Three men in a doctor's office

Can he see me today?

Yes, Mark, but it will be a little while.

Ok, he says with voice cracking. I’ll just sit down I guess.

***

Hey, you ok? says the man already waiting

Jussst real d-down, depressed.

I know what you mean. I’ve been depressed for seven years.

24 years for me.

I’m on Clanapin, Paxil--anti-depressants—Lithium for the mania and one other.

Really? Does it work?

Yeah, especially the Clanapin and Paxil together.

I’m going to tell my doc to put me on those two. I-I just don’t like the side-effects. They make me tired and I get limp dick.

Yeah, they all give me limp dick, goes with the territory.

***

How much longer is the doctor going to be?

Quite awhile; he’s booked.

Well, I gotta go now so I will come back. He gets up and goes out the door, passing Mark in silence.

***

Mark begins to tremble. He fumbles with his hat, looking straight down at the floor. He convulses slightly while groaning.

He gets up, hunched over, approaching the desk. It seems he may crumple into a ball and disappear.

Mark, are you ok? Do you want to come back in a room?

He begins weeping, his shoulders heaving.

The door opens and he’s gone.

***

I finally open up the book I brought along and try to begin Rosaldo’s “Grief and a Headhunter’s Rage”:

“If you ask an older Ilongot man of northern Luzon, Philippines, why he cuts off the human heads, his answer is brief, and one on which no anthropologist can readily elaborate: He says that rage, born of grief, impels him to kill his fellow human beings.”

I should really blog something serious...

It's been like a freakin stupid month and my last post wasn't anything to write home about--but I just can't. I mean I'm tired and I have to get ready for my 7am class tomorrow and, well, I don't have anything serious to say. Ok, that's not true. I have a lot of serious things to say, but when I start composing a post in my head it sounds dreadful, dull, and downright depressing.

For example I could say something about family trips, how they impact children, create memories...I can't, it's too painful because I'd have to mention that our four day camping trip to Bear Lake was cut to a one nighter, a night filled with scooping up barf out of...ok I won't go there.

Or I could say something about the whole God/god/gawd question I've been rolling around in my noggin. Hell, going to hell I'll bet, it's just a muddled mess in my head. Someday I need to write more about this, maybe after I finish the Dawkin's book or maybe after I become a practicing Buddhist, because god knows I can't discuss it with anyone I know. Either they don't understand my angst because they've never really believed in God or they would take my criticism of "God" so personal that our relationship would never be the same...ok, ok I'm not going write about this either.

I could also, and I'm quite tempted, write about my looming 20th high fucking school reunion. Of course the dropped F bomb already indicates that this topic is too raw for me to reflect on. Talk about depressing: I was forwarded the address to the in-process class of 87 (I won't mention the school in case my blog would turn up on some past high school acquaintance's Google search nostalgically tooling around for pre-reunion gossip) website. Oh my gawd I was depressed, Holden Caulfield like depressed, when I read through the little statements people had posted about their lives. Some mentioned all the great amazing things they've done with their lives; others revealed things they should only be sharing with a loved one (and we ain't your fuckin' loved ones! It's been 20 years!!!). Obviously I can't write about all this--too painful and clearly I'm being way too hard on these, I'm sure, lovely people from the past. Not too mention I'm an insincere bastard since I've been checking for updated bios two or three times a day--I have issues. I really do hope they spend some quality time together without me.

Well, since there's nothing to write about I'll just stop myself right now.

Summer Movies and Books

I'm kind of in between semesters except for a few hrs in the writing center and a number of projects I should finish before summer semester in a week and half. Having this extra time I've endulged in several movies and finally gotten around to a few of the books stacked on my desk and end table.

Wife and I watched Shut up and sing about the Dixie Chicks (well really the lead singer, Natalie Maines) "controversial" statements about being embarrassed that Bush was also from Texas. Wife and I really enjoyed the film and our respect for the Chicks grew--only slight disagreement was when I said, in earshot of a kid or two, in defense of Natalie's use of the F-word: "I think she is quite sexy when she uses the F-word." By which, I quickly added, I mean every time she used it in the film she was highlighting her tenacity in fighting against Bush, the war, and the shalacking they were taking by country music fans and radio stations. I think women can be sexy when they are tough--that was my point. Next time I might wait till said children are in bed to offer such profound insights into the F-word.

