this one's for SudyRip

We were doomed as kids. We had to listen to Broadway musicals, Barbara Streisand and Barry Manilow as if they were the Gods on Mt. Olympus, which destined my siblings and me to have issues of immense severity. For instance, my sister, Balls, can't go by a road sign while driving without saying, "In your pants" after she reads the sign out loud (ie: Children crossing...in your pants, Construction ahead...in your pants) and my other sister, K.C., raising her son singing, "Is their someone in the city who doesn't need a little kitty" and other inane lyrics.

Me? I have the curse of trying to figure out what every moment might look like if it was a broadway musical. I remember bus rides home from school anticipating that at any moment everyone was going to break out in song and dance. Today, in the office, in fact, I started playing theme music from I-tunes as people walked by, just to liven up the world. I simply took their personality and played a song as the marched along -- I admit, though, the Imperial March from Star Wars was a bit harsh.

Even so, I must nod my head to West Side Story.. Now, there is a catchy musical and I post this today in hopes my mom -- who started all this ridiculousness -- will kick around her house on her recovering legs in Jet and Shark gang-fashion as she heals. I want her and Butch, dangling cigarettes in their mouths, to perform their morning ritual over coffee and complaining in a fashion that replicates the overture of the play. I picture dad flipping an egg on the stove with mom flipping an appendage in his direction as she contemplates Reader's Digest and applies makeup.

The point is, music is catchy and the corniness of aligning music to life is a happy ritual. As noted on an earlier post, Ally McBeal exemplified this immensely. I ask you, then, what is your theme song and choreographed routine for today?

Happy Halloween!

Congratulations, Nikki!

My niece, Nickerdoodle, has been placed on the Northstars cadet winterguard team. Following the tradition of Cynderballs, her mother, she will be marching, dancing and twirling before judges almost every Saturday night starting in January. Her dad, Mike, and I are already preparing our hoots and hollas as she takes the floor in competition.

For those of you who don't know what winterguard is, I've embedded a video. Called the Sport of the Arts, it is a bizarre, international competition where teams of individuals are given less than ten minutes to choreograph and perform with banners, rifles, sabers and props in precision, dancing and visual effects. Although Nikki sent a text to her father that was illegible, we learned she did, indeed, make it and we are all proud of her. Way to make all of us happy, Nicoli!!!

in the dark

A Northeasterner blew in last night and weighed heavily on the electrical lines leading to my street. At 8:15 I lost electricity. I had a lot to do, but I couldn't do it. I was paralyzed against normalcy, or at least how I perceive what a normal evening in my life looks like.

Last night, that normal couldn't be. I couldn't see in my house, I lost all electrical connection, and I was totally divided from the patterns I set as routine: research, reading and writing. It made me think about access. My access was cut off and I couldn't do life, as I know life. I couldn't work.

I have two legs, sight, sound, and education. I am white. I am male. Yet, how accessible is education to those who only know darkness, in light of the 'white, canonized, westernized' traditions of how we do education? Who are disabled? Who don't see the world the way I've been taught to? The disenfranchised? Where does their lack of access get considred?

These thoughts occurred in the dark when I had nothing else I could do. My darkness was only temporary. Looking for ultimate answers, according to the existentialists, is like looking for a black cat in a dark basement at night, when the cat really isn't there. Happiness, though, is knowing the cat has to be in here somewhere. There has to be answers somewhere. Meow.

481

I'm dedicating this week to Interstate 481. Not only does my backyard back up to this highway, but my very own Lucille, the gas guzzling SUV I use to transport my worlds here and there, has frequented its pavement quite regularly. In one day, I moved from Fowler High School, to St. Vincent dePaul Church, to SU's campus to eat lunch with Emad Rahim, to North Syracuse Junior High School, to Nottingham High School, to my parents, and home again. Yes, I used 81, too, but it was 481 that created the most mileage for me. Distance is accessible through such modern transportation, and I am thankful for this. I feel I know my "home" better because of such travel, and I find happiness through my movement.

