Neroli's Last Day; or, A Social Story of Sorts

It was the night before Neroli’s last day with Black Diamond’s class. Neroli was asleep. She was dreaming about school. In the dream, she met the School Fairy. The School Fairy told Neroli that before she could go to what comes next, she had to take a test. Neroli remembered how well the students in Black Diamond’s class do when they take tests. She thought she would do her best just as Black Diamond’s class does.
The School Fairy told Neroli that she would have to pick her favorite student. The student that Neroli picked as her favorite would have a great year at school when the New Year came. Neroli thought this was a hard question, but she remembered that she had to do her best, just as Black Diamond’s class does. She began to think about the question. This is what she thought:

Vermillion…maybe I should choose Vermillion. Vermillion is always willing and ready to be a leader and a helper. Vermillion always remembers the words and the melodies when I forget how to sing them. He always can tell when his friends or teachers are feeling happy or sad and knows how to use his words to tell them so. When I trip and fall down, Vermillion always laughs with me about how funny it is to fall down and get back up again. Definitely Vermillion…

Madder…of course, I should choose Madder. Madder always makes friends feel welcome with a sense of humor. When it is his turn to be weather helper, he speaks to the group as if he were a weatherman on the news. He has such a wonderful way of talking about the world. I really like when Madder smiles and gives me high-fives when he’s proud of his good work. Certainly Madder…

Camouflage…well, maybe I should choose Camouflage. Camouflage has so much happy energy, and is always looking for ways to be a helper to his teachers and his friends. He remembers how to do his best work, not to do his fastest work, and that is such a great thing. Camouflage always gives nice words to his friends. When Camouflage and I have to sometimes wait in Teal's office, he makes shadow animals on the wall with me, and that is really fun. Absolutely Camouflage…

Naples Yellow…certainly I should choose Naples Yellow. Naples Yellow enjoys being at school so much. When he is happy, we all know it, and it is contagious. Naples Yellow does such a wonderful job of keeping time and schedule during the day, and what a help that is. He is a really good dancer. Naples Yellow is always patient with me when I ask if he will draw a picture of something for me, and his drawings are lovely. Of course, it’s Naples Yellow…

Cobalt…what about Cobalt? Cobalt has such a way of looking at and noticing everything around him. He uses wonderful words to tell his friends and teachers what he sees. Cobalt has a great smile and is a great playmate to his friends. When Cobalt and I wait after school for his van, he always can point out to me things that I would not have noticed if he weren’t with me. Positively Cobalt…

Rosegold…really, I should choose Rosegold. Rosegold always looks for ways to include all her friends wherever she is and whatever she is doing. She thinks about different ways to write about and draw about what she sees and hears and thinks. Rosegold loves to laugh, and she encourages her friends and teachers to do the same. When she lost her tooth during lunch, she smiled, handed me the tooth, and kept right on eating. Without a doubt, it’s Rosegold…

Prussian Blue…maybe I should choose Prussian Blue. Prussian Blue has so much energy for everything. Prussian Blue thinks so much about his friends and teachers, and is always willing to be a helper. He really loves everything about being in school. He does not give up easily, and he can use this to help himself wherever he goes. When Prussian Blue asks me to go down the slide with him at recess, we laugh all the way down. Really, it is Prussian Blue…


Then Neroli realized that she couldn’t choose any of these students as her favorite. They were all her favorites, each in his or her own way. Neroli wasn’t sure if this was the right answer to the School Fairy’s test, but she knew she had done her best work, just like Black Diamond’s class, and so that was the answer that she gave. The School Fairy smiled. This is what the School Fairy said:

You have passed the test! Each and every student in the class is any teacher’s favorite in his or her own way. Each boy and girl brings something just right to their class…so all these students will have a good year in school in the New Year!
Sometimes it is hard to think about and to do what comes next, and that is okay. Black Diamond, Paisley, and the other special teachers who help them---they will keep on seeing how special those students are. Neroli, you can go on to what comes next.


And with tears in her eyes, and love in her heart, she did just that.

Surprised by the Past; or, Pork and Parathas

Dear reader, I had intended this weekend to finally getting down to the business of answering my friend Artist's questions in this previous post.

I obviously did not get to do that.

What I did do was to finish re-reading Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It is a captivating read: there is so much richness to consider; a gem that one can turn about this way and that to see the what and the how of catching the light.

There are many more qualified persons to discuss Pirsig's metaphysics than I, so we won't be doing that here.

What I loved to think about this weekend's reading was Pirsig's evocation of the ancient Greeks, and how they perceived themselves in relation to time. He explained that in our modern western society, we view ourselves facing the future as we move forward in time and the past is shown our backs; yet, to the ancient Greeks, we faced the past: it was the future that was shown our backs.

What do you think about that, dear reader?

It's true, isn't it, how we have such a habit of reading the past, of seeing our stories as we replay them, tell them, perhaps even perpetuate them, and then, suddenly, as we keep walking backward, we bump into our future?

Isn't that just the good stuff?

On Saturday, BG and I drove to the Indian grocery. I bought the spices I'd need to make and replenish my garam masala. I chose to use dear Anita's recipe for Punjabi garam masala.
Making the masala was at the top of my priority list. I needed it in order to make the parathas stuffed with peas that I was so hungry for, and that are so handy to freeze and to pull out and warm up in the toaster on those evenings when the easiest supper is the only one that will satisfy.
The fragrance of Anita's masala was spellbinding: the freshly-ground fragrance of the masala seeming more akin to a low, bee-humming sound than a smell. In the air as well was the unmistakable scent of the ubiquitous local dish, pork and sauerkraut, cooking away in the crock on the kitchen counter for Snowy, BG, and LG. Whenever that particular dish cooks, always, it evokes family dinners of times past, when we were all children, when my elder brother was still alive, mixing it all into the mashed potatoes, when we were all there at my grandmother's table. Cauliflower does this as well, dear reader.

Sometimes it is easy for us to see the ways that we are different in my family, I am the only vegetarian-Buddhist-post-undergrad-Bollywood-loving-etc., etc. when it is ever so much as easy, it seems, to see the ways in how we fit within our life. As I rolled out and stuffed the parathas, BG eagerly awaiting the first from the griddle the smell of hot iron, of fermented cabbage and roasting meat, of Punjabi garam masala and toasty wheat, BG hitting replay over and over for the title track of the Aaja Nachle soundtrack, it all seemed to make sense, every last bit of it fitted, in place.

Feeling this fit, it was not so much an issue of whether we are oriented in a position to face the past or to face the future. No, rather, it was like floating above that positition, able to see in any direction; and when coming back down to earth, the past, the present, the future, why, yes: they do reach out and receive us with open arms.
That's the good stuff, dear reader.

The next time I make parathas, they will be filled with mashed potato and sauerkraut.
Wish you could be there.

Long Story Short

I got it!
I start with the New Year.

How's your week been, dear reader?

