Tripping

In South Lake Tahoe watching leaves do a jiggle move outside my woody-red room. The road's taken me from

Walnut to
Ventura to
Santa Barbara to
Oakland to
Santa Cruz to
San Francisco to
Grass Valley

700 miles so far, 400 left till home.

Before this it was

Fawnskin from
Walnut from
Palomar Mountain from
San Clemente from
Hot Creak from
Yosemite from
Oakdale

Which came after

New York City

The summer started with

Las Vegas to
Zion National Park to
Bryce Canyon NP to
Lake Powell to
Fawnskin to
Walnut to
San Onofre

There are still 50 days left to go before I start my credential/masters program.

Highlights as of yet:

~Paddling up the river on surfboards in Yosemite
~A sultry day of surfing and frying in jojoba oil at Bolsa Chica
~Passion Fruit Margaritas in Greenwich Village
~Picking bloody boysenberries off the side of the highway outside of former Cowboy Capitol of World
. . .

Shut the Smut Up

My neighbor is having a party and so far lyrics are pumping through my window about

getting loose

this is why i'm hot

my hump

it's okay you're an A cup


I'm perusing the internet and found this simple article that gives some good tips on media literacy for kids

http://www.frankwbaker.com/kids_media_celebrity.htm

This god awful music is another story though. Miley Cyrus probably got all naked on the V. Fair without thinking of the reprecussions by listening to these shit lyrics all her life. Maybe I shouldn't assume but little Hannah Montana is iconic for what your daughter shouldn't idolize. Why is a 15 year old all smacked up on V. Fair in the first place?

God I'm getting all itched up about issues of social corruption as the volume of this disrespectful, hypersexed, emotionless smut bangs on my window screen.







Still awake. Reading my brother's class blog. http://mrshawnsperiod4ushistory.edublogs.org/welcome-washington-high-school-juniors/
Touche for excellence.

Synapses

The wind is weaving its way around my dark legs, through my shirt. I plunge down, down, releasing the breaks as the wheels roar fast beneath me. I come to the dirt trail, facing off to a bunny, I meet the lumpy incline. My muscles feel stronger from hiking Angels’ Landing; this gauged by lack of sensation in my calves as I pump. I pump to release my skin from the helpless youth who smack their educators with rude words and apathy. I pump as a form of prayer for the women and men who yearn to climb out of ‘high-risk’ zones with a courageous grip on pencil and book. I pump to forge a connection with my beating mind—my enraged heart. I think of the political commentators who binge news watchers with high drama, the teenagers who cannot communicate with authority except by saying “Huh,” an entire generation only capable of expressing their words in uncommitted text, and the fading paint on Walnut Canyon. I wonder why America’s top priority is safety and what exactly the point of fear is, how I can envision a car swerving, then crash, splattering my brains across the pavement and what the Tribute subhead would say, how the little children would feel about the bicycling substitute teacher who was unfairly sent to heaven. That Edward Norton’s character in ‘Fight Club’ had something going when he found salvation from the corporate cow as his face was socked in, making his blood run clean. Sleeping pills, allergy pills, anti-depressant pills, happy pills, ecstasy, acid, marijuana, alcohol and the strength it takes to lead life pure as a blessing. Nature: its power of transcendence, feeding glory into the moment. As I pump, pump, forgetting that I pump, my soul screams to be free of media conformity, cries for others to hear themselves spewing nothing but caged slang and phrases, never uttering a word of compassion for thoughts or even each other. I want to say to the iconic rap stars that their voice is all some of these kids actually hear, Do you understand the implications of your phattist priorities? slobbered upon all of cyber, print and brain space? Am I making the right decisions, is there such a thing? Am I bound for convention, is it even escapable? If I were you, where would my synapses take me? On the road home, why do I name my mind my cursed enemy?

MAY

Can I get a "Hallelujah" for the month of May?

May!

Is it so that May has looped up behind us already, with its golden poppies and the school year wrapping itself right up? Is it May with Boonville Beer festivals, childhood-friend weddings, and camping adventures to be made? Can it really be that it is May?

I'll tell you, since my last May, it's hard not to be jazzed up about this one. It was one of those months that just remind you how blessed you are to be living in your body; living amidst the people that just so happen to grace your world. I'd never identified a span of 31 days as so darn blissful before. An entire year has past and now, once again, I'm stoked it is May.

Maybe it's some kind of teacher thing. The end of the school year chapter is swiftly coming up and ladies and gentlemen, you couldn't imagine the imminent serenity. I can't even be talking, for I've never even had to write my own lesson plans. Yet when one recognizes the sheer bulk of hours I've spent trying to pump up and organize the children, the notion of summer for a substitute teacher still tastes savoringly sweet.