1985

I believe I was in 7th grade. As par for the course at Gillette Road Middle School, we were taken to Albany, the capital of New York, for a tour of the New York Senate. Woot Woot. A classmate of mine posted this on his Facebook yesterday and I had to laugh. There I am looking marvelously amused. Actually, the whole crew of us look as if we're bored out of our minds -- which I am sure we were (even today, politics sort of dulls the spirit, no?). The game for you is to "try and find Bryan." It's like Where's Waldo except I'm Waldo and all individuals involved look equally pained by the experience. Happiness is knowing that twenty three years later, 7th graders from around NYS are still taking similar photographs of their 'field trip' to the Assembly. Party on, kids.

Didinga Traditions - A Preview

Attending "Meet Our Neighbors at Soul of Syracuse: Folk Arts Series, 2008 - 2009" with several of the Didinga and Dinka men who volunteer with the Syracuse Lost Boys of Sudan Cow Project was historical. Here, at Syracuse University, Dr. Felicia McMahon, through the contributions of New York State Council of the Arts, the Chancellor's Office, Syracuse University, the Department of Anthropology, the College of Arts and Sciences Symposium on Migration and with thanks to Catholic Charities Refugee Resettlement Services, Light Work and St. Vincent de Paul Church, brought together Mohawk, Vietnamese, Bosnian, Liberian, Congolese, Didinga, Dinka, Nepali, Meskhetian Turkish, Ukranian and Haudenosaunee people to represent the folk arts of Syracuse, New York. In the video here are several members of Didinga dancers performing one traditional song and dance from the day's exhibition and celebration. My goal - and I will not be happy until I complete it - is to work with the footage and audio I was able to record today to keep traditional memories alive. As I try to make sense of the American reality as I know it, it is the efforts of individuals like Faye McMahon that inspire me the most. To witness culture in all its varieties is to celebrate the richness of life.

K dot C Dot

Yesterday was my little sister's 35th birthday. We had a party for her with pirate hats, tiaras, chinese food and redneck teeth. It is nice to celebrate life with my family and to be able to be nearby for the festivities/chaos/noise/messiness and it's even better that the clean up is left to her and not to the rest of us. Happy birthday, K dot C dot. We all love you.

Crap, flower children and meatballs

I found Maxine Swann's Flower Children online today and for those who've never read it, it is a happy read.

Yet, this is not why I post. Emily Robertson, my Philosophy of Research Professor, reminded me of a joke tonight that is soon to become my motto. It is about the young child who was an optimist. One birthday, he truly wanted a pony (substitute dog, horse, new car, date with Madonna, knowledge, gift certificate to Barnes and Noble). He begged and begged for his gift. His parents, however, wanted to cure the boy's excessive drive at happiness and optimism, so they filled a room with crap. Horrible, smelling, and deep ca-ca. The brown sh'bang. The big p.u.. The parents sort of snickered to themselves when the young boy ran to the room where they said his birthday gift stood. They expected to hear a "holy sh$!," but instead they heard giggling and laughter. When they went to see what their son was doing they were in shock. Their son was going stir-crazy into the pile of crap and celebrating, "There must be a pony (substitute dog, horse, new car, date with Madonna, knowledge, gift certificate to Barnes and Noble) in here somewhere!"

Finally, when I returned last night from thinking about the way I shovel my way through life, I came home to a bucket of meatballs and fresh, Italian rolls. My pops thought to bring me dinner -- a meatball sub (perfection, I might add - through years of both my parents fighting over who makes the better meatballs).

Happiness is knowing the pony (substitute dog, horse, new car, date with Madonna, knowledge, gift certificate to Barnes and Noble) is out there somewhere.

He's probably better in text form

Several years ago I found an audio collection of Shel Silverstein reading his poetry. He screams his work. I mean he yells his work. I loved it. I ended up playing it often, especially on busy, urban streets with my windows down and bass up. It cracked me up when I competed with the typical music coming from cars trying to out peacock me, and when Silverstein would scream, ONE SISTER FOR SALE, I always laughed. I was thinking about his poetry, books and singing this morning and about how he meant it to be heard, screamed, sung and seen. Also, SHEL SILVERSTEIN has a great website in his honor. I try to imagine what it'd be like to teach Shel Silverstein and that a room full of such minds would be a dream. Yes, it'd be hard to control, but I'm all about such quirkiness. I need to find my Shel c.d. and put it back into the Explorer. As snow begins to fall, I'd like to hear his booming voice work its way through barren trees.