No News Is Good News?; or, The Importance of Being Earnest Redux

Dear reader, dear friend, thank you for stopping by. I'm always glad to see you, I truly am. Your kindness is a very good thing. I hope you are doing well!

I've been away from blogging longer than I had anticipated. The end of the semester, with all its density of work (the end of the semester marking one year of graduate work, dear reader-who would have thought it?!?); the sisyphean feat of arranging with the very large and removed and oftimes disorganized main campus of my university for student teaching placement in my current classroom after the new year; the concurrent application process for the possible teaching position I've written about in my last post; and a bout of head and sinus cold followed in quick sucession by a virulent stomach virus first visited upon LG, BG, and then myself: all of these things have made the days go by very quickly. And of course, the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry...

It seems, in some aspect, as if we've just visited together yesterday; it seems, in yet another, that it's been a great long while.

Truthfully, dear reader, I'm tired. I feel as if the past battered-girl-slut-bitch-nobody and the future happy-girl-boddhisattva-somebody are coming together in some confluence: high and low pressures creating one terrific storm.

There has been no news of the position. No news is good news, as they say.
I've always practiced the thinking and belief that the classroom that is meant to be will present itself to me. I'll continue to think about that.

Today was Rosegold's birthday party. It was a very nice party. R's parents are gracious and convivial hosts. It was a lovely thing to go and laugh and not worry about having to take care of anyone or anything.
R's parents grew up in a different country. As I was leaving their home, R's mother made certain to approach the door and open it in a certain way.
A custom in our country, she said, to make certain that you return again.

Thank you again for stopping by, dear reader. I'll do my best to follow my dear friends' example. I may be Rosegold's teacher, but I am also a student: R and family are most excellent teachers.
Take good care. I'll talk with you soon.


http://www.thefrontdoor.com/ppe/Images/173/ProdGrfx/189030mn.jpg

Break on Through to the Other Side; or, The Importance of Being Earnest

Sweet Frida, Jean Wertz
http://www.wertzcandy.com/chocolate/personal/pers17.html

Dear reader, how are you?
This past week has been a long and busy one here: what with work, end-of-the-semester homework, domestic and familial responsibilites, and my sojourn on the couch for a long hazy weekend of sickness. I am feeling better, and for that, I am glad, for so very many reasons.

One major reason, dear reader, involves my opportunity. It seems only fitting that I share some detail with you, no matter the ultimate outcome.
Tomorrow I will be visiting an elementary classroom in a different school district. It is a small class of children with autism. All of the students are non-verbal.
Their teacher will be leaving around the Christmas holidays. And I, dear reader, am one of the candidates to take that teacher's place.
And that, as Forrest Gump would say, is all I have to say about that.

I wonder what selections we will all be plucking from that proverbial box of chocolates before the New Year?
What do you think, dear reader?

The Two Painters; or, Perfect Timing

http://www.abcgallery.com/K/kahlo/kahlo42.html

Frida Kahlo. The Two Fridas. 1939. Oil on canvas. 170 x 170 cm. Museo de Arte Moderno, Mexico City, Mexico.

Today was a long day. I am feeling under the weather; the students have been sick and I am swiftly following suit.

Prussian Blue, who yesterday went home early due to such an explosive bout of diarrhea that not a stitch of clothing was left unscathed, returned today not feeling quite right. Begrudgingly doing the simplest of tasks, Prussian expressed extreme displeasure throughout by continually signing stupid, a daredevil feat when at one point one of Prussian's hands was holding a pair of scissors. (Yes, Prussian is able to speak; yet when deeply feeling emotions, signing, gestures, and facial expressions become Prussian's mode of communication)

Madder's aggressive behaviors have been increasing in frequency; today some of those behaviors were self-injurious. (Yes, Madder is able to speak; yet when deeply feeling emotions, aggression becomes Madder's mode of communication.)

And so on, and so forth.

I returned home tired, late, and feverish. I checked the mail. I found a package from a Dear Friend. I opened it, and laughed out loud with joy. How wise of you, Dear One, to wait for such a day to drop your treasures in my lap. I love the gifts; I love even more your generousity; your thoughtfulness and your metta. I'm glad you got to see her first.

Thank you!

They say that a person can't help the family life gives to them, but that a person can choose the family that they want to be in their life. Under that principle, you have been a sister to me since we first met.

For that, I am very glad.

Naples, This One's for You; or, A Short Post

Our dear Naples Yellow is one of our returning students from last year. This year, the weather has become an object of perseveration for Naples; additionally, anything but sunny and clear weather has become something that causes much anxiety.
It's bleak and rainy today.
Our lead teacher is out for the next three days.
Naples, this one's for you.



I'm still waiting for the outcome of the opportunity I spoke of earlier.
(Waiting is helping me to think about perseveration: remember, autism falls on a band of the spectrum of human behaviors. We all have these behaviors, more or less.)
For some reason, when I think about waiting, I hear Kahe Ched Mohe from Devdas.




We all have our ways to lessen our worries, yes?

Have a wonderful day, dear reader.

We'll End at the Beginning; or a Preview of Dancing with Sir Isaac

Maimed for Life, Yet Merciful

'I Have to Forgive Him,' Bowie Woman Says of Man Who Burned Her
By Keith L. Alexander

