I was given this poem in Grade 13. It’s been in my collection ever since. It’s been stuck in my head for several months now, so I thought I’d get it stuck in someone else’s head, too.
Modern Ode to the Modern School, by John Erskine
Modern Ode to the Modern School
September 30, 2009 at 6:14 pm (Creativity, education)
Tags: poetry, John Erskine, Modern Ode to a Modern School, stuck in my head
Becoming a Garbage Collector
September 30, 2009 at 6:10 pm (English Language)
Tags: English, garbage collecting, mediocrity, rant
I’m not fond of absolutes (unless, of course, I decree them). Once again, I’m up against them, though, and they’re ticking me off.
They tell me Mandarin is a perfect language. If one is born in the right place and/or studies hard enough, one can speak “perfect Mandarin”. I don’t know what that sounds like, ’cause it’s all the same to me. (I’m just beginning to be able to differentiate Mandarin and Cantonese.)
I think need to get a tattoo on my forehead: NO, I CANNOT TEACH YOU PERFECT ENGLISH! I can’t teach you to read it perfectly because you will never know every word in the English language. I can’t teach you to speak it perfectly because there are as many ways to pronounce each word as there are dialects and sub-dialects and accents and speech impediments. I can’t teach you to write perfectly because English is too new, and there are too many rules which change either from place to place, or from time to time.
If you’re studying English literature, let us have a little chat about opinions. You are not going to get 100% on any essay because there is no way you are going to get two English teachers to agree on anything literary. If our language is hazy, so is our literature.
I’m also not interested. Mediocrity fascinates me and I am not likely to be deterred in my pursuit of it. I am also of the opinion that communication can only be perfect in that very moment it occurs because communication depends on so many factors that perfection is unattainable. Communication requires at least two people, which necessarily reduces the odds of being understood to half. By the time one considers such things as being heard (is it too noisy in the cafeteria?), being heard properly (was that “man” or “ban”?) and context (birdy: fowl, the victim in a game of badminton, or my great-grandmother?), I’d say we have almost no chance of being understood through language.
Do you not find it strange that science (e.g. chemistry) is explored in sterile vacuums while the arts are left right in the middle of the chaos to be corrupted and polluted?
I think I’d like to be a garbage collector. There are absolutes in garbage collecting: it’s either collected or it’s not. I could teach my students to collect garbage and then they’d get 100% in garbage-collecting class, and everyone would be happy.
My Windows Are Dirty
September 26, 2009 at 3:35 pm (Creativity)
Tags: Laila Muraywid I ain't, photography
I bought my son’s old digital camera from him, ’cause he decided it was inferior and he didn’t have enough control over the settings. I’m finding it rather complicated myself, however…
The thinking behind getting a camera was that I really don’t have enough time to do sculptures and illustrations for my writing at the moment, and digital photography is quick and dirty. I’m not much of a photographer but I’m enjoying playing with it.
I just have to figure out a way to get pictures of my black cat to look like something other than black a blob. I’m also beginning to think the problem with the rabbit always having red eyes may be more of a Bunnicula issue than a camera issue.
Peacock is finally interesting
September 26, 2009 at 3:19 am (education)
Tags: murder?, Thomas Love Peacock, Walaikum
It’s 11:17 p.m.
Walaikum’s essay is due at midnight (the school uses turnitin.com).
The boy is fascinating.
Walaikum returns!
September 25, 2009 at 1:09 pm (education)
Tags: Ms Duzzi-Browne, Northrop Frye, Thomas Love Peacock, Walaikum
On Tuesday I received an e-mail: “uh, Miss, you’re not at the tutoring centre anymore. I need help.”
Walaikum is in Grade 12 this year. He’s absolutely frantic about his marks, of course. (Did you think he’d change?) This is bothering me more than usual because he has The Best English Teacher Ever and I think if anyone could get Walaikum to actually enjoy English, it’s this teacher. I’ve never had any of her students before, and her students only have wonderful things to say about her; even Walaikum says she’s funny and interesting. She seems to know about Walaikum, though, and is expecting a lot of him. This is fine by me (oh, wait, except for the verb tenses; I don’t think she understands English is his third or fourth language, so harping at him about the use of modal verbs in a personal journal really isn’t going to get him anywhere).
I don’t think Walaikum will ever like English, though. He’s the consummate engineer: he wants right and wrong answers; he wants information relevant to his society. The Grade 12s at his school get to read Northrop Frye’s The Educated Imagination; the pre-requisite is summarising Thomas Love Peacock’s The Four Ages of Poetry. Walaikum sat back in his chair and smiled in expectation when he asked what I thought of the curriculum; the boy knows me well….
The Four Ages was a little gruelling until I explained that Peacock was a poet and that the essay was satirical. Walaikum does have a sense of humour – somewhere, under the stress – and the idea that English could be funny warmed him to the essay a little.