The Meehoo with an Exactlywatt by Shel Silverstein
Knock knock!
Who's there?
Me!
Me who?

That's right!
What's right?
Meehoo!
That's what I want to know!

What's what you want to know?
Me, WHO?
Yes, exactly!
Exactly what?
Yes, I have an Exactlywatt on a chain!

Exactly what on a chain?
Yes!
Yes what?
No, Exactlywatt!

That's what I want to know!
I told you - Exactlywatt!
Exactly WHAT?
Yes!
Yes what?

Yes, it's with me!
What's with you?
Exactlywatt - that's what's with me.
Me who?
Yes!

GO AWAY!

Knock knock...

Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwiches

I did something very important yesterday. I remembered to pack my lunch AND my dinner. Lunch was a ham and cheese, blah, but dinner was a P, B & J and I loved every bite of it. Despite being told that peanut butter is bad for me and that this researcher and that nutritionist says that Peter Pan doesn't have my arteries in their interest, I still love dining on the simplicity of a childhood favorite. I think I'm more happy that I remembered to pack something to eat so I didn't have to live out of vending machines nor the good wishes that someone brought food to pass around for me to munch on. Nope. I had a sandwich and I released it from its plastic-baggy prison into my stomach. Yum.

What does Visual Literacy Sound Like? (Intro)

Distracted last night, I somehow opted to cut up a project I did over the summer and to post it on another blog I've been keeping. The twenty-minute video is meant as a podcast, but as I asked myself what "visual literacy" sounds like, I realized I couldn't divorce the visual because I am a visual creature. Both text and images are interconnect here and I think the project is what I was after when I set out to ask such a necessary question. I failed at making a podcast, however. I made a videocast of my thinking (which, at the University, has to be academic), instead. Even so, I think it makes sense. If you are intrigued by the introduction, you can watch clips 1 - 19, and the finale at my RETHINKING VALIDITY blog that was created for Dr. James Rolling in Art Education at Syracuse University. This project, which makes me happy, couldn't have happened without his influence, nor the wonderful mind of Kathie Maniaci, who had me thinking overtime this summer about the importance of visual literacy in America's classrooms.

Hot, apple pie over vanilla ice cream

Yesterday was moderately productive. I took Baby for a walk (she refused to wear the leash), went for a six mile run, studied a lot, and went to the folks for meat and potatoes. Dad made a perfect apple pie (sorry, Casey, Manlius IS just 12 miles too far to drive on my hectic schedule) and it was absolutely delicious. He inspired me to go home, core a few Empires of my own, and to bake Apple Crisp which I can serve over vanilla ice cream. My mom doesn't believe in vanilla ice cream, so although dad's hot pie was close to nirvana, it fell just a little short. Dad has been doing the grocery shopping since mom's surgery, so blame for the lacking vanilla ice cream can't just fall on my peg-eg mom. Get with it, dad!

Either way, my stomach and taste buds grinned a bit, yesterday.

Clam Bar, North Syracuse

Today I took Dominic Mathiang and Erika Halstead to The Clam Bar in North Syracuse. As one of my surrogate homes in Central New York, I always feel a sense of calm when I visit this restaurant. Why? Well, Butch. If my father isn't at 5388 Amalfi Drive, he's paying his dues at the Clam Bar. Students in my African American Studies classes at Binghamton used to laugh and think I said "Clan Bar" but this is not the case. There are no confederate flags nor white robes hanging on the wall. Instead, there are dead fish, deer, elk, bears, and other wild game.

Helge and Ken, the owners, have done a fantastic job keeping a tradition of excellent food alive for Airport employees and residents of Northern Syracuse. Home to the unforgettable intoxication of Sudy Rip, mom, during dad's retirement party and waitresses who are very tolerant of long winded stories from their clientelle, dad, The Clam Bar is an absolute piece of Syracuse's history.