Washington Post Staff Writer

Wednesday, August 29, 2007; B01


Fire changes everything it consumes. But some flames, roaring and dangerous, are more difficult to extinguish.
Patricia Scales still cares for the man who tried to kill her, dousing her with gasoline as she sorted laundry in her bedroom and throwing a lighted cigarette lighter her way.
She still takes Terrance James's calls from the D.C. Jail, listening without saying a word as he cries and tells her that he's sorry.
She keeps dozens of his jailhouse letters to her and their 6-year-old son, Terrance Jr., known as Tank, in two dresser drawers in her bedroom in Bowie. She can't read them all. It tires her fire-damaged cornea.
And yesterday she asked the court to have mercy on this man who disfigured her for life. At the sentencing hearing in D.C. Superior Court was the first time Scales came face to face with James since the attack in December.
"He's my son's father," Scales, 46, said a few days earlier. "He was good. He just lost it."
But Judge Herbert B. Dixon Jr. had other thoughts. Calling the attack "deliberate and cruel," he sentenced James, 48, to 25 years for aggravated assault and malicious disfigurement.
Fire is increasingly a weapon of choice for enraged, jealous men trying to prevent the women in their lives from ending up with another man, domestic abuse experts say. They want the women to suffer. And they want to watch them suffer.
Yvette Cade of Clinton became a national symbol of domestic violence after her husband walked into a store where she worked and set her on fire two years ago. She often gives speeches on the topic.
But Scales does not want to be seen as another battered woman. In an odd and terrible way, she says, the fire has made her realize it is time to turn her life around. Time to give up the crack cocaine she smoked for more than 10 years. Time to plan for the future by enrolling in college and getting a real estate license.
"I am not a victim," she said. "I am moving forward."
She wants to put the case -- distinct from the man -- behind her.
"I have to forgive him to move on," she said softly, almost pleading. "If I hold on to that anger, it will keep me sick."
* * *
Crack was a big part of Scales's adult life, and her relationship with James.
After graduating from Bladensburg High School in 1979, she enrolled at a local cosmetology school. She didn't graduate but styled hair in her home while taking odd jobs doing clerical work.
She met James in 1999 when he delivered newspapers to her apartment building. It was the first time she had been seriously attracted to anyone since she had separated from her husband, Paul Scales. That marriage ended largely because of her drug problems.
At 40 and with a teenage daughter, Scales got pregnant, long after she had given up on conceiving again.
She and James stopped using drugs until Tank was a toddler, Scales said. Then she started using again, off and on.
James was a good father, Scales said. He reminded his son to do his homework, say his prayers and brush his teeth. He bought matching outfits for himself and Tank and attended Scales's family get-togethers. It doesn't make sense, she said, shaking her head: "I have to believe he didn't want to hurt me."
On the morning of Dec. 16, Scales was sorting laundry in her Benning Heights apartment in Southeast Washington. According to Scales's daughter, Taira, 16, James had come looking for Scales the night before. He told Taira he thought Scales was with another man. Actually, Scales said, she had been getting high with a female neighbor. Before James stormed out of the apartment that night, he grabbed a spare key, Taira said.
The next morning, Scales heard the key in the front door. James kicked in her bedroom door. He was carrying a can of gasoline. He threw the gas on her and lighted it.
Flames engulfed Scales's upper body. Pain shot through her body, she says, as if hot nails were piercing her skin. "I felt like I was being crucified," she said. James stood over her as she was burning, saying, " 'Who is in control now?' " she recalled, according to prosecutors.
Scales suffered second- and third-degree burns over 40 percent of her body. She has had 20 surgeries and is expecting to undergo at least two more. She spent a total of 5 1/2 months in the hospital.
Today, pink and brown scar tissue lines Scales's face, chest and arms. The marks trail down her back and legs. Her neck is covered with open sores from her scratching to ease the feeling of bugs crawling over her body, a result of skin grafts.
She has limited use of her left arm. Such simple chores as making her bed are a struggle with only one hand. She can't stand long in front of the stove to make Tank waffles. And she's awaiting a surgery that will widen her mouth to allow her to eat more comfortably.
Scales ingests 12 antibiotics and vitamins a day, paid for mostly by Medicaid. No painkillers because she's easily addicted. She steps into a cold shower 10 times a day and slathers on medicated lotion to cool her skin.
The walls in her house vibrate from gospel music. As each inspirational tune comes across the radio -- "Let Go, Let God" or "Silver and Gold" -- Scales sings along. The songs keep her from feeling sorry for herself, she said. Depression is always lurking. So is the desire to get high. She can't afford a visit from either.
* * *
Scales had always prided herself on her appearance. A photograph graces her foyer wall. In a portrait taken 20 years ago, she is smiling and looking over her shoulder, her doe eyes sparkling.
Looking in the mirror since December hasn't been easy. In April, three months after doctors removed Scales's bandages, an aunt, Frances Washington, visited her in the hospital. Scales was sitting on the bed, crying. Washington marched her niece to the mirror on the wall and made her repeat: "I am a beautiful queen. I am a beautiful creation that God has made. And God loves me so much." Both women stood there in tears. Then Scales laughed.
Family has become a calming salve in the months since she glimpsed relatives gathering around her bed in the burn unit at Washington Hospital Center.
Tank is her biggest protector. He climbs into bed with her to see if she needs anything. He rubs medicated lotion onto her back and arms. A talkative and energetic boy, Tank remembers the morning when he saw his mother on fire, his teenage sister screaming and his father standing nearby. "If I wasn't awake, I would have been hurt too," he said.
Scales is determined that Tank not grow up hating James. She doesn't disparage the father in front of the son. She wants to make sure that Tank doesn't feel guilty or ashamed of talking about his father. "No child should have to live with that," she said. "This is not his fault."
Some family members question why Scales isn't angry at James and why she even communicates with him. Scales says it's an expression of her faith.
"I don't understand that," Taira said of her mother's attitude, rinsing out a cloth that she presses on Scales's neck. "But my mother is still here. So that's what I focus on."
The fire that damaged Scales's eyesight, turning her world blurry, seems to have cleared a new path for her. She plans to become a real estate agent and attend the University of the District of Columbia. She's applied for Social Security benefits. She's sworn off crack and other illegal drugs. The only stimulants she relies on are nicotine and chocolate. She dreams of taking Tank to Disney World during Christmas break.
Meanwhile, for Scales, yesterday was about moving on. She stood next to Assistant U.S. Attorney George Hazel, wiping away tears as he read from a letter she wrote to Dixon: "I have to forgive him. But I'll never forget. God has a plan for him."
She walked back to her seat in the front row, and James swiveled his head to face her. Dixon ordered him to turn back around, eyes front.
"I was wrong," James said, tears streaming down his face. "I am sorry. Very sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. It hurts. I loved her. I still love her. I love my son and daughter."
Dixon gave James credit for his remorse, for pleading guilty and for having a "minimal criminal record." But his words were unsparing.
"These acts you committed were deliberate and cruel," Dixon said. "You intended to punish the victim, and you committed these acts in front of two children."
After Dixon announced his sentence, Scales slumped over in her chair.
"It's over," she said, walking slowly out of the courthouse.
She can now deal with her most immediate struggles.
"God saved me for a reason, and smoking crack is not the reason," she said. "I can't waste another minute or another day of my life."



http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/08/28/AR2007082801755_pf.html

Pel, This One's For You; or, Jizo is Just Alright With Me

As promised, here is a picture of my Buddha made from Potato Head parts. He is a 4-armed Chenrezig . I can't tell you how much I love having him on my kitchen windowsill along with the prisms that throw rainbows about the room.



Here is the little Jizo that I made for my personal Segaki this week. Jizo is often depicted as child-like, so I chose to use a miniature potato head. His gem is a crystal drop coated in dichroic glass. I've worn this pendant for 3-odd years now. I chose to use a set of measuring spoons to approximate Jizo's special ringed and clanking staff. It seemed appropriate.
I like this little Jizo very much.



And Snowy made a pizza!


Hoping all good things to you, dear reader. It was good to visit with you all.
I'll be a little bit busier in the next few weeks than usual.
Remember that fortune from the fortune cookie?
An opportunity is knocking. I'll be pursuing it. I don't really want to tell you about it until it becomes definite, dear reader. What I can tell you is that there is writing entailed in the pursuit. I do so thank you for helping me to practice!
I'll talk with you soon.
Pravs, I'm digging up a jam recipe just for you...

This Buddha Has Four Arms (Brought to You by Hasbro and SRA); or, Good Times Were Had By All

BG had a very good birthday. He did mention, however, that he would welcome a bathtub like the one that Francis had:



Me? This is what I wish for (though in my version the bacon is veggie, the cereal is whole grain and sugar-free, and the Potato Head is fashioned into a Buddha!)