I did notice, in Walaikum’s bag, a copy of The Time Machine. He read it last year as an independent study novel; I suspect he’s going to try to use it again this year. My point to the Head of the English Department would be this: Walaikum liked The Time Machine. Why can’t Walaikum enjoy reading instead of having to read god-forsaken Frye? Does it really matter which bag of hot air the student chooses? I want Walaikum to enjoy learning, to use reading as a form of relaxation and escape. If anyone needs to decompress, it’s Walaikum.
Walaikum is good for me, though, because I have no choice but to be my best with him. I spend more time preparing for sessions with Walaikum than I do for any other student. It’s good to know that I am still capable of getting 100% in a high school English class.
Gibran-in-the-making
September 19, 2009 at 4:09 pm (English Language, Writing)
Tags: imagery, James Chaarani, T.Dot Writers
I did manage to get a copy of the Really Great Imagery piece from the writers’ meetup.
If Marie-Claire Blais’ ability with language can drive me off the deep end, you can imagine what this does to me:
from The Sea
by James Chaarani
My mind moved to the horizon, looking for the sun that was tanning my skin. It was too hazy to see, but in that haze you became clear in my mind. I stared at the waves which were bigger than you. I watched them hit the rocks, splash my shins and touch my lips. I tasted the salt and felt like a God—I found a heaven to watch you from.
I could then see you in your prison that you built for yourself.
Do You Know How Long I Contemplated The Question Mark Inside The Parentheses In The Last Paragraph?
September 19, 2009 at 3:53 pm (English Language)
Tags: have sympathy for Roget, language, Marie-Claire Blais
I’m reading Marie-Claire Blais’ American Notebooks (Linda Gaboriau’s English translation). She has a few sentences in there about writing in a language which makes no sense; she is referring to English. The woman must have spoken a fair amount of English at the time, as she had won a Guggenheim Fellowship.
I am dumbfounded by the thought. Blais is one of those people I put up on Literary Mount Olympus, with all the other gods of language. What the hell can she mean by “express myself awkwardly in a language I hardly speak”? This doesn’t bode well for me, who gets so absolutely defeated by the English language (mother tongue and sole means of communication) that Roget’s thesaurus gets yet another flying lesson.
Sometimes my ESL students will growl in frustration when they can’t find a word. I do laugh at them but it’s in empathy. While all communication is certainly a large boulder in the path of my life, language is the most aggravating. Humans invented language to make communication easier; you may ask my poor Roget’s how effective that’s been.
At least Blais seems comfortable writing in French. Why have I chosen (wait, did I choose it or does some Fate have a sick sense of humour?) to make my living through language?
As a teenager, I made money by cleaning houses. There is a certain appeal…
Why Can’t I Write Like The Other Guy?
September 17, 2009 at 3:49 pm (Writing)
The instructions for the writers’ group this month was to write something containing the words “McDonalds”, “chicken-fried rice” and “a piece of s**t”. To be honest, I was bored by the exercise, not happy with what I wrote, and was severely humbled by a young writer who does some of the best imagery I’ve ever read. I’m trying to snag a copy of his piece from last night, and will see if he’ll at least let me post my favourite sentence.
I’m giving up these types of meetings in favour of workshops. There are just a few butterflies flittering around in my belly.
Untitled
The woman’s dark face is a jumble of lines, intersecting and dissecting. The face, void of teeth, folds in on itself. The skin is a dusky brown, like milky coffee left to turn cold. Her eyes flash with suspicion; her head whips around at every sound. She glares at people, at animals, at things which aren’t visible to the rest of the world. Her sandaled feet scuff along the sidewalk, punting crumpled McDonald’s wrappers out of the way. Her foot connects with a dried piece of dog s**t; a stream of filth flows from her mouth, one word indistinguishable from the next. The stream swiftly turns into a low growl, a primal rumbling from deep within her.
She stumbles along with no destination, no goal. The sidewalk is her footpath; the crowds and the traffic guide her in this direction, then that one.
There is a trash can on the street corner, overflowing with the refuse of the city‘s inhabitants. She flings herself towards it and begins sorting through it as though she knows where to find everything. Between mutterings, she crams in cold French fries, handfuls of grey chicken-fried rice, part of a soggy meat patty. She swills dregs of Coke and Dr. Pepper the way alcoholics swill mouthwash: with a desperation inspired by fear. The meal demands her full attention, and she is temporarily oblivious to the people walking by her, those who stare but keep their distance.
She digs deeper into the treasure trove of the garbage can. There is a red bandanna, frayed and filthy; she slowly ties it around her neck, preening/posturing/posing, stroking it as if it were a priceless string of diamonds a lover had draped around her throat. Thus adorned, her hands smooth her blouse, her skirt, her hair. She twirls, watching her shadow on the ground, marveling at the sway of her skirt as it catches the breeze. The sun, beginning its descent, gleams behind her, casting a gold corona around her wild hair.
She is beautiful.
