightly. I can assure you the well-crafted beer had little to do with it due to the 5.5% state law in New Mexico. However, it did complement the stew wonderfully. I am sure, however, that it had more to do with the excellent cooking and the friendly waitress who was a Texas refugee herself. Without too much sappy embarrassment, I was able to lick my homesick wound and move on.
Of course, the actual time could have possibly begun even before dinner. Weaving my way through the throngs of fellow tourists in the labyrinth of shops, and painfully noticeable lack of public restrooms, I made my way serendipitously to a hidden gem. It was a neatly tucked away bookstore. I am a bookman. You finish the equation. However, I was pleased to find out in conversation with the proprietor that I was in the midst of the largest Spanish-language bookstore in North America. Noting some suspicion, he quickly explained what used to be the largest in New York City had to close due to high overhead. To answer the next question…Yes, he also stocked a seemingly commiserate amount of English language titles as well. I walked out with what I considered a local treasure for a title. I like to equate it with the lovely silver a turquoise jewelry I purchased from local artisans. It was due, of course, wholly to the knowledgeable proprietor who matched my desires with his stock. This is the side of retail that is rarely seen and always enjoyed.
Similarly, I repeated the experience in another bookstore well off the tourists’ trodden path. A few blocks down from the bustling square, I literally stumbled into a rare and used bookstore that was nothing more than a partially converted house. Partially, because in the kitchen not only could you find art and architecture books but a small stove, sink and refrigerator to boot. It was another veritable treasure trove igniting such greed that I honestly began questioning the purchase of some beautifully hand-crafted turquoise earrings I bought for my wife…I would never admit it, though… My elation was elevated by the larges selection of regional titles. Added to this was a little soothing balm when in this section the proprietor included books about Texas as well. Broke, I was unable to walk away with any purchases, even though I was assured that all major credit cards were happily accepted. But, I am happy to say that I did not leave empty handed. I did procure a business card and shipping is done for a nominal fee. As you read this, I am already compiling a list of necessary titles.
But it wasn’t just books that left a great impression on me in Santa Fe. Sure, all of the wonderful architecture and artistry were there as well. Hell, even seeing the place where Oppenheimer picked up his mail at 109 Palace East vetted well into my consciousness as much as the cathedral and the two older churches of Loreto and San Miguel. But it was absent-mindedly strolling in to a “fine gentleman’s clothing” shop that also proved prescient. While perusing the offerings, which I can add I could not begin to afford, I struck up a conversation with the salesman. Low key and relaxed, I liked him immediately. We spoke of a myriad of subjects from gangster movies to beer and the Van Morrison song playing on the stereo in the store. It was a pleasant interlude. As I made my way out of the store’s courtyard, the salesman had to unlock the gate. I apologized for keeping him late and not purchasing anything. The relaxed attitude, I found, was genuine to the core. He shook my hand and thanked me for sharing a good watering hole for the next time he visited his cousin in Austin. It may have been retail pretense, but I doubt it.
Afterwards, I settled on the drying park bench comfortable and content. It was then that I came to realize something that was profound…at least for a Wednesday evening. In the dueling strains between the teen-aged mariachi band behind me and the Latin jazz quartet facing me from the other side of the square, I came to realize that I had not really gone local. Rather, the locals, in their own unassuming ways allowed me to respectfully be who I am…a Texan. I felt a little ashamed that I stuck out as much as I did. However, reflecting upon this further during the hour long bus trip back to Montezuma, I came to understand that Santa Fe and its inhabitants have not changed much since its earliest inception with the conquistadors and missionaries. It was a major hub on the Santa Fe trail…duh…but more importantly, it was a major trading post. People from Mexico, the United States and many other territories rolled through this place. I was just a member of the latest band to come through.
This afternoon, the planned expedition was to Santa Fe, the capitol since the 1600s of this wonderful place. I was anxious and excited all during the bus ride. I tried to fool myself with reading a book about Kit Carson and his hand in making New Mexico and the region what it is today. Yet, before these unfounded and unnamable apprehensions could seriously take hold of me, we arrived right off of the old town plaza. The bus pulled in across the street from St. Francis Cathedral and we were all admonished about the seven o’clock departure time with stories of people left behind and the expensive cab fare to return to Montezuma.