But this music does play into my head often. It seems to fit.
I hope these clips make you as happy as I am: welcome to my world, dear reader!

Trick-or-treat; or, Once When I Was a Hungry Ghost

Mark Rothko, No. 9 (Dark over light Earth/violet and yellow in Rose), 1954
http://www.saatchi-gallery.co.uk/blogon/2006/11/mocas_mark_rothkos_moca_la.php

Dear reader, I've been distracted by assignments for grad school, and I've missed posting even once a week this past week. More importantly, I've missed visiting all of you. I'll be visiting soon, I promise!

Today is BG's birthday. It's exciting to see him mature and grow.

Next week is Halloween and trick-or-treat, as well as Segaki.

I was very much looking forward to the Segaki liturgy at the sangha that I sometimes attend. I don't get to the sangha often, as it is far away. For many reasons, this year, it seemed especially important to send things up in smoke before the Jizo in the little sangha garden.

This year, the sangha's liturgy is on the same night and the same hours as our township's Trick-or-Treat night.

So, as we go door-to-door in our neighborhood, LG will be a pirate.

I will practice the realization that I've probably attached myself to the desire to go to the sangha because I want to do in an external, physical way what I've probably already done in an internal, quiet way. I need to practice the realization that sometimes we humans don't have to show off, to act out.

Trick or treat.

For me, they are most potent hand-in-hand.

Have a great week, dear reader. Be well. I'll see you soon.

Neroli's Day Off; or Gimme Gimme Octopus

Today on my day off I thought I would return to writings about violence and the awareness of violence.
Somehow, while looking for a link about the Milgram experiment, I wound up watching videos from a Japanese children's TV show from the 60's.




My mind just works that way, sometimes, dear reader.
Doesn't it look like he cracked open a star pinata in the second video?
Hope you are having a great week---like a pinata, full of whatever is good to you.
(Fortune-cookie fortunes would be ever so lovely wafting down...)

Time Flies: or, Are You Having Fun?

Dear reader, it's been a week of Very Long Days.
I hope that you've been well.
Last night, we had takeout from our favorite local Chinese joint.
My fortune cookie told me that I was ready to take on the world.
Don't you just love it when that happens?
Be well, dear reader. I'll talk with you soon.

A Visual Strategy Formerly Known as a Graphic Organizer; or, I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends, Redux

If you go here, and type into the box any word that you will spark, reflection; connection, isolation; violence: these were the first words that came to my mind you will see, dear reader, what I think is a representation of what we are all meant to be for one another: when sometimes words are just that; and yet again, they are entirely something more.

Yesterday, at the farmers' market, I saw lovely cheddar-colored cauliflowers, dusky dark leaves intact, furled. I thought instantly of my friends at Jugalbandi. So after a day of connections with family and friends, near and far, I set to making a simple subzi of golden cauliflowers, new red potatoes, and dark green leaves.
It's these simple little things that matter so much, that call out I'm glad to be here.
Thank you, dear reader, for all the good that you do in this world.
I'm glad you're here too.

It's a Fine Line Between Love and Hate; or, DIY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLCG5mNlxnI

I Guess I Was Always a Strange Little Girl; or You Know What They Say About Good Intentions

http://www.abcgallery.com/K/kahlo/kahlo34.jpg
A Few Small Nips. Frida Kahlo, 1935. Oil on metal. 38 x 48.2 cm. Dolores Olmedo Foundation, Mexico City, Mexico.

Sometimes we as human beings are our own worst enemies.

Sometimes, we think that if we are only good and patient, strong and determined---if we are these things, we will prevail against conditions that are not positive or healthy.

When we make this contract with ourselves and with the condition that we find ourselves occupying, we begin the process of losing control: we've turned against ourselves.

And so it begins: we paint ourselves into a corner.
That's where violence waits.
Shame is most obliging in keeping us there.
(It's only a few small nips: who are we to say otherwise? )
(Remember that the sky isn't really blue?)

It is good at biding its time; in fact, that is what ensures its success---sure and complete.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCgURAkrtY8

Some of us have never been lucky.
I've grown tired of waiting. I've fashioned my own luck. Now:
I'm one of the lucky ones.
Who are you?
And what sort of world do you wish to live in?
(Let's tell it like it is and live it as if it's already here.)

Neckties, This One's for You; or, I Love to Laugh (long and loud and clear)

Dear reader, my good friend Neckties reminded me of a song that always made me laugh.
We got a good laugh out of it.
Please do join in.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHI0Cz3JjbM

Have a great day. Thank you for stopping by.
I'm always glad to see you.

Why Doesn't She Just Leave?, Part Two; or, Multiple Views of the Same Problem

I didn't make it in time to intercept my son.

I needed to go back to the game of cat-and-mouse-sky-isn't-blue. Being the mouse, I was already at a disadvantage: being beaten black-and-blue (when I see someone bruised, even today, I can guage the timeline of their injury by the color of the bruising: it takes a decided sequence of color progression---greenish-yellow means you're almost home free), I was even more so. Unable to lift my arms even a little, unable to perform even the simplest of tasks (no cracked skull or socket, but the ribs: well, they weren't as lucky), in order to stay close to my son, to stay ready for the time we could literally escape, I had to return in the care of X.

And so it was X who would brush my hair; it was X who would feed me and the baby. It was X who dressed and undressed me; who laid me down, but not to sleep.

Why doesn't she leave?

Because sometimes she understands that she must maintain frozen: fixed in position, down in the trenches. It's a war of attrition.

And so they wait: holding patterns.

Children are worth the wait.

She knows this is the only thought that makes sense; and to have a thought that makes sense seems a secret luxury.

He knows this; he knows she is thinking this.

She knows she may only get one chance.

As does he.

Why Janey Can't Speak; or, This Is the Picture

Why Janey Can't Speak is, as I'm certain you recognize, a riff on that worn catch-phrase Why Johnny Can't Read: a catch-phrase that has come to be just that, a catch-all-function phrase, one that is as is rhetorical; one that assumes the listener or the reader receives it in the negative. It signals: something is not right here.(Why doesn't she just leave?)

This is the picture.

Any similarity to persons living or dead is entirely intentional.

Hospital photo circa 1992

Janey can't speak because she is coming out of shock, quite literally. She had awoken on the floor in the same place she finally came to rest the night before. So far this morning, she has convinced the person who did this to drive her to the babysitter and drop off the toddler the baby hit her with a hammer, he said as the babysitter peered at her through the windshield of the car and drive her to work. She went into shock before she could assume her place on the line. She got to ride in an ambulance. They cut her clothes from her to assess the extent of her injuries on the way. She's embarrassed by this. They know her husband did this to her. Perhaps that is why they don't also assess her for rape. It's just as well. She would have been even more deeply embarrassed by that.

She's met by a trooper upon her arrival to the ER. He stands over her; he wears his uniform. She's laid out on her gurney, dressed in a paper outfit. He's talking to her about pressing charges.