I just finished The Good Shepherd and I'm going to go out on a limb, even though I don't have a carefully crafted argument to support my claim: TGS should have gotten several nominations, one for best actor, Matt Damon, and one for best picture/director (it only got best art F.... direction! I thought it was genius but it seems understated, low key, subtle movies/
performances often get overlooked unless they are of the Merchant-Ivory variety. The film continues to float around in my head, especially Damon's character which was skillfully portrayed with nuance and reservation.

Oldest son and I finally watched Independence Day (certainly a fun popcorn movie as one review put it) and Pan's Labrynth (after hearing about it during the Oscars). Pan's was a wonderful, deliciously dark fantasy mixed with realism. A few gratuitous violent scenes which we fast-forwarded but the rest was spot on. I really appreciated how the film works both as a "real" (like this happened) fantasy/fairy tale and as a realistic psychological display of a child's struggle to deal with a the wicked (and very evil) step-father.

I'm reading both The Spiral Staircase: My Climb out of darkness by Karen Armstrong and The God Delusion by the infamous Richard Dawkins. I'm not as far in the Dawkin's book as it doesn't have an engaging narrative like Armstrong's story of her recovery from seven years in a convent, but still the parallels are stricking. Armstrong, renowned religious scholar, retells her painful journey back to "regular" life, working through anxiety attacks, dangerous amnesiac episodes, and a bout with anorexia. Not only does she fail as a nun, she then fails her Oxford dissertation, thought a very controversial failure, after years of work. Somehow, as I kind of know how things will turn out, she makes it through all this to become a self-sponsored scholar, writing definitive works on all of the major relgions. Amazingly, on some level (not as "believer"), she works through the hate and dismissal of religion and turns it into her career. I can't wait to see how exactly she does this and compare it side by side with Dawkin's absolute refusal to see religion as anything but deception.

Why I may rip off my ears and gash out my eyes if anyone mentions yet again how much they LOVE High School Musical (HSM)

1. Because it’s NOT (you stupid executive bastards) about tolerance and helping kids, it’s about making millions of dollars

2. Because the “nerds” in the film like Gabriela (Vanessa Hudgens) are stunningly beautiful, thus solidifying the exact opposite of what the film portends

3. Because my 12 year old son’s teacher decided to practice and then put on parts of the musical INSTEAD of having P.E. for the entire year (can you imagine how pissed my son has been for 9 months?)

4. Because songs meant to change cliquish behavior, digging at kids who “stick to the stuff [they] know…stick to the status quo” do NOT work even though every school, church, and community group are running like wild hogs to put on some version of HSM in order to inculcate positive values

5. Because the very act of talking about, trying out for (one high school had more students try out for this play than any in history), and *liking* HSM creates an in-group mentality (“You didn’t like HSM??!!”) which contradicts the so-called message of HSM

6. Because the Ryan and Sharpay are…isn’t anyone else grossed out?...brother and sister!! Can you say incest!

7. Because the people who benefit the most from HSM success are Disney executives—they even charge public schools a fee if they perform the play

8. Because my family (including sister and parents) were subjected to watching my son grit his teeth through 20 minutes of HSM skits after his teacher informed the audience that there had been problems (i.e. if you can believe it, they hammed it up) with the earlier performance (my son was one of the main culprits) and they should not be surprised if she had to walk onto the stage in order to remove any students who were being offensive

9. Because if any number of family members and friends read this, including my own daughter, they will never forgive me for criticizing the Holy of Holiest High School Musical.

10. Because, even though I recognize everything listed in 1 thru 9, I still have to admit, son of a bitch, that I inevitably catch myself tapping my foot and replaying the music in my head

A photo retelling of SF

Oldest son in salty muck outside of Wendover

Youngest son drugged up on video games and movies

***

Who said there's nothing between Winnemucca and Reno? Certainly not Chief Thunder maker of Thunder Mountain

(for more info see http://www.thundermountainmonument.com/index.htm)

***

About 30 hrs of this

***

I love REDWOOD TREES

***

and THESE...

***

And particularly THESE sturdily holding me even with burnt out trunks

***

And THESE which we will Snapfish into a small poster print which Mormon friends and neighbors will then mistake for Joseph Smith's sacred grove--what blasphemy

***

Big bubbles and beautiful faces at the Exploratorium

***

Familiar things in places strange and far away

***

"cool" brother with bubbly sis

***

The memories as my father-in-law would say turn sweeter each day.