The big blue desert sky and streets lined with adobe walls made me as giddy as a kid a Christmas. I suppose in an off-hand sort of way, it was. And the present…and entire afternoon free. Free to roam. Free to photograph. Free to mingle. And to some extent, free to spend. I have always believes, since my first visit to the desert that it is something akin to a spiritual home for me. Luckily, my wife feels the same way. Only the exact latitude differs in our experience.
This last part proved to be something of a sticking point throughout my afternoon sojourn. Caught up in the waves of tourism and commercialism that keeps this town viable, an impending sense of frustration lurked in the cob-webbed corners of my mind. An acidic surge of resentment for a cheapened experience was percolating in the pit of my stomach. How dare something this awesome be degraded for a few bucks. The thoughts fumed exponentially with the growing numbers of other tourists I had to contend with. It was reminiscent of my trip to Disney World. Ugh! Thankfully, with a few deep breaths and some divine redirection, the churning subsided.
Collecting my thoughts at the twilight of this little adventure I couldn’t help but to laugh at myself. This is often the case. Upon further reflection it seems as for the better part of the afternoon my imagination readily outpaced my actual strides through the city. This, however, is not at all uncommon. I am positive that this is some sort of terminal condition. But, I digress.
As I walked through the city streets…isn’t that a line for a song?...of Santa Fe, taking in all of its culture and commerce, my mind ran away with the situation. I began to imagine myself as one of those trendy, haute travel show hosts on cable television. Even more far-fetched, I almost had myself convinced. Luckily I stopped before I launched into a full-fledged monologue. I fooled myself, however, in that I had succeeded in going local. Hah! One look at some of the pictures and I had “tourist” stamped boldly across my forehead. One glance at my reflection in one of numerous shop windows or the shadow I cast upon the sidewalk quickly dispelled that foggy myth. There was no way of getting around the stone cold fact. I might as well embrace it.
But when did this moment of clarity, this mountain top enlightenment, this radical paradigm shift actually occur? Not that precise or otherwise moment in time is vital or necessary. For the sake of discussion, let’s place it at dinner. I enjoyed it immensely. Choosing to dine early out of an ad hoc mixture of cheap tourist boredom and a desire to beat the regular dinner rush, I found the restaurant recommended by one of my classmates…Thank you, Pete! During the course of consuming a monster bowl of fresh green chile stew with fresh tortillas and some local beer, my perspective an attitude seemed to shift…slightly. I can assure you the well-crafted beer had little to do with it due to the 5.5% state law in New Mexico. However, it did complement the stew wonderfully. I am sure, however, that it had more to do with the excellent cooking and the friendly waitress who was a Texas refugee herself. Without too much sappy embarrassment, I was able to lick my homesick wound and move on.
Of course, the actual time could have possibly begun even before dinner. Weaving my way through the throngs of fellow tourists in the labyrinth of shops, and painfully noticeable lack of public restrooms, I made my way serendipitously to a hidden gem. It was a neatly tucked away bookstore. I am a bookman. You finish the equation. However, I was pleased to find out in conversation with the proprietor that I was in the midst of the largest Spanish-language bookstore in North America. Noting some suspicion, he quickly explained what used to be the largest in New York City had to close due to high overhead. To answer the next question…Yes, he also stocked a seemingly commiserate amount of English language titles as well. I walked out with what I considered a local treasure for a title. I like to equate it with the lovely silver a turquoise jewelry I purchased from local artisans. It was due, of course, wholly to the knowledgeable proprietor who matched my desires with his stock. This is the side of retail that is rarely seen and always enjoyed.
Similarly, I repeated the experience in another bookstore well off the tourists’ trodden path. A few blocks down from the bustling square, I literally stumbled into a rare and used bookstore that was nothing more than a partially converted house. Partially, because in the kitchen not only could you find art and architecture books but a small stove, sink and refrigerator to boot. It was another veritable treasure trove igniting such greed that I honestly began questioning the purchase of some beautifully hand-crafted turquoise earrings I bought for my wife…I would never admit it, though… My elation was elevated by the larges selection of regional titles. Added to this was a little soothing balm when in this section the proprietor included books about Texas as well. Broke, I was unable to walk away with any purchases, even though I was assured that all major credit cards were happily accepted. But, I am happy to say that I did not leave empty handed. I did procure a business card and shipping is done for a nominal fee. As you read this, I am already compiling a list of necessary titles.