She's cold. She feels like death, literally; it's hard to concentrate on what he's saying. She's embarrassed to have a man there, a stranger: usually, she is not allowed to speak to anyone. To enforce this, there is no telephone at home; she is watched at work, and at home---even in private moments in the bathroom, to shower, to toilet---and sometimes she is bound. Talking to people has become painful and uncomfortable to her. Remember operant conditioning? She and those rats would have a lot to talk about.

Deep inside her head, at the tail of at what seems a long winding thought, in the deepest part of the nautilus shell that is her skull is it cracked? two young girls snapping gum and bantering back and forth about, of all things, boyfriends---this x-ray tandem-team will direct her to contort in fixed positions, face pressed against the glass, to determine this (it's not) she can hear and see and feel the minutes ticking by, becoming lost: she remembers before being loaded on the gurney that the plant management said they would stall him so that she could somehow get her son and get away. She knows that even if she understood, and had the energy, the force of will to engage with what the trooper was asking---she knew that it would cost time that she could not afford.

Time doesn't pay sometimes.

When you are in these kinds of situations, you are always choosing between the devil and the deep blue sea. Your thinking becomes thinking that no one else can quite understand; it becomes response-cost thinking, save for the part about the cost being logically related to the response. You learn sometimes to agree that the sky isn't blue, because, well...it may result in less of a negative situation than insisting that it is.

We'll call that the devil in our two-option menu, as blue is reserved for that deep-blue sea.

So sometimes you decide what you can afford to lose; sometimes, more importantly, you decide what you cannot.

And that, dear reader, is why Janey can't speak.

Janey, of course, is me.

And as I dislike having the above image lingering in my mind, and the entire purpose of this month is to speak about hope and survival, I leave you with a different image:

Neroli, as drawn by Naples Yellow, 2007

And yes, dear reader, it is possible to be that happy.

We who survive are proof positive; you, dear reader, are our witness.

What Do Fleet, Massengill, and the Name of a Rush Album Have in Common?; or, My Apologies to Lee, Lifeson, and Peart

Something in me, dark and sticky

All the time it's getting strong

No way of dealing with this feeling

Can't go on like this too long

I'm digging in the dirt

Stay with me I need support

I'm digging in the dirt

To find the places I got hurt

To open up the places I got hurt

----excerpted lyrics from "Digging in the Dirt" by Peter Gabriel.

Tonight my county is beginning the observation of Domestic Violence Awareness Month a day early. The community event is called A Show of Hands.

For myself, the irony of naming the event after the easiest, and therefore, one of the most common weapons of choice in domestic violence situations is somewhat uncomfortable.I don't much care for the term domestic violence. It sanitizes it: pretties it up somehow.

For instance, in spoken language and in what is written on the package, an enema is just that: an enema; even the graphics on the box are generic, straightforward.

Yet a douche? It's feminine cleanser. The graphics on the box are most often limpid, flowery. Most importantly, those things aren't really of any use: a woman can actually do more harm to her body than good in using such a product.

Just tell it like it is: get rid of the crap; then leave well enough alone.

But I'm uncertain as to what to call it, this very specialized form of violence: a product of any silence that has ever met any violence against those perceived as weak---be it stranger-to-stranger; familiar-to-familiar. Putting words to things has never been my strongest suit.

But A Show of Hands?

Maybe my visual way of thinking is too informed by images of experience. I'll take good intentions wherever they may be found, dear reader; and really, we all help each other that way, don't we?

A Show of Hands

Hospital photo circa 1992

Nurses holding back hospital gown to show bruising---some of it taking the shape of the hand of the abuser.

Preview of Coming Attractions; or, ...Silence Is the Mother of Violence (Silent All These Years)

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month here in the U.S.
Here at neroli.108 we will not only observe this, but look at the topic of violence against women in total.
I'm going to be digging in the dirt.
I invite you to stay with me, dear reader:
most likely I will need your support.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Do60c1OtEf4

Random Non-attachments; or, A Short Post

Pop culture has been a consistent source of amusement for me, particularly when it behaves as its name suggests: when it "pops" out of nowhere. You know me, dear reader---cognitive dissonance is one of my favorite jokes.
Madder was having one of his verbal episodes yesterday, on the way to the bathroom:

Man Raid, Man Raid---
the Dir-ty Bub-ble! the Dir-TY BUB-ble!
(repeats)

And, dear reader, if Frida coming in November doesn't already make that month extra-special, look what else does!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XuiH9jzHr_U

And also: Myanmar is very much in my mind.

My faith practice asks me to see all these things as "pop."
Sometimes that joke just isn't as funny.

Namaste, dear ones, all.

I Can Only Dance with the Ones That I'm Given; or, Don't Go Changing to Try and Please Me

Today Cobalt's mother hurried up to me as she was dropping Cobalt off for school.
She was flushed, excited.
I don't often see her with this kind of smile, dear reader.
She began to tell me how she had been doing a lot of reading. And that she had a plan for Cobalt.
She wishes to cure Cobalt of autism.

Autism can be reversed, she said. I've seen it.
Cobalt is doing very well here at school, I say.
But Cobalt could be doing so much better, she says.
She pats Cobalt on the head as she says this, in front of all our students who I've brought on this sunny day to greet their friend.
Jenny McCarthy and Oprah have unwittingly caused more people to feel---well, a strange happiness that comes from promises of changing unhappiness: the kind one feels when it is felt that what you have just isn't good at all.

I think about Cerulean, who is, at last account, on the fifth classroom placement in four years.
I wonder if Cerulean yet receives plankton, hyberbaric oxygen, crystal therapy, and the like.
I think of Cerulean's family.
Of how they would be over-the-moon happy---if Cerulean was at the same place that Cobalt is.

I thought yesterday about beginning a different meditation practice into my routine: the making of enso. One every day.
After my encounter with Cobalt's mother, I think tomorrow is a good place to start.
Namaste, dear reader.
Namaste:
Cobalt
Naples
Vermillion
Thalo Blue
Rosegold
Madder
Camouflage
and
Cerulean

Pop Art?; or, More Topography of Motion

Find this image, and the explanation behind it, here.
I find it most beautiful.
What do you think, dear reader?

Topography of Motion; or, Another Short Post

I love videos, as they are a way of showing motion as a visual. It's a favored form for me.
Often, when I hear sounds, they process for me in a very visual way; just as when you twirl a sparkler in the air, it leaves a light trail behind, ever so briefly, ever so brightly: topography of motion, fading to a still as it dims on the retinas, slowing to silence.
It looks something like this: though I see motion, not specific images that speak to a referent.
It's something that makes me happy.
How's your week been, dear reader?
I'm always glad to see you.