I grew up on their steak sandwiches, still excellent, but the dinner specials are what makes the food unique. That, and God Bless, their clam chowder. It is out of this world.

Tales

Last night, Tales from the Salt City, conceived by Ping Chong, premiered at Syracuse Stage. I went with members of the Syracuse Lost Boys of Sudan Cow Project: Makram, Michael, Kerubino, Marino, Benjamin, Faye, and Carl to support Lino, whose story was a part of the narrative. The stage featured several variations of the Syracuse, New York, existence and in each performer lived the truth of being alive in America in 2008. What was remarkable about the performance was how history was interwoven with local community, while paying close attention to the centrality of the Onondaga Nation who were keepers of this land before so many pots melted, salads tossed and the modern pastiche of CNY was created. The stories were spoken with laughter, heart, soul and tears, all united under the common umbrella of humanity. Cambodia, Macedonia, Cuba, Onondaga, Sudan, Mexico and American voices became a chorus of meaning in a shrinking globe needing to keep an eye on global obstacles. It was an honor to be invited, to see the cows on display and to learn the literacy of being alive at this time in history. I am a better man for witnessing this event and am inspired to unite our lives further, one truth at a time. Happy is too mild a word for tonight's experience.

Cuz Bryan's the Best Name Ever (and it's spelled right)

Preparing for Saturday's Together meeting at North Syracuse Public Library, I revisited the artwork of Bryan Collier in Martin's Big Words. There's something amazing about the way he layers images, fabrics, textures and imagery that speaks as deeply as Martin Luther King's dreams. Looking at his intelligence, I am thinking how great it is to know not everyone nor everything has to be textual to communicate. To learn more about his work, you can visit his website.

New Yorker Cartoon

Kelly Chandler-Olcott showed me a book of cartoons on Education from the New Yorker. Several of them were hysterical and I couldn't help but laugh out loud. I'm putting this book on my xmas wish list. I know the above font is terribly tiny so I will translate what the jack-in-the-box is saying:
Pretty soon, you're going to start going to something called "school." You'll have to go every day even when you're not in the mood, or when it's cold and dark and rainy outside and all you want to do is lie in bed and watch robot's fight on the t.v. You're going to sit at a little desk and be completely quiet and not fidget while your teacher drones on and on and on about latitude and longitude and nouns and mastery tests, and if you don't like it, too bad for you, 'cause it's the law, you have to go. So enjoy your freedom, because this is the most you're going to have for a long, long, long, long time.
Yes, it is pretty sick, but isn't a lot of our humor based on the macabre? The drawings in this book are rather anglo-saxon in orientation, but a few caused me to laugh in my gut. You've got to love that, right? Once again, visual literacy IS a literacy, and as these artists prove, a drawing can be a profound text.

P.U.

In this year of optimism, I was thrown a curve ball. 

Baby needed to pee at 1 a.m., so I let her out. She immediately took off for the field behind my house and came back coughing and hacking.  Saliva and foam was pouring out of her mouth. She smelled like burnt rubber.  A skunk got her right in the kisser. Since my house isn't fenced in, I chose to let her sleep inside. I  gave her a late bath to temporarily cure the stench, but locked her out of my bedroom.  This is at 2 a.m..  I finally fell asleep, but when I awoke the skunk smell in my house was unbelievable. It was raw and in my face.  It made roadkill smell seem mild.

The thing is, I had to do a teacher observation at Jamesville-DeWitt high school at 9 a.m..  I took a shower, scrubbed hard, but on my drive there, I realized I still stunk pretty bad.  I told the teachers about the olfactory phenomenonf from the previous night and apologized.  They said they didn't smell anything.  Yet, when the students arrived, they began asking, "What's that awful smell?"  I said, 'Oh, that's just me.  The University supervisor -- Skunk issue.'  Then, one of the teachers sprayed apple-cinnamon air freshener.  This didn't help.  Suddenly the room smelled like Pepe LePew at Christmas. 