But it wasn’t just books that left a great impression on me in Santa Fe. Sure, all of the wonderful architecture and artistry were there as well. Hell, even seeing the place where Oppenheimer picked up his mail at 109 Palace East vetted well into my consciousness as much as the cathedral and the two older churches of Loreto and San Miguel. But it was absent-mindedly strolling in to a “fine gentleman’s clothing” shop that also proved prescient. While perusing the offerings, which I can add I could not begin to afford, I struck up a conversation with the salesman. Low key and relaxed, I liked him immediately. We spoke of a myriad of subjects from gangster movies to beer and the Van Morrison song playing on the stereo in the store. It was a pleasant interlude. As I made my way out of the store’s courtyard, the salesman had to unlock the gate. I apologized for keeping him late and not purchasing anything. The relaxed attitude, I found, was genuine to the core. He shook my hand and thanked me for sharing a good watering hole for the next time he visited his cousin in Austin. It may have been retail pretense, but I doubt it.
Afterwards, I settled on the drying park bench comfortable and content. It was then that I came to realize something that was profound…at least for a Wednesday evening. In the dueling strains between the teen-aged mariachi band behind me and the Latin jazz quartet facing me from the other side of the square, I came to realize that I had not really gone local. Rather, the locals, in their own unassuming ways allowed me to respectfully be who I am…a Texan. I felt a little ashamed that I stuck out as much as I did. However, reflecting upon this further during the hour long bus trip back to Montezuma, I came to understand that Santa Fe and its inhabitants have not changed much since its earliest inception with the conquistadors and missionaries. It was a major hub on the Santa Fe trail…duh…but more importantly, it was a major trading post. People from Mexico, the United States and many other territories rolled through this place. I was just a member of the latest band to come through.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Graph Paper
Being a teacher allows for a unique perspective in retrospect. It allows for some questions to be answered and the ability to continue learning about yourself and the world at large. This is one such incident.
Not too terribly long ago I came into possession of a spiral filled with graph paper. I am sure it is not an unfamiliar aspect of education. Quadrille lined in a light blue ink, three-hole punched, and wire bound in all of its mysterious beauty. Graph paper is absolutely transfixing. Perhaps it is just me, being a teacher and all. I must admit to being a little fixated with office supplies. Besides a bookstore, an office supply store is my favorite place to browse and shop. So it comes as no surprise that this abandoned spiral of pristine graph paper caught my eye, lying there in the deserted hall after a school day. It was too much to pass up.
I snatched it from the once magnificent linoleum floor. It was mine. A simple act brought about a little joy at the end of a tiring day of teaching. It was a proverbial breath of fresh air, putting a little lilt in my step that afternoon. For just a little while, there was a bit more certainty and clarity in my world. Reflecting upon the situation, I cannot explain or define the reason, and I do not want to. It was just enough to experience the feeling.
Of course, the adventure did not end there. A larger question loomed over the horizon. Lurking in the corners and shadows where we must look if we are to truly experience life. My revelry was curbed with the gnawing question of what to do with this newly found treasure. What was I to do with it? Perhaps it is my blue collar blood that everything needs to have a purpose. It is more than just existence. One must have a calling or job to do in this life. The same sentiment fell upon inanimate objects such as this orphaned spiral.
At the time, I was taking some graduate courses. It was inevitable that the thought of using this spiral as my notebook for these courses would come about. It just seemed right, at the time. And it was. It served my educational purposes well…at least until the end of the semester. Of course, the spiral did not even make to being partially, or even half filled with notes, outlines, and rough drafts of responses. Technology is to blame. I have learned the craft of composing on a computer.
However, I still hold strong to pen and paper writing...
Lately, I have tried to pick the spiral back up and utilize it as a sort of journal. Its pedestrian appearance makes it ideal for composing at staff meetings and grade-level conferences. I like to think of it as a form of professional camouflage. It works quite nice, especially in the educational world. More on that another time.