And Pinch-Hitting for Neroli...; or, A Short Post

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9cE6Pg2q3lI

Business As Usual; or, I Get By With a Little Help from My Friends

Dear reader, yesterday wasn't a Perfect Day.
But I managed to be able to approach the challenges that presented themselves as a more refreshed and reinforced person: in no small part due to the community that you bring with you and that you share on your visits with me.
I do so love a reality check.
Blue skies, dear reader: they are always there, though often obscured.
It's the knowing that they are there that matters.
Enjoy the day, knowing that blue skies are only a matter of time, dear reader.
Thank you for visiting. I look forward to seeing you again soon.

All Is As It Should Be; or, Why Bread and Chocolate Make Neroli Cry

Will you do me an occasional favor? A friend in need is a friend indeed.

http://www.indiana.edu/~liblilly/valentines/valentine3_1.html


Dear reader, today was Not A Very Good Day, for all manner of reasons I won't go into here.

I worked very late and arrived home long after everyone was finished with dinner. Being the sole vegetarian in the household, it is not unusual for the rest of the family to start to eat without me. They know I'll pull up a chair with a salad bowl in hand if I'm particularly rushed for time. Tonight, out of sorts and out of time, I didn't want my usual quick salad; I didn't want to eat the same food that I'd been eating all week---food that I had cooked for myself on Sunday to warm up at work: in truth, feeling my not very good day still weighing on my shoulders, I really wished someone to make something for me.
The closest I come to this is the local Taco Bell and its bean burritos, dear reader. And so I went.
It was just one of Those Days: even my mail was not delivered properly; I know this only because a strange car pulled into our driveway in the late evening bearing a package for me---delivered by mistake to the wrong household. Inside: the starter from Bee and Jai, complete with instructions folded into a lovely card---and a container of fudge brownies.
Opening this package, and seeing this kindness, my wise friends arrived in spirit with their gifts of bread and chocolate.
On a day I most needed it, it was good to have someone fix something to eat for me.

See, I hear them say, it's just as it should be.
Thank you, my friends: it's just what was needed.
Namaste.
Tomorrow is another day.
Rest assured there will be a brownie in my lunch tomorrow.



Accept this tribute of my sincere regard.
http://www.indiana.edu/~liblilly/valentines/537.html

There's a Bakery Past the White-washed Pooh; or, A Short Post

http://www.mcgeeproductions.com/art.html

Tonight I was driving home from university.
I passed a commercial bakery, and smelled a yeasty, dense, slightly chemical smell, as if I were the proverbial Princess of the Pea , sitting on a pile of mattresses---if the mattresses were all plastic sacks filled with spongy white-bread hot dog buns.
It made me laugh.

I laughed imagining myself as such a princess; I laughed imagining that the bread starter making its way in the mail from Bee and Jai must smell so differently, so elemental and alive in its fermentation.
It's funny to me how things dance together, as if they are so much dough and freshly ground spices, dry fruits soaked to swollen, rising up in the heat of the oven: absolutely delicious, absolutely worth passing around to share.
Don't you think?

The Importance of Being Earnest; or, Can You Hear Me Now?

Julian Schnabel Ethnic Type #14 1984 oil, animal hide, wax and modeling paste on velvet; 108 x 120 http://www.artcritical.com/DavidCohen/SUN98.htm

Ecstasy of St. Theresa Gian Lorenzo Bernini, 1647-1652
Marble, height 150 cm
Rome, Santa Maria della Vittoria
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Ecstasy_St_Theresa_SM_della_Vittoria.jpg

One of the things I enjoy about my friendship with the blogger Artist Formerly Known as Purple Worms is our ongoing dialogue about the nature of art, and the relationship of art to artist. We've been engaged in this topic, off-and-on, for several years now.
It never gets old.
So when I wrote an earlier post about kitsch in response to reading Howard Gardner's take on the matter, I was fairly confident that AFKAPW would definitely be game to engage in the matter. And so she did!

AFKAPW wrote about kitsch yesterday in response to my earlier post. She informs us as to the origins of the word, and all the cultural attachments that are both origins and results of the word's usage. Please follow the link to read; she is ever more erudite than I, and I therefore won't attempt to paraphrase her words.
In her conclusion, she ekes out the relationship, if any, of art to kitsch:
Is kitsch art? So that gets me back to one of my all time favorite paradoxes - trying to define Art. (Capital A art.) When push comes to shove, I guess I resolve the issue by narrowly defining what I believe to be art. FOR ME (please note that narrowing there),
Art must

1. Communicate some kind of message or meaning (The meaning may simply be that art in the past has been ovely wrought and fraught with meaning and I am protesting against this past idea or that art has ignored the craft of working carefully with its materials.)

2. It must have access to and address society and issues important ot more than one person (thus be seen or heard - if it stays in the bottom drawer - for me it is not art - it is creative expression.)

3. (And here is the one that upsets lots of my colleagues in the Art department) It must have ideals, and have more than a superficial level - it must communicate about something metaphysically important (yes the nature of art itself fits in this category) In short for me art must speak to truth, justice, beauty or some such form.For me this solves the problem of kitsch. If the object is superficial with no depth, then it is kitsch. Now we have the question of audience - for me - if there is a group that finds depth in the object (it has a social/societal component) it is art. Of course that doesn't make it good art, but it is Art.

As is our custom, her words are most thought-provoking for me.

So under these conditions, how do each of the works above measure up?
One is Bernini, one is Schnabel; each labeled as Serious Art: yet the frequency of the transmission, the style of the communication is very similar.

Or is it?

AFKAPW speaks to the referent.
Is the referent absolutely necessary?

If so, how can each of us agree to the referent? Perhaps one could agree with others that the best referents that Art may address are the examples that AFKAPW gives: truth, beauty, justice, or some such form. Yet if this is the case, does it not also seem appropriate that such referents, such ideals, by their very nature, need many ways to be spoken of, the proverbial elephant to the blind men?

She then writes that :
I get tremendous joy in kitsch and alas I have to report it is in a different way than my tender and compassionate friend Neroli finds kitschy joy. I am at heart a nasty and critical individual. While my generous friend Neroli joys in the abundance of feelings and its excessive expression in kitsch, I have to admit to enjoying it as Schadenfreude 9another one of those untranslatable German terms). May the universe forgive me, but I get a certain vindictive glee out of laughing at the grotesquely exaggerated nature of kitsch and looking down my nose at. I just can't quite escape that one-up-man-ship inherent in being an insider looking at the ostracized outsider. In short I am the worst kind of snob. While Neroli laughs with, I alas laugh at. Now I will go to my zabuton and try to meditate on the nature and necessity of compassion and yes after all that I still love kitsch and find it stupidly reassuring.

And it is here that my experience with kids on the spectrum of autism and pervasive developmental disorders comes to bear: my feelings and thoughts about kitsch have everything to with my life experiences and nothing to do with any positive character attributes; all of us have generousity and compassion.
Communication, in all its forms, has become more and more my focus of interest. When I first came out of the gates of early adulthood, I thought that art was my passion; since my experiences of living so long with violence and isolation, and the subsequent implications of their workings in living without them, I've come to understand that it is really communication(Perhaps that in and of itself could be a component of a working definition of art?), particulary outside of the verbal realms , that engages me. Working with autism has brought this fact into focus.