This is a first for me.  As crazy as it sounds, it made me laugh and I enjoyed the experience.  After doing the student observation, I ran to the store and picked up the above recipe: baking powder, peroxide and lemon detergent.  I doused Baby in this concoction, and also added coconut mouse and apple slice shampoo.  Now, she sort of smells like the Massengill Douche that several websites recommended as perfect de-skunking material.  

After bathing the dog, bedsheets, my carpet and myself, I thought I accomplished a productive day.  Yet, on the way to campus, I stopped by the post office to mail a package.  The first think the employee said is, "Do you smell skunk?"  Alas, I did what I could and the rest is history.  

Did you hear the joke about the skunk?
Never mind, it stinks!

How many skunks do you need to make a house really smelly?
Just a phew!

What did the baby skunk want to be when he grew up?
A big stinker!

What's a skunk's philosophy of life?
Eat, stink and be merry!

How are skunks able to avoid danger?
By using their instinks and common scents!

What is the feeling that you've smelled a certain skunk before?
Deja phew!

Fall Follow Up

Although the temperatures are abnormally high, the colors of Autumn foliage are remarkable this Fall. In fact, they are more vibrant than they were last year. While running along high ways and footpaths today, I was surrounded by breath-taking colors of reds, maroons, yellows, oranges and browns. Later, walking the dog, I wished I actually owned a camera to record such hues. But I'm okay. I like knowing that the changing leaves are in my seasonal understanding of a year. As long as I have life, leaves will alter colors and eventually fall. Perhaps one day, too, my heart, body and soul will join such transcendence. I find happiness in such truth.

It is too bad, however, that some of these colors couldn't stay around to weave within the white and gray days to come. It would be spectacular to see a tree lighting up a field of snow with its late release of summer leaves.

Then again, I have wonderful memories of walking to Alice and Charlie's on winter nights, when their oaks and maples offered dark, branched contrast to the setting sun, purple skies and nightfall. I wouldn't change those images for anything in the world.

Cravings

Ah, traditions! Yesterday, it was Behling Orchard for picking apples: Cortlands, Empires and MacIntoshes. My garage is now an apple farm and for the next few weeks I will be baking, chomping and living in a New York State of Mind. Then, last night, the French Toast craving arrived. Welcome to Denny's breakfast at 7 p.m.. Delicious. Satisfying cravings is a must. In summary, an apple a day keeps the doldrums away in a maple syrup kind of way.

Guess Who' s Knocked Up Again?

It's funny to look at these pictures knowing the carcass within is now a two-year old who runs around saying, "Say, What?!" Yes. my little sister swallowed a watermelon seed again and this time we think the dad is Dave (as if there's any doubt about the first kid). I was slow in posting about K dot C dot's pregnancy because it needed to be more authentic. Tonight, post pizza and a couple trips to vomit in the bathroom, it appeared more real. Discussing the possibility of being her "vowel movement" for Halloween and seeing the early on-set of her exhaustion, I decided to share the news. (Truth is, she threatened me if I didn't).

Not only that, but Casey made me snickerdoodles. How great is that?

good ol' whistle

I saw Spamelot last night based on Monty Python's The Holy Grail. For years, I didn't understand the wit of that British camp, but in time, I've grown to love it. In fact, it has been my cell phone ringer for a couple of years. It's a catchy tune that we all should live by. I've often thought life could be more charming if we remembered the corniness of musicals. And so, a musical for today. Stock markets? Global Warming? Ah, bollucks. Sing a song and sing along!

Curiosity

Funny how I can type in what I'm thinking and I can find an image that corresponds exactly to my thoughts. You've got to love 2008 and that is where I am today knowing that I'll be an inquisitive bloke until the day I die. I like questions usually as much as I like finding the answers. I'm content knowing, too, that cats have nine lives and I'm unsure which number I'm on. It's sort of sad that such a disposition doesn't get ascribed to frogs because I've known my share of croaks on my lilypad of thinking.

What else is there, though, besides an intrinsic drive to understand? If it is true that the more you know the less you know, then I imagine I will go gray(er) with a plethora of question marks at the end of all my thinking. Yes, I'm a dog person, but I respect the cunningness of feline fecundity, as well. Meow + Woof + Ribbit = Happiness.

