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

Agenda for the Meeting; or, the World Keeps Turning

Our blogging friend Captain Corky recently posted about his and Corky Jr.'s goals for the immediate future. As always, I learn best in a collaborative setting, so I've decided to take the Captain's lead. There's little time for posting some things ripe for posting, so the list of coming events here is most functional.
Little and Big Guys return to school tomorrow; the school district that employs me resumes after Labor Day. This means I have some open all-by-myself-time: a commodity that normally only avails itself to me in times of insomnia or commuting on the interstate to the university.
What this means, dear reader, is that in addition to having as many lunches out as possible, I may have more time to write that post that's been swirling in my head about theories of motion, equilibrium, behavior analysis, and a famous quote from the Gospels; or perhaps the post wherein I am attempting to reason how motion as symbolized by the visual may be used as a vehicle for the exploration of language acquisition at the preoperational stage, and perhaps sooner: ideally for children with autism, but certainly for any students who may find that such a thing speaks to them. Or perhaps the post in which I attempt to describe the origins and patterns of my continually growing obsession with spoken and written language: the whys and hows of its efficiencies in communication, and how those with intelligences much stronger in areas other than the linguistic can feel facile in this environment of language.
Can you hear that calliope playing circus music?

Once my school district begins, my fall semester of graduate school will have already begun.
You might, dear reader, see posts only on a weekly basis; you might see short daily posts. I've commited to this practice of language; you've reinforced my efforts with your presence and your kindness. We'll figure it out together.

About That Avatar; or, That Bathhouse Makes Him Crazy

Our blogging friend Pelicano asked in an earlier post comment about my avatar here on Blogger. It is a still from what is most likely my favorite film from the master, Hayao Miyazaki: Spirited Away.
The image that I've chosen is one of Sen/Chihiro, the protagonist, and a character named No Face seated together.
For me, they are two sides of the same coin, one that spins close to my heart.
So, dear Pel, dear readers: if you've not seen the film, I would highly recommend it.
Here's the trailer as it appeared in Japan, followed by the scene in which my avatar image appears.
If you've seen the film, then you know exactly what a potent image it is.
Miyazaki is the master indeed.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QORyMLG9CyA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bOJE_F9yL0

Tribute to Stan Lee; or, Business as Usual at Neroli's

Last Thursday evening, Little Guy and Snowy watched the SciFi Channel's Who Wants to Be a Superhero? in one room; Big Guy and I watched NBC's The Office in another.
At one point, during a commercial break from their show, S and LG came into the hallway, stood unseen by BG and myself.
S announced, in a booming voice: The world was searching for a hero. They found two in Mega Cheeks and Micro Cheeks!
At this point, S and LG jump out into the room, clad only in their underwear, and this underwear is pulled fairly high up, exposing their rumps---much like an impromptu sumo look, or a wedgie, dependent upon one's viewpoint.
Don't look, BG, I said through my laughter. It's not pretty.
BG replies, matter-of-factly, I closed my eyes at 'the world was searching for a hero.'

Wish us luck for tonight, dear reader. More loud and mysterious things may be ahead.


http://photo.net/photo/pcd4143/sumo-competition-105.tcl

Back-to-School Books; or, Judge By the Cover

My good friend AFKAPW shared a quiz:

I am:

You're A Prayer for Owen Meany!

by John Irving

Despite humble and perhaps literally small beginnings, you inspire
faith in almost everyone you know. You are an agent of higher powers, and you manifest
this fact in mysterious and loud ways. A sense of destiny pervades your every waking
moment, and you prepare with great detail for destiny fulfilled. When you speak, IT
SOUNDS LIKE THIS!


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Mysterious and loud ways?
I'll take it.

Cardamom Pods and Cracker Jacks; or, One Last Lunch

When Big Guy began work, Little Guy and I missed seeing him during the day, and BG missed his old carefree habits. To help make sense of our new routines, I decided that we should share a special lunch together on Mondays, one of the two days of the week that BG doesn't work.

This past Monday was the last such lunch of the summer, as the boys return to school in the coming week. We cooked a pot of chili (with soy burger, thank you very much :), LG standing by the stove, spoon in hand, as if he were the captain of a ship with a constant hand on the tiller, stirring and adding pinches of salt and coriander; BG making guacamole, using the dasher from the chocolate pot to mash the avocado into the lime juice and salt; and I, of course, had to bake cornbread to complete this cooking, taking care to preheat the skillet so the golden batter hissed and purred when it hit the sheen of black iron.
It was fitting, too; for this was the menu of our first celebratory BG's Day Off Lunch. As we sat and ate, showering fistfuls of Frito corn chips over bowls of chilie and guacamole, we again declared contest rules: he (or she!) who first finds one of the three cardamom pods in the chili will be declared The Winner---of what, it's never been specified: somehow, knowledge that one has indeed been acknowledged The Winner seems in and of itself to be most satisfactory.
Not a one of us found a single pod, but we were too satiated to much care.
Yesterday, I warmed up a bowl of chili. I found all three pods.
I'm the winner!