Often, our kids with autism will speak to the same kind of referent that our kids without autism do; yet will do it in such a manner that would appear, if I may, kitschy: they are often displaying behaviors that anyone would be able to produce, and would be considered socially exuberant, exaggerated, or without any congruency at all to situational context. Yet, these behaviors are communciation nonetheless.
To extend the metaphor: often, these kids will produce opulent velvet paintings when their general-education-population peers are producing Zen brushwork: both are happy responses to the same experience.
For example, I've known one little person that we'll call Naples Yellow. In response to a happy feeling, Naples would jump up and down, pigeon-toed, all the while with one arm half-extended to the front, elbow bent, as if drawing another person into a one-armed hug; the opposite arm extended out, its hand moving in rapid circles, hitting that one-armed-hug-hand on the downstroke to affect a rapid and rhythmic clap, all in time to the jumping.
The other students?
To continue the metaphor: once they understood that this was Naples' way of saying "I'm really happy about this," they made room to hang this baroque, kitschy work next to their own.

Generousity? Tenderness and compassion?
Children making room for one another, often despite the models given to them by less enlightened adults.
Arguably the best Art of all; art with a capital 'A.'
There's the makings of that kind of Art within us all; there's the means of receiving that sort of communication within us all; and there's most definitely room to hang it all on the wall.
You'll know it when you see it, dear reader.


http://handicraft.indiamart.com/gifs/velvet-painting.jpg
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/c/cd/Original_face_enso.jpg

The Fashion Show; or, A Short Post

Lucy, to Ethel: Why must you act like such a rube?
Ethel to Lucy: Because I am a rube!

I just adore Ethel's attitude.

This Is the Good Stuff; or, I Go Dancing In (Thanks, Peter Gabriel)

It seems a long week to me this week, dear reader.

I'm looking forward to the weekend; I'm looking forward to visiting those of you who have your own blogs.

Keep the light on for me, okay?

Coming to the end of the first week of school and of the fall semester of grad school, I'm thinking so much of all the good stuff we managed to wring out of the last week of summer.

Come and remember with me.

LG and I went peach-picking with Vermillion and his parents.

Snowy and I enjoyed being outside in the backyard with our kiddos running about.

LG picked apples in our apple tree, from the vantage point of the "raft" that he and BG had built. See the red Crocs?

BG, being a Very Tall Person, did not need the vantage point of the raft in order to pick apples.

We went to the river. See BG, wearing a white shirt, searching for crayfish?

LG and Snowy climb a Very Big Hill at the river together. Here they are at the top.

See Snowy in an orangey shirt and LG in a light blue one? They've reached the top! They are about to come full-speed-ahead, running back down.

I love to think about these things when I'm tired, and wondering if I'm just spinning my wheels.

It helps put things in perspective for me.

What does it for you, dear reader?

Truth in the Platitudes; or, No Old Sayings Were Harmed During the Writing of This Post

weaving draft (pattern for a woven design)http://www.cs.arizona.edu/patterns/weaving/books/SAMPLES/hj_draft.gif

Dear reader, you know how you can view an old saying: as a glass half-full; as a glass half-empty.
Just this weekend, as a matter of fact, I was listening to the Roykos, parents of a son with autism, describe their reaction to platitudes on the radio program This American Life---old sayings such as that well-worn war-horse of expression, the one that exhorts us that we will overcome hardships as we are never given more than we can bear as our lot in life.
I believe the Roykos recommended the proffering of that platitude as an invitation from one who was just itching for a fight---as the saying goes.

It's been a challenging year this year, and continues to be so.
Just when I have been feeling as if the wind is somewhat slack in my sails, so to speak, our new school year begins.
Enter one particularly tiny, affectionate, happy little person: a brand-new kindergardener, cute as a button, who walked into his new classroom for the first time, face solemn with the magnitude of his excitement, and melted into an illuminating smile and into my arms, giving me a bear hug and several quite hearty thumps on the back in the process.

Can I tell you what a special thing that is?
Can I tell you what makes it all the more special?
When I was a little girl, my grandparents lived in one half of a house; the other half was occupied by another couple their age. These good people were as grandparents to me as well, after a fashion---or at least a flamboyant aunt and uncle. I played with their grandsons as a girl, even though they were a few years younger than myself.
My new little friend, of the thumping bear hugs, is the great-grandson of my grandparents' neighbors, son to one of my childhood playmates in my grandparents' backyard.
As always, in her fashion, my grandmother seems to support me in deep and quiet ways.
This is the picture, this life says to me. See the pattern?

Life's full of the good stuff: the surprises and the guffaws, and a few thumps to the back from a tiny fellow with a huge heart can dislodge whatever may stick in your throat.
Free from obstruction, you are free to say yes.
Free to say yes to the good stuff; free to laugh at everything else: warp and weft, all part of the whole cloth.
I wish the same for you, dear reader.

That's my story. I'm sticking to it.

Happy First Day of School; or, Neroli's Little Helper

Dear reader, as you might imagine, our kiddos often require their teachers to bring as much energy to the day as they can muster.
Sometimes music is just the thing to bolster one's energy levels.
Here's the music that was running through the back of my head today, on the first day of school: it saw me through cartwheeling in the classroom to shoes removed and thrust in my face for smelling to insulin checks to the understandable impatience of a kindergardner who wants his pizza, please---all the while having to wait for a twenty-minute-long-wait in line in order to get it.
Happy first day of school!

I'll talk with you soon, dear reader.
Take good care.

A Private Showing; or, Out and About

Today we all went to see Mr. Bean's Holiday. Choosing to attend the early matinee, we had the entire movie theater to ourselves, something we enjoyed immensely.
The movie is perfectly beautiful, and beautifully happy. The ending was perfectly wonderful, and in what is becoming more and more my usual fashion, I got a little teary-eyed with happiness.

What a wonderful thing to laugh out loud, dear reader.
You know what I mean?

My Initial Reaction to Min's Reference; or, Navigating the Waters, Ancient-Mariner Style

There is no place for humiliation in the course of managing individual behavior;
behavior is a learned response, one that is predictable;
behavior exhibited is the best effort available at the time for a successful outcome by the individual:
these are the three assumptions from which our learning in class will proceed.
---Angela Kirby-Wehr, on the operating principles of functional behavioral analysis, and excerpted from my class notes.


Those assumptions are both ballast and Polaris: they are what help one keep an even keel and chart a steady course in sometimes uncertain waters.
Be assured, when we go to Meet Children Where They Are, it is well worth it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FFE3zUKmyU

And in the Role of the Witch of the West; or, Dependent-Arising Thoughts and Other Suprises

Dear reader, 1939 US film The Wizard of Oz has been referenced in yesterday's post as well as today's. I've included the hyperlink, in the event that you would like to read more about the film.