Returning to Chinatown

Sometime ago I visited San Francisco for a conference. We ditched the conference one day, driving to Muir woods and Point Reyes (lighthouse). Walking through the redwoods, thinking how I could take my kids to Chinatown and on the cable cars, I knew I'd return with my kids once they were grown. Almost a decade later, here we are resting in our hotel room on Lombard street about 1/2 a mile from Fisherman's Wharf and three blocks from the cable car line after three days of SF fun.

Unfortunately we failed to bring the little digital camera cord which would allow me to upload some SF images. I will say I'm exhausted by all the things we've done so far: a 4 mile hike in Muir Woods, Golden Gate Park (we really enjoyed the Japanese Tea Garden), boat ride under the Golden Gate Bridge and around Alcatraz, a guided tour of Chinatown (by me with help from Frommer's, 2006), Aquarium, windy Baker Beach and many other little things along with a couple of "where the hell are we?" moments.

I thought I'd been in Chinatown twice and, of course, I have eaten and walked in Chinatown both times I visited SF for conferences, but I never really experienced it. This time I read up on the Frommer's guided walking tour. We didn't do everything but here are a few highlights. After riding the cable car to Chinatown, we hit Stockton street's markets at 8am in the morning. The fish smells and the bustling Chinese people pushed my kids to the limits of their abilities to take in their surroundings. At one point my six year old son said, "I don't want to be in this place where we are different." Ah, mission accomplished! Next, we went inside a couple of silly touristy stores on Grant Street to buy some Chinese junk as we made our way to Waverly Street which is supposedly famous for its painted balconies. This was the low point of the tour--Waverly street was underwhelming, the Stockton market had overwhelmed, kids were crying about trinkets not purchased, and the tour guide was unsure where to go next. Luckily we pushed ahead, denying the urge to sprint for more familiar ground, and lucked onto Woo Woo (I'm serious) playground.

Here the adults rested their legs while the kids played on the equipment. It seemed that this playground was a bit of a cultural center; several men exercised near the equipment and about half a dozen women were doing Thai Chi to music in an open area. Rejuvenated we hit Old St Mary's Cathedral (the oldest--1850--Catholic Cathedral in Sf) where a white priest was, paradoxically, instructing what looked like Chinese tourists on John the Baptist. Turns out the church, which made it through the famous fire, was built by Chinese immigrants. We quickly dropped down to the Gateway Arch for a few photos on the lion. Then we retraced our route back to the Buddhist temple on Waverley Street, Tin How, where we ascended five flights of stairs to the one room temple. It was interesting; we learned something by listening to the grade school teacher instruct her class out on a field trip though the incense was so strong we could hardly breathe. For my finale we ate pork dumplings and sweet rice at a recommended hole in the wall (we were the only non-Chinese diners) and then went around the corner to the Golden Gate Fortune Cookie company. Here we got several samples from the flat/broken fortune cookie pieces and we bought some yummy chocolate fortune cookies and almond cookies. This sounds much more official than it was though. In actuality the "company" was a back door in an alley with two women taking hot little pancakes off a press and shaping them into fortune cookies.

I feel like we soaked up China town and for that I'm grateful. It's cliche, I know, but there's some intangible quality to an experience like this which makes it all--the weariness, the screeching child, the ocean soaked pants, the one room accommodations, the sunburn with freezing ass temperatures, the gigantic Visa bill, the fights over directions--worth it.

A tale of scrapping flesh, gagging lunch, and many hills

WARNING: Post contains much masculine bravado and mind-numbing cycling details

Just one month ago my cycling summer looked dismal—the bursitis in my hip had not healed even though I took several months off, in fact it seemed much worse. My longest ride was a mere 25 miles at which point my hip generally gave out completely leading to a sorry-ass limping back home. I’d even subjected myself to several cocoa-butter-plastic- tool-beatings (a new fangled physical therapy treatment—ASTYM--where, in my case, one’s leg/hip/butt are scraped raw).