The Old Making Me Feel Young

Snuck home for an hour yesterday and took the dog/the Baby for a walk. It was a nice Fall day that went from 30 degrees to 70 degrees quite quickly. I had an enormous headache and my sinuses wanted to burst. While on the road, I passed a couple I see walking all the time. They are out in the morning, they stroll in the afternoon and they sometimes go by in the evening. They pick up cans, carry groceries and often hold hands. I imagine they've lived a life together and these strolling rituals have occurred for over forty years. Perhaps not. Perhaps it is an extra-marital sexual thing and walking is pedestrian viagra for the old guy. I don't know. The point is they are walking. They're older than me. They hold hands. And I love seeing their movement.

And I must be honest. I got home yesterday, needed aspirin, and at 3 p.m., I accidentally took Tylenol P.M.. Oif. I knew I needed sinus medicine so I stopped at a drug store and got some pills that I took, too. By 4 p.m. I was so foggy I needed a cup of coffee. From 4 - 6, while in class, I have little recollection of where I was. Things were floating. Either way, the old couple and I passed each other today. That was Bliss.

The Perks of Being Exhausted

They debated last night. I sat under a pile of papers to read and reports to file. I ate two meals yesterday out of my bag. I didn't get a walk, nor a run in. Yet, I entered my house last night and the green color of The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky sat on a mantel and I smiled. That book. I've read it a dozen times and still hate its ending. Even so, I love the story and dream for the day of feeling infinite again. I long for the the days of finding other great reads like this that are "as they are" and not another's critical analysis of "what it is" by use of complicated rhetoric, history, and hostile linguistics of competitive jargon. I find happiness in seeking meaning, but I prefer the meaning from the source, itself. Finding meaning in egotistical babble is not a lot of fun. It's interesting, but I question its validity.

I babble, too. But I've got a post for today when I didn't think I'd find time. Dear Friend, I write to you because I heard you'll listen and I'm interested in what you have to say.

Missing Monday Night of Yesteryear

Back in my Louisville days and early in my teaching career, Ally McBeal made for a great introductions to the work week. Not only was the writing marvelously quirky, but the characters were classics that I fell in love with - especially Ling. I used to try to recreate the silliness in my own teaching. Ritually, friends and I would get together and watch the show together in mini-parties. Reflecting back on this time, I now see that Ally McBeal was ahead of its time and a classic in its own right.

I think we all need theme music to survive our days and Barry White framed the symphony of this show. I wonder, do we know what are theme music is for today? Although the video is a bit long, it captures the flavor that I'm missing in 2008 and recollecting from this morning's memory. It's Tuesday, but in my old world, I still fly high off the episodes of whacky law office drama. Thinking about the choreography of this dance is something that still makes me happy several years later.

Here's to what once was.

Dylan Scott

I love my nephew Dylan.

This is a throwback photo from Casey's wedding and he's grown up quite a lot. Last night, around 5, I got a call from him and he said, "Bryan. Can you come take me to Walmart?" I thought about it and looked at my pile of shirts to iron, the books on the table to read, the dinner I just made for myself, and the essay I needed to write and I said, "Dylan, I am very busy. I don't think I can." There's a pause. A long pause. Okay, a someone just-drowned-a-puppy-in-front-of-a-nine-year-old-boy pause. I say, "Dylan? Dylan? You there?" I hear a small, distant voice that says, "Yeah. I wanted to buy a toy."

Gulp. I told him that if he waited another week, played another football game like this weekend, and earned another $10, then next weekend he will have $20. "That's okay," he said - silence. I hang up and take my dinner out of the microwave. I think about breakfast and the fact I have no milk nor cereal and I call him back. "I'm on my way," I tell him.