Something to report: I am no longer a private tutor to the two little boys I spent many an hour with since October. Mr. Dad called me last week to cut me loose, claiming he and Mrs. Mom were looking to revamp their sons' schedules, meaning I was no longer to be a part of their rigorous daily activities. I went into the last two days fueled with energy, admittedly relieved that my services were soon to come to a close. Yet on the last day when I let Alex, the 7 year old, know I would no longer be coming, the look in his eyes bolted straight into my heart. He tried to relay the news to his little brother, Brian, but it didn't seem to register. Now I don't mean to flatter myself here, but if you got to spend an hour a day as a little tyke having Stephanie read you stories and ask you silly journal entry questions, amongst other things, and then bam, parents decide to send her off without even a little warning, wouldn't it be just a tad bit jilting. Such emotional boo-hunk never seemed to enter that household. The expectation to achieve (as a preschooler and 1st grader) mugged up the whole atmosphere of this home that on some occasions even I was overwhelmed, and I am 22. I just hope by eliminating "the tutor" these boys' lives will be enriched with more play time. Play time that I fear, however, will be stuffed up with too much Spongebob, play guns, and chewing gum.



I learned a great deal entering this home every day for two hours to teach these little boys. I learned how people struggle to make the right choices for their children, especially when they are barely afforded the time to know them. From my perceptions of this family (and I'll be the first to admit that one can't truly know what goes on inside another's family) I've come to realize how difficult it seems for parents to know what is right for their children's emotional and cognitive health. In the interim, kids naturally attach to attractive scapegoats to fill up the hole that is drilled by their parent's oblivion to what's really important. I'll give it to you in three words (call me audacious, hell, I know I'm not a parent):



OUR LOVING CONNECTION



Okay, maybe I cheated a little bit on the advice giving, as the term "loving" is so abstract that these three words could be interpreted to mean anything, one might say. And god knows that kids have been loved but still turn out really messed up. I suppose by using this term "loving" I mean to imply all the heart and soul it takes to raise and teach a child correctly. It's not just some simple formula of this and that lessons, and this and that curriculum. As a parent, one has the greatest advantage in the game of life. This kid is made up of you! And damn, yes, there are so many treacherous forces that seem to have the power to interpolate into our children and make them little cyborg robots serving the Man but NO, as a parent the control is still in those soft, bearing hands, in those eyes that look just like your child's eyes, in the ears that have the opportunity each day, even if it's just for a few hours, to listen, really listen to the voice of your child, and to hear what that small voice is trying to say through it's blank-slate cluelessness. And if your child can't say anything because he is too afraid of what you might think, or say in return, to not judge him by the way he fidgets or her performance on a spelling test because your judgement will become your child's whole entire world. Take your hands, and with all the loving you can muster after a grueling day of working for the Man yourself, go home, and convince your child each day, because you are convinced yourself, that together, with love, you can become valuable human beings.

HOLES

Holes in my Street

Verizon is digging thousands of holes into Walnut. My knowledge of this hole digging all began with a rude jack hammer outside my window one warm morning, months ago. Since then, I dodge orange cones wherever I go. Sometimes I get lazy and drive over the holes that have been patched up by soft black gravel that aren't blocked off by cones. The little rocks spit up into my wheels sounding off a mini brigade beneath my ruby vehicle. They're bisecting the roads that take me to work, the store, and other's houses, off with these orange cones. Whenever I am forced to drive on the wrong side of the street, I imagine smashing into someone I know and how meting out the damage would fair. The other day I was taking a jog down Walnut Canyon and this man who I've seen several times over the span of 20 years, but never heard, started cussing to high heaven about the new box that had been implanted into his coveted green lawn. I've never heard so few words sum up such bloody rage.

Why are they digging these holes, you ask?

To make our phone/ Internet system better of course. As if it's not just fine as it is, of course they're going to spend millions of dollars to install the latest technology because otherwise, we'd be stuck with roads that don't have holes in them.

I'm not really that mad about the holes. Sure, they may have chipped off some of my car paint, or bolstered my propensity towards morbid thoughts, but I'm definitely not as mad as the neighbor dude who seemed on the verge of wanting to shoot the guy who cut out the big rectangle of his green property to install some corporate box. But I can't help thinking that these holes do stand for something.