But all that changed on our St George trip. I knew the Bountiful-Mazda Cycling Club (BMCC) I’d joined and ordered gear from (hundreds of dollars wasted I figured at this point) would also be in St. George. I’d considered riding with them so I went out with the club the Wednesday before to see how I’d do—humiliating: so I began to talk myself into a solitary 25 miles max riding summer which my wife loved. Still, I wanted to take advantage of the St. George weather so I left for a ride Saturday morning (while my wife hit the Temple) thinking I’d ride around Snow Canyon park for about 30 miles. After taking my necessary hip-stretch-stop at a park, I got back on the bike and headed up to the main road. At that very moment a huge cadre of the BMCC club rode by, “What the hell, I thought—it must be destiny.” I hooked on to the end of the peloton. By the time I was done, I’d gone up to the top of what they call Utah Hill and put in 50 miles, my longest ride by 20 and my hip felt great (the group road to Mesquite for a cool 100 miles). Maybe that cocoa butter scraping was working.

And it did start working, culminating in the week of many hills. On Tuesday the “easy” ride takes off from Centerville at 5:30; this night we went south till we hit 4th south in Bountiful and then headed up towards the Bountiful Mormon temple. Hills usually treat me well—my 130lb frame seems to be designed for such activities—so I took off with the lead guys and quickly it became a duel (well, I thought it was a duel) between me and one of the ride leaders (i.e. they decide where we go). I was feeling pretty good so when I saw the top of the hill, I stood a bit—which makes one faster--and took it to him. Unfortunately, this was my first time cycling up this hill and I’d misjudged the top by several blocks, totally spent I began, as they say in cycling, to go backwards, the lead guy moving at a furious pace ahead of me. At the top I asked him how old he was: 17--double his age and he’d still be four years my younger.

Then we headed south across Bountiful Blvd. and dropped down into North Salt Lake at the rapid pace of 50mph. At the bottom of the road there is a turnabout which, incredulously, the youngster fully circled till we were once again face to face with the hill. “Ok, I can do this. Just take it easy; no need to impress anyone.” I survived the hill, once again behind the 17 year old, and we then head back north along Bountiful Blvd. but instead of staying on the easy rollers back past the temple we take an immediate right up past the golf course. My engine is already overheated—it’s one of the hottest days this year--and near the top I gagged on part of my lunch or possibly part of my pre-ride peanut butter sandwich trying to keep up with the youngster: I have a “tasty” cough for the rest of the ride. On the way down 4th North in Bountiful I hit a new high speed two-wheeled record: 53.9, one guy hits 58.

Today I finally make it to a Saturday ride to round out my week and guess where we go? Yes, the Bountiful hills. High point (literally and figuratively): I out sprint the two fastest hill guys who had beaten me on the first hill to the highest point in the homes just south of Mueller park, right where I’d regurgitated my food on Tuesday. Low point: I’m almost immediately in trouble once we reach the flats—a skinny ass does nothing for one on the flats. After avoiding pulling (where one has to take on the wind plus keep up the pace) I finally take my turn. I know it will be a short one, but it's no turn at all: the 250lb (I kid not) 50 something guy who struggled some on the hills, moves to the left signaling he’s done pulling. At this point, after having had minutes of the best pull imaginable, I’m supposed to maintain the speed, allowing him to move to the back of the peloton. Instead, I can barely get a half a bike lead on him and within seconds he whips into the lead and embarrassingly takes the peloton around me to the left. When you see someone get passed on the left you can pretty much figure it’s over for them and it was for me. I make a weak attempt to catch on to the end of the peloton as it passes but it’s not happening. Now I face the last 10 miles of our 50 mile ride solo, riding in the wind and the threatening rain. I keep hoping someone will flat or miss a light; at one point I swear I see orange just up ahead (our new club colors) but it turns out to be an orange hazard cone, a mirage of the worst kind. I never catch up but I make it back home before the rain hits, just in time to sit out in the cold for an hour to watch my son play soccer.

While most BMCC members are training for some big event—LOTOJA (a 200 mile race), Sport Mt Bike weekend competition, Category road racing, week long tours—my goal for the year is to keep up on training rides without anymore tasty coughs. That’s about it and I’m fine with it--at least for now.

Herpes Simplex of the mouth

Cold sores are a curse I have had since I was youngster.

My earliest memory of cold sore really getting in my way was at Junior Prom. Of all weekends to get a cold sore. Ironically, I’d gone skiing the weekend before with the same girlfriend—the wind and sun always brings them out on me. At prom, I was embarrassed but actually, if I'm honest, more concerned that we wouldn’t get in an hour or so of making out. Fortunately my girlfriend still gave me some lip time. I’m not sure if it was a huge sacrifice for her to kiss my blistered lips, but it sure made me feel better about myself.