We didn't say much on the way to Walmart except what his parents are doing. Mom's painting Nikki's room and Dad's watching, T A L A D E G A! We got to Walmart and he said, "Go get your milk. I'll be in toys." I told him not to get kidnapped and he doesn't. When I returned he had $15 worth of soldiers he wants to buy. I advise he can only afford one. I recommend him take the dollar he wanted to give me for picking him up and to use it to buy another solder. I threw the dollar at him when he presented it to me earlier on the drive. He's 75 cents short at the register and I kick it in. On the drive home, he tells me how the American soldier and the Nazi soldier are going to fight as soon as he gets to his bedroom. I think to myself how his reality is a direct historical consequence of the war he's choosing to play.

And I think, this is a great kid. He truly is.

Songs of Myself

Several of my student teachers are teaching Whitman to their 11th grade students and this makes me happy. I am a fan of the man, mostly because he celebrates everything and finds beauty in the simple. Even though my "cabbage patch/soul patch" is still in its infant stage, this is what I want to look like in 2048 when I hope people find me wandering beaches, cities, country sides and towns writing stupid verse for anyone who will accept it. I used to hand out Butterscotch candy whenever I taught Walt Whitman, and I did this to recall his act of giving such candy to wounded soldiers in the Civil War. Whenever I reread Whitman, I think, now here is a poet and here is a man committed to his own music. I can't flaw him for that, so today, I offer a piece of his song:

27
To be in any form, what is that?
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,)
If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were
enough.

Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,
They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.

I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can
stand.

YOU

I don't wear make up to look this good. No. It takes you ~ anyone who ventures onto this blog to make me look this good. I stole that from a talk given today by SU's Law School. The woman who pulled international people to Syracuse to address global poverty said just that. No make up. Us. We helped her to look good. That is what makes me happy. You. Why? Because you make me look good. We can't be what we are without all the others who make us what we are. This entry is for you.

Asbestos Crackers

I'm owing my life to Triscuits these days. Why? It is easy to pack a box of Triscuits and a block of cheese for on-the-road eating. It is a ready-meal that doesn't even require peanut butter nor jelly to be spread on bread. It's even faster. As I put in 12 -14 hour days three days in a row, I keep thinking I owe the Keebler elves a letter of gratitude. Yes, I choke on the flakes at times, but I don't tire of such wheat with various chunks of cheese. It feels more sophisticated than a bag of pretzels and a container of yogurt, too.

Now, if I could pack a bottle of wine, as well, that would make me happier, but I'm simply grateful I find moments to eat at all in these long days.

Quirky

I will always have a thing for the Trelawnys of this world. Today, during an observation of a student teacher, instruction was flying here and there and kids were very active. Yet, at the end of the lesson and as kids were departing, this one, young girl walked up to the teacher and said, "Ms. I have dreams. I dream at night and things come true." The teacher said, "That's nice, dear," and continued juggling the zillion papers a teacher has to contend with. The girl went on, "No. I mean I have dreams. I predict things and they happen. They scare me." I had to laugh because the girl was so random with this information and it is perfectly true to what teaching really is, and the teacher responded, "Well, if you dream about me, let me know what's coming my way, okay?" and then moved on with her day.

Professor Trelawny, in my imagination, was the hottest character in the Potter series. That was until Luna Lovegood came along. I like individuals who are odd ducks and this young child cracked me up today. Here was a series of computer lessons, writing prompts, reflections of previous days, attendance, behavior issues, interruptions, paperwork, etc., but this girl stands up at the end of it all and announces premonitions.

The world is better off with people like this. I'm all for the quirky learner.

Molasses Slabs and a stupid joke

It rained. It stayed gray. And on my way home from SU, I stopped by Elderwood with a cup of hot coffee for mom, and a container of molasses cookies -- a perfect remedy for a murky afternoon. They weren't Sherburne, New York, Molasses slabs, but they were decent cookies, nonetheless. Years and years of such cookies were dunked in my morning mocha for a wake-up routine. After snickerdoodles, molasses are my second favorite dipping treat.

And this reminds me of a joke: Three moles were walking up a ladder. The first mole said, "man, do you smell that? I think it's chocolate chip cookies." The second mole sad, "No. No. You are mistaken. That is the smell of oatmeal raisin cookies." The third mole sniffed the air and responded, "Hmmm. That's funny. All I smell are mole asses."