A little history…Like most kids, graph paper beguiled me. It was the utmost enchanting thing to write on once college ruled notebook paper lost in brilliance. There was just something mysterious and enticing about all of those precisely measured out lines. They were begging to be written on, traced over, and asking to hold answers to mathematical problems and scientific inquiries. It was manly to be seen writing on graph paper. Even if it was pulpy science fiction and sappy poetry, at least it was on graph paper. Growing up in the oil fields of East Texas during the ‘80s, this was the parchment of possibility. Engineering was on the minds and mouths of most young boys who were not stellar athletes or stoners.
I suppose I am a victim of my own Romanticism. I cannot look upon a piece of graph paper without it igniting a sense of urgent possibility. A subconscious command to seize it and write comes over me. I suppose there are worse inclinations to be afflicted with. Excavating this particular spiral from one of my desk drawers, I was once again filled with the same expectations that I had when I first picked it up in the hallway of my school.
Fluttering past the pages of notes and rough draft, I quickly came to the first available blank page. And I stared at it. I could think of nothing to write…nothing! At first I thought is was a simple case of writer’s block, a constipated imagination. I was wrong. Something had happened. At first, I didn’t know what it was. While this does not sound overly disconcerting, it was.
Think of a cook or chef looking at fresh produce and meat without being able to conjure up a recipe much less a meal. Or, picture a lifelong fisherman picking up a favorite rod and reel and not get any type of longing for the lake. This was the dilemma I was right in the midst of. It was horrible. Nothing came, and it was debilitatingly painful.
I didn’t know what to do. What happened was a knee-jerk reaction. I quickly closed the spiral and stared at its faded yellow cover in shock. “How could this happen,” I thought. Not that I am immune to writer’s block, but this was something more. It was the paper itself.
The perfectly measured and printed blue, quadrille lined pages were mocking me. I could not write anything upon them. They were just too confining. It was like I could not breathe, much less create. Perhaps this was some sort of existential anxiety attack. I don’t know. Nonetheless, I quickly closed and reshelved the spiral in my office bookcase where it currently resides.
Now, I am not totally sure, but sometimes I feel as if the spiral of graph paper is lodged comfortably in my bookcase fiendishly mocking me. Almost like a nagging failure palpitating like the haunting heart in the short story by Poe. I have asked my family and they have only ended up questioning my sanity or lack thereof. But I swear I can feel it staring at me sometimes, especially when I am at the computer trying to compose a piece of writing…any writing…and laughing.
Needless to say, the spiral still holds a place on my bookshelves. And perhaps one day I will venture into its pages again with more wisdom and confidence that when I originally pulled open its covers. Then again, maybe I won’t. This incident may be one of those mile markers upon the road of life that announces when you have reached a certain stage in life.
Having grown a little older, and hopefully a little wiser, the spiral may not hold as much significance in the future. Perhaps it is something akin to fist fighting. At least for my generation, before the rampant litigation, it was a regular past time for young males. It was a way of defending your honor, friends, and family name, or just proving you had the moxie and wherewithal to brag and swagger just a little. At some point in most men’s lives you outgrow this endeavor. The urge and possibly the ability to fight have been channeled, thankfully, into other activities. Pretty soon, you just don’t care. Some day the need to compose in a graph paper spiral may do the same…just fade away.
Not too terribly long ago I came into possession of a spiral filled with graph paper. I am sure it is not an unfamiliar aspect of education. Quadrille lined in a light blue ink, three-hole punched, and wire bound in all of its mysterious beauty. Graph paper is absolutely transfixing. Perhaps it is just me, being a teacher and all. I must admit to being a little fixated with office supplies. Besides a bookstore, an office supply store is my favorite place to browse and shop. So it comes as no surprise that this abandoned spiral of pristine graph paper caught my eye, lying there in the deserted hall after a school day. It was too much to pass up.
I snatched it from the once magnificent linoleum floor. It was mine. A simple act brought about a little joy at the end of a tiring day of teaching. It was a proverbial breath of fresh air, putting a little lilt in my step that afternoon. For just a little while, there was a bit more certainty and clarity in my world. Reflecting upon the situation, I cannot explain or define the reason, and I do not want to. It was just enough to experience the feeling.