As an adult I’m no longer embarrassed about a cold sore. I emotionally understand it doesn’t represent my worth in some way, though I’m still conscious that I have one and I notice that others are too. It’s hard not to notice. Even having been a consistent sufferer of cold sores, I still can’t quite keep my eyes off the broken out sore of others—it’s like a magnet. Maybe this goes back to some sort of deep seated evolutionary (I am biology boy) nervousness about disease. Or maybe it’s because cold sores are, they tell us, a type of herpes. They say it’s just the oral kind. Like that helps—we’ve smooshed oral/genital/sores together in one heap, certainly something one would stare at. Or maybe it’s about blemishes. We don’t like ‘em. As children we pounce on the kid with any type of sore or scar on their face . I remember a kid who had one corner of his mouth all messed up—they said he’d chewed on an electric cord when he was little. At least cold sores eventually go away.

Whatever the obsession might be, when someone notices a cold sore I sure wished they’d say something like: “Shit, that must be a painful sucker.” It would really clear the air. We both know it’s there so just acknowledge it, maybe express some sympathy, and move on. After you’ve acknowledged it, you won’t have to worry that you might be staring anymore—there’s apprehension now because the cold sore bearer knows you know.

I was quite relieved this morning, after a day of no comments yesterday, when my neighbor said, “Boy, big herpes.” Finally, a brave soul to soothe my tender feelings.

Escaping the grind for a moment

I haven't blogged for a bit...very busy and no blogging desire. Blogger blues.

I actually wrote a couple of short little things over the last few weeks but upon further consideration the writing felt lifelessly stupid.

I did mean to blog about the St George trip--we have some great photos--but I knew it would take time to do it right so I just didn't do it. I will say: good to get away with spouse sin hijos. Why we don't do this every year, I just don't know. I will also say that local St George stuff is overshadowed by big Zion stuff: Snow Canyon State Park, boulder hiking/hopping just north of St George, several great restaurants.

I . . . am . . . basically . . . stalling, writing in my blog in order to avoid writing evaluations of final projects to students.

Ok, must stop stalling, must read three more papers before I allow another break. No, not two, but three...must read three.

St George weekend

It's been about three yrs since my wife and I have gotten away for the weekend sin hijos. Three yrs ago it was Colorado Springs, a great trip except for the uncontrollable shivering and forced oxygen at the top of Pikes Peak but that's a story for another post. This weekend we head to a closer less amazing, but hopefully enjoyable place: St George. I've been searching around for stuff to do. Certainly we will do some hiking at Zion's or maybe just locally at Snow Canyon Park. I'm also scoping out Joshua Tree Road, a 14 mile drive through the Mojave desert with spring flowers a blooming.

Any favorite non-golfing St. George activities? Restaurants? Shops? Anything??!! Please share as I coerced this trip out of my wife and now must make it work, i.e. be able to avoid the old, "So why exactly did we drive 5 hrs in order to see a movie we could have seen 5 minutes from our house?"

New York!!!

I had planned to blog from New York but I was too caught up in the NCAA games and too tired once I made it back to my room. Conferences are always so exhausting. Still tired I will give a quick recap by category:

Not expected: an engaging conversation with a cabbie from Ghana coming in from JFK. Turned out he was taking night classes and currently writing a paper on polygamy so we talked through strategies he might use to convince an American audience that polygamy is integrated with Ghanaian culture and is about more than sex.

Funniest: From the opening lines/song “What Do You Do with a BA in English?/It Sucks to Be Me” performed by the aptly named character Princeton to Trekie Monster (yes, based on Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster) interrupting a “learning” type Sesame Street song about the benefits of the Internet by piping in “For Porn” every few minutes, the Broadway show Avenue Q was hilarious.

Most insightful: Doug Hesse’s, Chair of CCCC’s last year, contention that compositionists have “bungled” it rhetorically by responding to critiques of education and writing teachers with piles of theory and words of anger, which makes us seem “aloofly self-interested.”

Blast from the past: I met up with a good friend from my undergrad days at BYU. We talked and talked, never quite able to catch up on decade plus of history. Still, it was worth the effort. Amazing how connections to people remain intact after years of disconnect--my mind was flooded with 15 year old snippets of conversations, camping trips, and Wayne C. Booth debates.