I saw Salman Rushdie speak a few weeks ago and he said something that I'll never forget. He said the purpose of the novel is to open up one's universe. I loved this idea, but to understand it, I think it's essential to know what a little sliver of universe really looks like. How many people get so holed up in their own lives that the universe surrounding them can't even be seen? How many people stand face to face with someone they've known for decades, and still don't know what it takes to communicate with them? How many people relate more with a media-contrived image than with the depths of their own soul?

Rushdie said people in the 21st century don't know how to define themselves anymore, except by what irritates them. Count how many times a day words come out of your mouth; words that are the expressions of your irritations with something. If you weren't talking about your daily dramas and agitations, what would you have to say? What positive examples do we live by when the media constantly makes a commodity out of those that have issues. Having issues has risen above compassion on the "What Makes You Have Character" scale.

the audacity to...

I have this drawer in my desk that doesn't close. It rolls a centimeter open and however many times I try to shut it, it rolls right open again. I tell my dad of the annoyance, as if he should be able to fix it. He's equally astounded by the opening drawer. Isn't the fundamental job of a drawer to close?

I hypothesis reasons as to why it refuses to tuck away in its appropriate position. An answer none other than cheap manufacturing of either the house or the desk seems the most logical. The house is a product of booming tract developments and lacks straight edges; the desk a product of Ikea. I presume the builders of neither prided themselves on genuine quality.

It seems a bit ridiculous to complain. I've had this desk for more than a decade, and I've lived in this house for two. The comfort in having a home is a luxury I know many don't enjoy. Yesterday I was soaking in my tub after a ridiculous day of teaching kindergarteners, thinking of how long I've claimed my bathroom as my own.

I've been thinking a lot lately about Obama's campaign theme the "Audacity to Hope." It's intriguing how such a powerful slogan translates amid the average day's exposures. It is without a doubt that in our country we are at the point of desperation for a savior: a person who courageously defies the corrupt trellises that have made our country a palimpsest of shame. Yet the thing I fear is the word itself--audacity.

[me·ton·y·my--a figure of speech that consists of the use of the name of one object or concept for that of another to which it is related, or of which it is a part, as “scepter” for “sovereignty,” or “the bottle” for “strong drink,” or “count heads (or noses)” for “count people.” ]

Is audacity metonymical for America, and is that part of the reason why so many favor this candidate of keen game and masterful ego? We have the right to be audacious because we are American. We are individual self-seekers who will stop at nothing to attain the best there is to offer because we are emboldened by the sheer disposition that is American audacity. It is without a doubt this audacity has taken us places others in our world may never even fathom. Four cars a plot and the finest granite kitchens! The right to job security and a hopped up Stock Market! Female prostitute's Myspace pictures around every corner and the guilty politician's wife standing beside him!

Audacity! Audacity! Audacity!

It is our plight as Americans to embody audacity with all-mighty pen and sword.

Yesterday, a 5-year old student of mine faced major trauma during computer lab when he got the sudden urge to take a poop. Being that as the teacher I am the captain of all things bathroom (mind you although I do have a controlling personality, I don't pride myself on this variety of control) little Vincent popped up off his computer desk looking into my eyes desperately to report his need for the toilet.

"Go! Go!" I proclaimed.

He ran off, seemingly fearful of the natural force working its way through his rectum. I was astounded as to why. In my childhood, whenever such an occasion came without great strife, I felt sublime relief.

Soon he was back from the toilet, recruiting one of his peers to help. I sent a reliable munchkin to talk him through his dirty work. She quickly returned in desperate need of a male munchkin. In my thinking, Vincent may have just needed some verbal encouragement, who better to send then a kinder role model. They both came running back from the potty in utter despair.

"VINCENT'S IN TROUBLE! HELP! HELP!"

At that point it seemed a desperate time, dire enough for the aid of the teacher. I ran through the halls seeking out the bathroom, when finally, I came upon little Vincent, sitting atop a toilet brim full of healthy shit.

"What is wrong?"

In annoying child garble, Vincent muttered "Tissue... Tissue."

"It is right there. You can do it Vincent. You can!"

"Nooo. My grandma always wipes for me. You have to do it." Oh hell no I didn't. Not to a five year old.

He mustered up the courage to tear off some tee-pee. Wipe! Wipe!

"But how do I know it's all gone? Can you see it? Can you?"

Holy, holy shit.

Later on in the afternoon I observed Vincent asking a fellow classmate if he knew how to do his own tucous work. It must've been an epiphanous moment for him when the boy said, "Ya. Don't you?"

Since then I've wondered why his grandma decided to wipe for him for the past five years. I hope after such a traumatic time on the pot, he's discovered the audacity to do it himself.