One of the things that I do not enjoy about working with the students and families that I do is that I sometimes experience dependent-arising thoughts in some of the remarks made to those of us in the field of work. I have been trying to grow an attitude of gratitude for the opportunity to break the cycle of dependent-arising when these instances do happen. I know they will always happen. So far, this attitude I wish to grow is a seed I hold in my hand; sometimes, I think that I've sown it: yet, with a fresh remark, I find that it's still nestled in my hand.

For instance, our classroom is in an entirely different building in the district. A support staff team member who had first expressed delight at our coming (I can't wait to get my hands on them. I love those autistic kids) entered the room yesterday and expressed the desire to come and visit from time to time as, even though our students will keep their former support member (as planned by design), she still wished to visit because, well, that's my little quirk. I love kids with autism.

Kids with autism?
Children are, and will always continue to be, children. Plain and simple.
Autism? A part of the whole child. Please make no mistake: these children are not broken.
The quirk, if one could call it that, and I do so here only to parallel the semantics---the "quirk" should be that you love kids.

You might think that I am referencing our newest quirky friend when I referenced the Wicked Witch of the West in the title.
Don't be too certain of that, dear reader.
It may very well be me, dependent-arising.

So I'll think instead about the young, enthusiastic women who came into our classroom yesterday morning instead: our students leave the room for specials, such as music and art, and these ladies are the general education teachers with whom our students will work for these things. They wanted to know what they could do to help our students; they wanted to know things such as their birthdays and the spellings of their names, so that our students would be included in their rooms in tangible ways: names on the birthday charts, name tags on desks.
A gentle reminder to their classmates in that room: I'm coming, I'll see you soon.
And for that, I am grateful.

Gratitude?
I'm finding, dear reader, that it can be found---even though we may have to shift our focus elsewhere---or perhaps, not even focus elsewhere; but rather, relinquish that focus to a gaze: allowing us to take in more than we had previously, allowing ourselves to be surprised at the goodness that we may find.
I love a good surprise, don't you?

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are; or, Kiddos, They Say, Were the Names of the Stars

Look, dear reader!
It's our K-1 Learning Support Room, straight ahead. We've been working very, very hard to make a wonderful, beautiful, exciting place for the new group of munchkins coming through; and we want our second-year munchkins to be even more excited for first grade than they were for kindergarden!
It's hard to believe that there were stacks of boxes, no clear table surfaces, and a supply closet flood that made the carpeting very wet, isn't it?

http://www.wizardrealm.com/wizards/fantasy.htm
http://www.allposters.com/-sp/Glinda-Posters_i1636223_.html

Look, here's Neroli! She's very, very, tired.





Why is she smiling, you ask?
She's all dressed up.
She's getting ready to meet her new students for the year. She's very excited about that.
She's excited to meet their parents.
She hopes they will like the room and their teachers very much.
She's getting ready to see three of her kindergardeners from last year walk through the door as first graders.
Sometimes she feels that spending her days working with these wonderful kiddos is Too Good to Be True.
So she'll do this:

Nothing happened.
No wonder she's so happy.
It already is just like home.


Tomorrow is open house/meet your teacher day.
Can you tell I can't wait?
All eight of you---I'll see you soon!


Just checking!
I'm glad to be here.
I'll talk with you soon.

La Femme Orchestre; or, the Best-Laid Plans

Dear reader, I am unexpectedly called back to work today; grad school resumes tonight.
You know what they say about the best-laid plans.
Enjoy the day.

To See or Not to See?; or, Preview of Equilbrium

http://www.thyroidmanager.org/Chapter13/13-text.htm

Figure 4. Nodule in isthmus of the thyroid which is "hot" on the sodium pertechnetate Tc 99m scan (left) and "cold" on the I131 scan (right).

After a pleasant morning with Big and Little Guys before their first day of school (side note: BG took my breath away when he came downstairs this morning. He made some extremely tasteful selections at TJMaxx---and looked quite handsome in dark Perry Ellis jeans, new black Chuck Taylors, light blue tee with a sky-blue-and-white-checked button-down shirt over---hair done just so. He's growing up so well, to take such pride in himself, that smile when he knows he looks great in clothes he not only chose, but bought with his own paycheck: it's a lovely thing to behold, and I'm happy for him), I went down to the coffee shop to see the old gang.
When I came home, I sat down at the computer to finish reading a review of the new Mr. Bean movie on the NYTimes website that I had begun before leaving to see Little Guy off at the bus stop (side note: LG took my breath away with the clarity and magnitude of his smile as he sat perched by the window, waving: I know he is always homesick the first few days of school, and that one of his strategies this year is to smile an extra-big smile when he feels this way; he's learning to figure out this thing called life on his own, and his brave little heart shown in his smile is a lovely thing to behold, and I'm happy for him). After finishing the review, I scrolled down the page, and saw a review for a film I'd not heard of: Descent, with Rosario Dawson, an actress I've always liked very much. The reviewer tells us that the movie is difficult to watch in its cruelty and violence, and that Ms. Dawson gives a magnificent performance, likening it to DeNiro's in Taxi Driver. The reviewer also wrote that, and I paraphrase here, Descent makes Irreversible seem not so terribly violent or cruel after all.

Dear reader, my relationship with violence has been an intricate one, and one that is difficult to articulate. Although violence has long been part of my past, it somehow still informs me; as if violence were a radioactive contrast, shot into my veins: but the half-life is an exceedingly long one. Or, alternately, it seems as if it is the stuff in me at a cellular level, those very atoms that wake up and spin to the larger magnet's tune in the MRI tube. When I read about the story of Descent, it is as if I am in the MRI, and I can feel the violence rise and move: excited, resonating.

Hidden is not the same as nonexistent; it's one of the first cognitive benchmarks we achieve as we grow.

It is because of this that I still will often feel strangely compelled to learn more about violence, and more specifically, how have other people dealt with violence in their lives, and what can I learn from it?
For sometimes, to continue the medical metaphor, one just wishes for the one pill to swallow that will Make It All Go Away; or at the very least, manage the symptoms.
And so sometimes, when confronted with things such as the movie Descent, I think that I should avail myself of the opportunity to learn something: to see that mythic story in another incarnation, to get a different picture, to affect a more fine resolution to the picture that already exists for me.
But what it comes down to, dear reader, is this: a film is a film, a story nonetheless. I've come to believe that it is not so much a learning experience for me to access such stories as it is a diversion, a distraction, from the telling of my part of the story: one of an infinite number of stories that make up this life, this world.
So I won't seek out this film. I can only voice my experience to you that violence is a potent substance, more problematic than one knows at a cursory glance, or even after much study.

It's a relatively new thing, in the scheme of things, to be thinking about my own story, this sequel, a follow-up to violence. Rather than listen to the recommendation of one who won't reveal an ending, only telling you that it is grim and shocking, it's a relatively new thing in the scheme of things to look ahead for the good stuff.

I'd highly recommend it.





http://www.mathworks.com/academia/student_center/homework/biomed/images/mri_fig2.gif