Most Angry: In a panel discussion about who owns English, one of the panelists, Jack Selzer, suggested that in order to come together (CCCC, NCTE, MLA, etc.) we need to reorient English degrees to composition and dislodge MLA domination. This was met by white men in suits (I kid you not) taking the “stage” to restore order: “Let’s not criticize; let’s be productive.” What a bunch of hypocritical bullshit! It was scarily familiar: the same move administrators at our college make when faculty raise issues about adjunct working conditions and faculty pay: “Oh, let’s not argue now; let’s get along and work together (you with your 30K, me with my 110K) so we can find a working solution. But above all let’s stay positive.” I guess the MLA thugs forgot about the decades of literary theory dedicated to post-modernism and dislodging the Canon.

Most nostalgic: Seeing Times Square and remembering my first trip to NY when I was 18. Somehow I got it in my head I was going to go to NY (maybe the numerous New Year’s eves at my grandmothers watching the ball drop or maybe Woody Allen films) while attending Methodist College in NC. I went by myself—none of my friends could afford it--even though I’d never been in a taxi and hadn’t the slightest idea how to negotiate NY. Back then the ½ price tickets for a Broadway show were sold right in Times Square—I saw Fences, Cats, and some show I can’t remember. I even ran in Central Park by wearing a back pack and then changing in a nearby museum bathroom and then running with the backpack on. I just can’t quite believe I pulled it off. My favorite memory was sipping one of my first cups of coffee in an expensive restaurant after having been dosed with rain—I ordered lobster which the waiter had to show me how to eat. Unbelievable.

Best food: An Italian desert—freshly cooked little doughnuts holes with a pile of cream and grapes.

Pleasant Surprise: Dream Girls on the long flight home—quite a performance by Jennifer Hudson. Man, do I hate flying but this innovative musical full of great acting made it go by quicker.

Spring break

I had thought I'd take a blogger break over my spring break, but as I'm watching the first real potential upset of this 2007 NCAA tournament (VCU an 11 seed up 2 over Duke a 6 seed, not to mention they are Duke, with 1:08 left), I got reading Mega's blog where she already has two lists of spring break accomplishments. So, now, I feel compelled to list, a deep seated need to measure out what I've been up to with my time off. But first I much pay attention to the last minute of the Duke game.

...50 seconds left and Duke and VCU tied
...16 seconds Duke down by 2
...10 seconds Duke ties it with a lay-up
...1.8 seconds Duke down two with a VCU 15 footer

whoa, that was some minute of basketball. A timeout. Not sure they will get anything off--no Christian Laetner on this Duke team.

...it's over with a respectable attempt--the first upset

Spring Break 2007 List (or my way of staving off vacation blues)

• Completed one physical therapy appointment: ASTYM i.e. the scraping of another's leg meat with cocoa butter and hard plastic tools which is not helping my bursitis
  
• Filled out NCAA Tournament bracket with family, a more difficult concept to explain to young children than one might expect
  
• Finished Atonement by Ian McEwan--a good novel but a bit too self-referential and crafty for my tastes (Book club discussion tomorrow!)
  
• Read much of Wysocki's Writing New Media: I'm going to remember her contention that writing teachers need strategies for “generous reading[s]" of student texts in order to “approach different-looking texts with the assumption not that mistakes were made but that choices were made and are being tried out and on.”
  
• Completed 2007 taxes, a spring break tradition--$1000 bucks coming our way and real soon thanks to TurboTax
  
• Watched parts of most NCAA open round Tournament games
• Three bike rides and 40 pages of Indian and the Cupboard with 5-year old son
  
• Two 25 mile bike rides--much stretching and some pain but at least I'm out and about
• Several on-going productive relationship talks with wife
• Bid through www.priceline.com on a hotel room for a SF family vacation in May; my $50 a night bid didn't get accepted, but I now have a strategy
  
• Ate lunch at Sill's (the only real restaurant in Layton) with a good friend and past student from Mt High school
• Read NO student work
  
• Best of all: filed and cleaned up in my office for several hrs
• Will see Breach tonight at the theatre, a rare non-Netflix film for me
  
  

Rock Stars

Every few minutes there is yet another knock at the door. I do not get up after the first one; I merely yell “they’re downstairs” and point. Music keeps wafting up through the heating vent: a few drum beats, a riff on the guitar, a mixture of something which approximates music. Somehow I have a bunch of pre-teens rocking out in my basement. I’m not sure how this happened. I mean, I’m just a young 130 lb. male trying to get some work done; there’s no way I am capable of being responsible for 425 lbs of stringy, sweaty, pre-pubescents. Surely I didn’t have anything to do with creating this commotion, right? I mean…it can’t be time yet. All too soon there will be girls, pimples, making-out, driving lessons...