Of course, the adventure did not end there. A larger question loomed over the horizon. Lurking in the corners and shadows where we must look if we are to truly experience life. My revelry was curbed with the gnawing question of what to do with this newly found treasure. What was I to do with it? Perhaps it is my blue collar blood that everything needs to have a purpose. It is more than just existence. One must have a calling or job to do in this life. The same sentiment fell upon inanimate objects such as this orphaned spiral.
At the time, I was taking some graduate courses. It was inevitable that the thought of using this spiral as my notebook for these courses would come about. It just seemed right, at the time. And it was. It served my educational purposes well…at least until the end of the semester. Of course, the spiral did not even make to being partially, or even half filled with notes, outlines, and rough drafts of responses. Technology is to blame. I have learned the craft of composing on a computer.
However, I still hold strong to pen and paper writing...
Lately, I have tried to pick the spiral back up and utilize it as a sort of journal. Its pedestrian appearance makes it ideal for composing at staff meetings and grade-level conferences. I like to think of it as a form of professional camouflage. It works quite nice, especially in the educational world. More on that another time.
A little history…Like most kids, graph paper beguiled me. It was the utmost enchanting thing to write on once college ruled notebook paper lost in brilliance. There was just something mysterious and enticing about all of those precisely measured out lines. They were begging to be written on, traced over, and asking to hold answers to mathematical problems and scientific inquiries. It was manly to be seen writing on graph paper. Even if it was pulpy science fiction and sappy poetry, at least it was on graph paper. Growing up in the oil fields of East Texas during the ‘80s, this was the parchment of possibility. Engineering was on the minds and mouths of most young boys who were not stellar athletes or stoners.
I suppose I am a victim of my own Romanticism. I cannot look upon a piece of graph paper without it igniting a sense of urgent possibility. A subconscious command to seize it and write comes over me. I suppose there are worse inclinations to be afflicted with. Excavating this particular spiral from one of my desk drawers, I was once again filled with the same expectations that I had when I first picked it up in the hallway of my school.
Fluttering past the pages of notes and rough draft, I quickly came to the first available blank page. And I stared at it. I could think of nothing to write…nothing! At first I thought is was a simple case of writer’s block, a constipated imagination. I was wrong. Something had happened. At first, I didn’t know what it was. While this does not sound overly disconcerting, it was.
Think of a cook or chef looking at fresh produce and meat without being able to conjure up a recipe much less a meal. Or, picture a lifelong fisherman picking up a favorite rod and reel and not get any type of longing for the lake. This was the dilemma I was right in the midst of. It was horrible. Nothing came, and it was debilitatingly painful.
I didn’t know what to do. What happened was a knee-jerk reaction. I quickly closed the spiral and stared at its faded yellow cover in shock. “How could this happen,” I thought. Not that I am immune to writer’s block, but this was something more. It was the paper itself.
The perfectly measured and printed blue, quadrille lined pages were mocking me. I could not write anything upon them. They were just too confining. It was like I could not breathe, much less create. Perhaps this was some sort of existential anxiety attack. I don’t know. Nonetheless, I quickly closed and reshelved the spiral in my office bookcase where it currently resides.
Now, I am not totally sure, but sometimes I feel as if the spiral of graph paper is lodged comfortably in my bookcase fiendishly mocking me. Almost like a nagging failure palpitating like the haunting heart in the short story by Poe. I have asked my family and they have only ended up questioning my sanity or lack thereof. But I swear I can feel it staring at me sometimes, especially when I am at the computer trying to compose a piece of writing…any writing…and laughing.
Needless to say, the spiral still holds a place on my bookshelves. And perhaps one day I will venture into its pages again with more wisdom and confidence that when I originally pulled open its covers. Then again, maybe I won’t. This incident may be one of those mile markers upon the road of life that announces when you have reached a certain stage in life.
Having grown a little older, and hopefully a little wiser, the spiral may not hold as much significance in the future. Perhaps it is something akin to fist fighting. At least for my generation, before the rampant litigation, it was a regular past time for young males. It was a way of defending your honor, friends, and family name, or just proving you had the moxie and wherewithal to brag and swagger just a little. At some point in most men’s lives you outgrow this endeavor. The urge and possibly the ability to fight have been channeled, thankfully, into other activities. Pretty soon, you just don’t care. Some day the need to compose in a graph paper spiral may do the same…just fade away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)