Finding those three pods is the least of the reasons that I consider myself to be occasioned by good fortune. It has been a challenging year this year past, with more challenges to come. This life, full of family and beauty and challenge, this coming here, and having the occasion to meet you as you come by---all have been as serendipitous as finding that first cardamom pod.
So many are having such dreary weather as of late, ourselves included. Especially in those conditions, it's fun to find that one thing that makes you The Winner, isn't it?
Go ahead: declare yourself The Winner for today. If anyone asks you to present proof positive, you may say I'm holding that cardamom pod, just like a crackerjack toy, for you.
Have a great day, dear reader.

More Practical Magic; or, Kitchen Love

When our friend Swampy wrote in her post about the warmth, color, and light of the kitchen in all its manifestations, and the green glass that transmitted that light, that love, I was delighted, and for more than one reason.
In the midst of Anita's party, I was already thinking and feeling about what we all can bring to the table, to this life, and was all the more happy for it.
I was delighted in reading Swampy's words because I was reminded that sometimes those everyday articles from the kitchen, and those we oftimes use to bring our offerings to the table, are as full of meaning to us as the gifts and the gatherings about the table themselves: metta you can hold in your hand.
I was delighted because my special kitchen feelings are evoked by green glass as well: Fire King Jadeite, the tableware used day in and day out by my grandmother, and therefore, such a powerful touchstone for all those feelings and thoughts that are so difficult to put words to---thoughts and feelings so much more easy to speak of by the dance in the kitchen, the putting on the plate, the enjoying with others---be it in the present, or be it in our memories.

Dear reader, at one point in my life, I was a single parent without a home; having only my toddler (now Big Guy), the clothes on our backs, and a garbage bag hastily crammed with favored toys; although this stage of our life lasted for a relatively short time, I still struggled as a single parent, as so many of us do.

Yet I valued so highly what the Fire King Jadeite embodied that I once bought 12 plates I found at a flea market for 5 dollars each---and believe me, at that time, 60 dollars for plates that I did not need, but merely wanted, was a frivolous amount, ridiculously so.
You see, I felt so torn from so much of the goodness I had previously known, dear reader, and flung so far away from it: I felt as if those plates were a means, a map, to help me return to what I knew once before, long ago. If I held one, if I ate from one, and served my son what I cooked on one, I could almost barely feel my heart soften and turn---some embryonic feeling that I hoped would grow, and live, and breathe.
Of those original 12, I have but 6 that remain. Looking back, I'm glad for my frivolity, that leap of faith: I bought the insurance, hope-against-hope that remains with me today, despite the bumps and bad breaks along the way. They are ever present at our table.

Do you have a favorite touchstone from the kitchen? I'd love to hear about it, dear reader.

I'm glad to know that at the flea market, some wisdom older than myself knew better: yes, I wanted the plates; yet, I needed them just as much---perhaps even more so.
Dear reader, may you always have what you need, in the same magic and beautiful ways that a stack of glass has worked for me.
Thank you so much for joining me at the table.

Older Sunbeam mixer and child's "toy" mixer

with Fire King Jadeite mixing bowls

http://decodan.com/sunbeam-id.asp

Moving Pictures; or, Heart Like a Puri

Our blogging friend Anita announced a party, and invited us to join in the festivities.

Make puri, she exhorted; just enjoy the making and the eating, and then tell us all about it. Of course, I was delighted by Anita's invitation, and resolved to make the puri within the time frame that Anita had proscribed.

To make a long story short, I awoke this morning, the last day of the party, without having made the puris. I was feeling tired, a little deflated, a little out-of-sorts, and honestly didn't know if I would be able to make them.

I made a pot of rose tea, and added rosewater to my cup for that Extra Something. I sat in my grandmother's rocking chair, she who always was so much of the kitchen, offering the work of her hands from her kitchen at any occasion; for her, just being with you was as good as a party . As I drained my cup, the warm coral-pink cloud of rose from the last swallow of hot tea permeated my very skull, and infused into my very self, it seemed---warm, pink, vital: waking my senses and getting me out of the chair.

Here's the simplest of recipes to get you started, Anita offers cheerfully from her post.
How could I refuse such a gracious offer?