Shit, somewhere along the way I really screwed up.

Busy w/ just enough time to watch The Departed in three sittings

Not much time for winter hikes or lengthy posts. I'm pretty much going to work all weekend except for some cards with friends for a couple of hrs tonight and my one little weekend treat, The Departed. I started it last night, will watch again while I do my physical therapy regimen, probably won't finish till Sunday. I'm excited to see if I will like it as much as Mega (i.e that much more than Babel). So far it's pretty solid--it'd certainly has more amazing actors in one film than I've seen in a long time. Too bad that this probably worked against any acting Oscars.

I'd be interested what you all think about the Oscar attention it got, especially considering the view that the attention was more about finally giving an Oscar to Scorsese than about this particular film.

Babel's Grandeur

Since I got a head start on Babel (see my last post), I was able to finish it up last night. The film overwhelmed me with its attention to simple cultural artifact and its bursting grandiose vision of what film can do.

The cultural and geographic displacement of the characters, and more importantly, the American audience is a work of art: the exuberant celebration of Mexican marriage, the throbbing American dance tunes in a Japanese club seen through the eyes of a deaf-mute girl, the Moroccan family fingering their food from the same bowl. As the images of culturally situated joy dispense, the raw human emotion comes on full force: the mighty Brad Pitt, blood drenched, helping the urine soaked Kate Blanchett onto a make-shift bed pan, the Mexican caretaker with torn festive dress and mascara blurred eyes tromping through the desert in high heels, the Moroccan herdsboy bravely proclaiming before armed men his guilt in a plea for his brother's life.

Displaced from cultural and emotional bearing, Babel is beautiful in its attempt at grandeur, making, as Slate critique Dana Stevens concludes, the award winning "Crash, another recent film with converging stories and a multicultural cast, look like an undergraduate term paper on race relations."

Why I love to work from home on Fridays

1. I can get a headstart on a Netflix movie over lunch (I started Babel today)
2. I get to be home to greet my kids on their early out day
3. Potential for romantic interlude as kids are all at school (w/ my wife of course!)
4. I can take my son and his friend on a hike in the snow (I did that last week--they thought it was an "adventure" as we hiked over snow covered rocks and then all yelled and screamed from a ridge into an echo inducing canyon).
5. I can feel better that my piss poor pay as a teacher is counter-balanced, in part, with the *idea* that I don't have to work on Fridays.
6. I can spend much of the day (if needed, which is often) finishing the book for bkclub (we meet on one Friday a month) and then work on Saturday
7. I can have a cup of tea while grading papers
8. In the summer I can step out onto our porch and into the sun every hour or so
9. In the summer I can take a break by picking fresh tomaoes and yellow bean
10. Rather than getting stuck in snowstorms on the freeway (two snowstorms today), I can get stuck as I hike in the mountains:

Top of Adam's Canyon

I have only a few words, mostly mere compulsion to document the top half of Adam's Canyon. It seems appropriate to return to this canyon as it was here that I received my winter inspiration (see my earlier post ), my raison d'etre during these frigid months. During my earlier hike I didn't quite make it to the top falls; too much time caressing the trees and all. This time I made it and wow, wow, wow...

Huge layers of ice bursting out from the original falls. I even shimmied on my belly to the edge of the built up (several feet off the ground) ice shelf in front of the fall. I just had to get a few close ups of this behemoth:

And that's just about it for the major winter hiking trails in Davis County. I have, admittedly, left out one biggie, Mueller Park, but I didn't get out there during the freeze and there's not much water to speak of--maybe next year. I was feeling kind of sad about the melted ice, but then it snowed again today. Of course the veneer of snow and ice will be gone in a matter of weeks. It's time to move on I suppose.

Next winter I think I will chronicle the small canyons and rivers, maybe even a few without trails. It's been quite winter; I sure hope to remember at least a bit of what I've come to see right here mintues from my home. Still, I know it will be much harder as cycling season is now starting: competition, drive, details...all pulling me away from mere observation and reflection.

Burnt post failure

Because my own words and images (see my previous post) did not elicit much response, I will cite the words of someone else. These words are about teaching:

"I believe that the best teachers are always deeply involved in the making of new knowledge. Here is where teaching and learning are so closely intertwined: the province of knowledge-making is the province of learning. Ultimately, the role of teacher and learner become ontologically less and less distinct."

