July

after the pencil soars through is holding off 'til August to announce the Prolific Blog of the Month Award. There's so many to pick from. By August I'll be ready to pick a blog.

June flew.

July I'm gearing
for a second class

and...

Off for now--Enjoy July.

Thanks, Jess for the picture of Jenn's marker. You are a gem.

Boysenberry Muse

and here you are again
my boysenberry muse
you--i

never knew my spirit
and love and body could
create something so charming
so complex so beautiful that

even
the
sun

must be still to praise you

spoken winds harbor in your hair
they told a story too about
a place where dreams are
tangible and you--my

boysenberry muse
are a fussy queen who bickers over
crowds and crowds and crowds of pastels

they say that you breathe well
there and often live in the sounds
of sparkling rivers and traveling rocks
and that sometimes
your presence makes them cry

and there you are again
my boysenberry muse
you--my

absolute soul's deliverance

.02

UNIVERSAL LOSER AWARD goes to....

how does it feel to be brave...?

iphigenia

Some of the best people I know are more brave--to me--than Moses will ever be or truthfully any biblical or mythical character.

Brav·ery
Pronunciation: \ˈbrāv-rē, ˈbrā-və-\
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural brav·er·ies
Date: 1548
1: the quality or state of being brave : courage
2 a: fine clothes b: showy display

I've been busy this weekend with the babies Thursday after studies and Friday into late night. They were certainly a handful - Rubi more so than Abis. But she has rights and demands we meet and honestly being five years old is not easy. We love her change and argument - as long as she's respectful - we let her make her case, i.e., going to the park in 102 degree weather. She argued and pleaded, but this time she lost...for her own good. Another example pancakes at 11:00 at night. She won that one. A final example, playing games for kids (pbskids.org) past midnight. She lost that one.

Abis was good too and has discovered his toes and coos even louder - he actually laughs like a little boy when we kiss his neck and underneath his chin. It's hilarious because he is tickled and happy and coos non-stop. His little arms flail about and when we put our arms underneath his feet, he nearly springs out - his legs are so strong and he is sooooooooo fat. At four, almost five months he is eating gerber apples and carrots. His little lips smacked and smacked at the new tastes and Gera says, "Yeah, he thinks that's a chiche."

Finally, Saturday was our time. We were happy to have it, but love the little time we give the babies. They are worth it. In the midst of a busy weekend and lots to do, I was thinking about the people I know and have watched with my eyes succumb to cancer or to death in general: my 92 year old great grandmother, my very young father, even my brother and Israel came to mind. I always believe, I feel innately that I have been brave in surviving the loss of my only child--and trust me, there were times when I just wanted to go with her--my nostalgia to see her again, to hear her voice again to touch her again was overwhelming in the greatest since--nothing else mattered. It's a phenomenon, an experience that has no language. But I think back on the year 2003 of my father, of my maternal great grandmother - both passed in this same year from cancer. I was thinking of Farrah Fawcett and how brave she and my family members were for facing their enemy and I think about Israel for facing a different kind of enemy.

I will forever wear the shoes of a mother who lost her daughter, but there's a feeling that I don't know and that I am not sure if I could be as brave: facing cancer. To my loved ones who have and who do...you are my hero, now and forever.

my second, last poetry teaching assignment

. . .

My Papa's Waltz
by Theodore Roethke

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

I chose this poem because I think ambivalence is a good start when teaching young students who are new to poetry or who (in my case often at the college level) do not like poetry and will argue that it is unimportant. Also, I had to remind myself that I'm not teaching my classmates, but learning to teach college freshman and the like (what I currently do in my profession). I presented My Papa's Waltz as I often do with my current students, those who struggle with picking a poem, then writing about it.

I presented some images of boxing, waltzing, a child dancing on a father's toes, and a child holding his ear crying. Roethke creates an image in this poem that can be read in two ways if not in others: a moment of fatherly-son play -- a moment of paternal abuse. Specific words create ambivalence and are interpreted either way. There are negative associations and positive ones - although the latter is more challenging to prove.