And so I began in the kitchen. I cleaned collards, and then put them in a crock to cook slowly in a pot liquor of smoked almond broth. As Little Guy sliced hot dogs with a Chinese cleaver, I made the puri dough following Anita's recipe, with only a small change: substituting some of the salty smoked almond broth for the salted water originally asked for.

LG went back to his playing as I added tomato paste to the sliced hot dogs in the pot, and cooked the mixture to a lovely reddish-brown. To this, two cans of bacon and brown sugar baked beans were added, and the pot left to simmer.

Though I had made pita breads countless times, and felt at ease with rolling out those breads while cooking them, I felt less at ease with cooking the puris as I rolled them. I decided to make all the rounds first, placing them on a big platter and covered with a towel, and then I would fry them.

As I rolled out the breads, I felt comforted by the crick-crick, crick-crick sound of my ring on the round pin. I felt happy as the dough stretched and turned, as the pin rolled around.

When the first circle of dough went into the hot oil, it bubbled happily and seemed to burst with joy, and I laughed out loud.

Come here, LG, I said, look at this!

Naah, well...okay, he said. Okay, all right, let me get my stool.

LG, perched on his stool, stood at the stove by my side as I splashed the top of that first puri with oil, and then flipped it. He watched with much exclamation as it continued to balloon and as I carefully brought it out from the oil to drain on kitchen paper. We both admired its beautiful, happy golden, glistening roundness. It was too lovely for words.

The next thing that I know, dear reader, LG has completely taken over the stove: he is using tongs to pick up a circle of dough to slip it into the oil; he is using a kitchen spoon to carefully splash oil on the top of the circle; he is checking the bottom, and flipping---his puris are puffing, and we are both wooping and clapping as if we were both tiny children.

I had no choice, dear reader, but to watch him and set the table in between puris.

So with vegetarian baked beans in hand, I joined my family at the table, to eat the collards that I had prepared, the beans and franks that LG and I had made together, and the puris that LG had cooked, for all intents and purposes, mostly by himself, with some salty gherkins on the side. This is the best dinner ever, LG said, happily and solemnly, all at once.

My grandfather had an expression whenever he was in the midst of eating something the he very much relished: there ain't going to be no rind.

So it was at our table today, as we toasted Anita and all those at the party.

From the moment that the rose cloud of tea awoke my senses to the moment the dinner was finished, I was so mindful of not only metta, embodied in the kindness of the kitchen, the kindness of the invitation and the gathering, but of ksanika, also known as point instant theory. This is a way of thinking about time, of the passing of time, and of the value of the moment: each moment is here and then never again; our lives' moments, the stories of these moments, are so very much as a movie, a flip-book---miss a frame, the story is changed, and perhaps even makes no sense at the time. What one needs to remember, though, is just to keep watching. The world is a beautiful place, a magical place, and in the kitchen today, I felt as if I were dancing with it.

I thought of the party, and imagined the individual frames, the moving pictures that were making up the story of a party, the story of a gracious hostess, and equally gracious guests.

I may not be able to see the rest of the pictures, but I felt so much the connection to the story.

Thank you, Anita. Thank you, dear guests and dear readers.
Remember: the plot may twist and turn; but the story is about beauty. It's about magic. It's about the metta that fits it all together.
Eat puris. Laugh together.
Enjoy the moving pictures.

Honey, We Redheads Always Could Accessorize; or, More Things to Look At

I've been working on a post since last week, and making slow progress for various reasons; hence, some visuals, as the second installment of "Crayfish Park" is also slow in coming. (Sorry! I want to know what happens as much as you!)
Thank you for coming by, dear reader. It's always good to see you. I'll talk with you soon.

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

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CoSH2ETS3-4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEqYXPu0NII

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKiV8j_faSo

Too Many Cooks in the Kitschen?

Some more ways of thinking about kitsch:

http://www.kundera.de/english/Info-Point/Kitsch_in_Kunderas_Work/kitsch_in_kunderas_work.html

http://www.ljhammond.com/phlit/2000-09.htm (Scroll down to essay #2)

http://www.radford.edu/~jolanta/publications/Kundera1992.htm

What Would Papageno Do; or, the Grecian Urn is a Decorative Peanut Butter Jar?

I want everyone to focus on the content of an education---the meat and potatoes: on how that content should be presented, mastered, put to use, and passed along to others. Specifically, I believe that three very important concerns should animate education; these concerns have names and histories that extend far back into the past. There is the realm of truth---and its underside, what is false and undeterminable. There is the realm of beauty---and its absence in experiences or objects that are ugly or kitschy. And there is the realm of morality---what we consider to be good, and what we consider to be evil.