This reminded me that in order to achieve this kind of teaching we must see ourselves as learners, we must "remember" in our guts and bones what it's like to try something new, to write beyond our skill, to question our abilities. My guess is, even though it causes me some anxiety, we can't be transformative teachers unless we are ourselves continually being transformed intellectually and spiritually.

While my earlier post may seem like merely one of several winter hiking surveys, it was meant to be more than that. The experience with the burnt trees was surprisingly vivid and lingeringly insightful: it demanded the earnest "poetic" tone. I'm unsure I captured any of that now. Worse, and I hate to admit it, after writing the post I kept checking my email hoping for a response, a connection, anything. Simply put it's good for me to more clearly remember how difficult it is to share your writing with peers, something I nonchantly ask students to do on a weekly basis.

"Teaching is an act of discovery, a continual transformation of itself—when it’s good. The worst kind of teaching, the kind I dread, particularly when I find myself doing it, is teaching things doggedly, the same again and again. Teaching is work, but it is not the work of factories."

Teaching things doggedly--doesn't that just about say it all? Pushing through, not responding but reentrenching. Much more difficult to be dogged when humbled. Be warned: I will attempt earnest poetic tone again.

The full teaching philosophy is found here.

In reverence with fire

In August or maybe September the smoke swirls off the mountain ridge, sometimes so much it clogs our view. Fires are curious; we chase and gawk at them as if they were rock stars but then we run, kick and scream in fear of their rage, their utter destructive potential.

It goes for miles, the blackened trees like so many arrows, porcupined earth.

The bark cracked, exposed white flesh, still a leader to the burnt saplings: "We gather here today knowing our fate, but we will hold our ground to the bitter end."

But eventually these once flourishing trees will give up the ghost, torrents of water ravaging the land.

Life just down the hill, it barely escaped, now just out of reach.

"Civilized" life down far below, still visibly thriving from this blackened place.

And even here there's a similitude of what is now gone.

Even with mere similitude, my experience in the blackened woods feels as wild and alive as any forest experience: stark black against white; harsh natural forms. But then, a small trunk too straight and smooth, the mark of man, a desperate stand against the flames.

I'm brought back from my dark reverie; I've sat long enough to see the lack of inhabitants, few traces of animal scat or prints, but our marks on the land are ever-present: we burn back nature from our home, afraid of wildfires, only to burn down a mountain and then fight it with a shovel when it dares to return.

Me and son on the castle trail

Last week youngest son and I escaped the smog and in the process documented one more Davis County hike. This trail starts by the "Castle," a house which, as you might guess, looks like a castle. I'm told it actually only has one or two bedrooms, not your family style type house.

It's a strange gothic looking house, gargoyle type creatures strewn throughout the yard. In reality the trail starts out at the Fernwood picnic area but we just call it the Castle trail. There are several trails which start from here. We take the main trail which runs behind the castle up along Kays Creek and then eventually connects with the Great Western Trail.

Here son is eating snow. What a trooper--it was about 20 degrees but I heard nary a complaint. Amazing how little it takes to please a 5-year old. His favorite amusement, as always, was the variety of sticks which he then dragged along in the snow.

The bent over trees maintain moss throughout the winter from the with melting snow. Son had to touch the moss and then we were on our way (three sticks in tow at this point).

Bridges over snow covered rivers and water holes in which to throw rocks and "crash" the ice by stomping, cracking and distorting the ice hole.

Son was hell bent on returning the next day in order to show his brother, sister, and mommy the damage he'd done.

Now on to the south facing muddy slop where we found amazing little patches of green grass; we could hardly believe it.

We climbed up the south face and then turned along the spine of the ridge heading west (off the trail which connects to the GWT) and higher, deeper and deeper snow. We looked back; son couldn't believe it was the same bridge.

Our toes were getting colder in the higher elevation snow...

...but we had indeed escaped the smog; we were free of it all for a moment,

the dark gunk a sharp contrast to the blue sky; it stuck down in the gut of the valley where it hung in our hair, in our lungs, but we had conquered it for now.

The castle in sight we were almost back, a respid for our frozen toes only minutes away.

We'd stomped and tromped in the snow for much longer than I'd thought we would. A stellar little 5-year old as proud as can be, "We were on the moutains, daddy."