I like this kind of ambivalence in poetry because it always serves my goal: to ignite contrary sentiments in students that lead to debate. Ultimately, I am usually successful is discussing this work with students because they end up engaging the poem. They become closer readers without even being aware.

In my presentation I experienced some technical difficulties (I don't do Macs), but bounced back with what I hope was grace. A corrupted file, too, is never good. The funny thing is about four female students said to me during a break, "Oh my God, you handled that well. If that was me, I would have cried." And one Ph.D. student said, "You handled that as cool as a cucumber." I guess I understand them, but why breakdown? The point is to teach, even when at times we might have to improvise--a custodian of literature must be able to improvise.

Now, on an even better note, one MA who teaches 9th grade high school presented the same poem as I did, but I think her method is even more effective in sparking student engagement. She has students compare My Papa's Waltz to songs Walk a Little Straighter by Billy Currington and Dance with my Father by Luther Vandross. Very nice method and style. I like this because she brings in the same father-son relations theme but expressed from different perspectives. Her goal is to have students read the latter two, then she asks how does it affect students' prospective of Roethke's work. Very nice!

I've already started my 4,000 word essay. It won't be about Lolita; I'd like to write about Nabakov's work, but it's my experience that poetry is a difficult genre for students to grasp. I'm saving my thoughts, opines and all on Lo for later. I will write on ambivalence in literature and how it seduces students to becoming active participants and yes, even close readers. I'm using sources like Dickinson's "Twas a like Maelstrom, with a Notch" - what does it refer to? How does it make the reader-student participate in her work? By filling in the it does the reader-student sort of write the work with her? And, I'm using Shakespeare's Othello. What is that this Roderigo and Iago initially refer to? Of course, we find out later, but in the beginning we have to fill-in. And what about backstory?

Classes are ending July 7 and I have an even greater presentation coming up. Teaching Nabakov's Lolita; there will be others...professors, students, college affiliates invited to take in our short lectures.

I'm excited about this final project.

RIP

You both remind us that being human is a complex existence. In the end, we are all vulnerable beautiful creatures.

my lil sis kicks boo-tey!

Coming in second at the Lake Natoma Sprint Regatta!



She's a San Francisco paddler---representing North Beach!

for my first teaching assignment

. . .


Dulce Et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

It wasn't easy teaching literature, a poem of choice, to a bunch of Ph.d and seasoned MA students. I was nervous in the beginning, but quickly loosened once the hard, beautiful sounds, assonance in Wilfred Owen's poem read through my voice, off the curves of my lips. If you've never read this poem aloud, try it - it makes you want to cry because the language is beautiful, strong, but you are also stunned and horrified as Owen intends. As long as there is war...this poem...written in response to his World War I experience is timeless.

I was a little worried that a war poem might not set well, particularly once you get to the end and feel the bitterness in Owen's work. But there was such a variety in the poems colleagues chose. Overall, I think my lesson went over well in the short time frame we had - I focused on the strongest literary element: imagery and use of 'children' instead of young men, compound adjectives, and that prominent change to second person point of view. I haven't received my professor's comments yet, hopefully by tomorrow. I have one more to teach and then I have to teach Nabakov's Lolita - I'm looking forward to the latter. I'm so ready now.

Happy Father's Day to my two Daddies, Emmitt and James - the ex-Vietnam War Vets.

And for Father's Day Gera is getting an excellent dinner (caldo de camarones y pescado), a shot or two of gold Patron, and we may drive to the lake if the hot sun permits. He's spoken to his son so they've bonded for the day. We can't wait for the day when Alan comes to live with us. That will be the best Father's Day present.

Gera also said, "Happy Father's Day to you too." I responded with a curious smile, "Why would you say that?" He said, "Because you were Jenn's mother AND her father." Sometimes the sense he makes is too much to handle. It was endearing.

Hope you all have an excellent one and the weather is treating you well!