---from Howard Gardner, The Disciplined Mind: What All Students Should Understand

http://www.muttscomics.com

I often feel, dear reader, as if in this blogosphere, I often find myself in a collaborative learning group: something I very much appreciate about this endeavor. Thank you so much for it!

Purple Worms has been holding a discussion on art over at her place, concerning a defaced statue of Mozart. Swampwitch is presiding over playtime, MI-style. Then I begin reading from one of my favorite educational theorists, Howard Gardner, and find the above quote (side note of interest/synchronicity: he goes on to give examples that embody each of those three sisters---and Mozart is given as the example of beauty), which speaks to the reference that PW made to truth is beauty, beauty is truth.

It makes me very happy, these connections.

I was somewhat surprised that Gardner used the kitschy as the antithesis of the beautiful. I've always regarded kitsch as pithy beauty: sort a zen take on baroque, or alternately, a baroque take on zen; it speaks to the referent from a different perspective, the "flip side" if you will, in a different dialect than is typical, and I like that very much. (I've become an object of amusement for Snowy at the times when I see something kitschy: I exclaim, it's so ugly that it's beautiful! and then Snowy rolls his eyes, hoping with all hope I don't bring whatever it may be home.)

Perhaps that's what Gardner was speaking to; if so, I then posit: the beauty is in the delivery.

To me, it's very much like a parlor game that allows participants to hold a conversation using only famous quotes: the quote becomes a picture, a signal, of the speaker's intent.To me, it's very much like the use of picture icons in communication systems we use to communicate with those whose language abilities differ from our own.

Or perhaps it's a game of exquisite corpse; cadavres exquis.

Communciation, in all its transmissions. The enjoyment and the challenge and the beauty arise in broadening the bands of reception, allowing for all frequencies; for their variance is the given, and not the exception.

Don't expect to hear anything: expectations are so much static. Just listen; and in so doing, the beauty is heard.

Communication begins.

What do you think?

I'm listening.

Note: I've fixed the hyperlink for exquisite corpse, and added a new one as well---dear reader, you know how I like to look at things in more than one way!

For Every Action There is an Equal and Opposite Reaction; or, WYSIWYG?

I am still on behind in my writing, so today, as is my habit, I offer to you, dear reader, a comic.

http://www.muttscomics.com

PS, dear reader---I forgot to write that I have left one of the "Thinking Blogger" awards in reserve: for my friend, Lots Of, should he ever decide to enter the blogosphere.

I've been informed by Lots Of's intellect, wit, and word-craft for some time, and been the better for it.

As Martha says, it's a good thing.

Thank you, Lots Of. I'll hold onto it for you: maybe get it silk-screened onto a necktie in the interim?

Upon a Happy Occasion; or, for Big Guy

Dear Big Guy, we are most proud of you for working so diligently this summer in your job as dishwasher, kitchen assistant, and jack-of-all-trades.
You've sweated and you've saved; and now you'll be going on the Big Trip on Your Own Ticket.
Hooray for you!
Big things ahead, my darling, big and wonderful.
Here's number 2 on your iPod playlist, with a twist, for my once-little-fellow who's headed for the Big Things: an old favorite with a new influence.
Just like you!

Objects in Motion Stay at Motion; or, Would You Like a Chainsaw with That?

Dear reader, as you might have guessed, I've been somewhat scattered here of late, what with the finishing of summer coursework, the insomnia, and several other issues that have lately arisen. With the scattering came many questions; and I believe that from time to time we often begin to question the capacities, our abilities to maintain the rhythm of all the objects in the air when we begin to juggle, so to speak.
That's when we have to remind ourselves to stop thinking about it so much, and enjoy the show for what it is: and most especially since it's our show to put on.
We can juggle what we wish, and throw back and forth to whoever is willing.
We can swap plates for bowling pins; bowling pins for flaming torches, for chainsaws or pineapples: we just need to keep it in motion.
We can keep it to ourselves. We can let it all sit as we rest for awhile. We can pass it back and forth to someone waiting to jump in, or pass off to someone completely unawares: see what happens.
What's the worst that can happen?
Pick it up and begin again.
Find out that you prefer chainsaws to pineapples.
Or be touched by delight at the back-and-forth; happy for the synchronicity of motion.

And so it is, dear reader.
On Sunday morning, I saw the father of one of our students, Vermillion (a pseudonym, of course). He said that when called by name at home, Vermillion often responds, I'm not Vermillion, I'm _______!; and that Vermillion will often choose one favorite character from stories to "fill in the blank" on that day for the "I'm not Vermillion." So on Saturday, it was I'm not Vermillion, I'm neroli!
Such an unexpected happiness, dear reader: as if Vermillion had passed a pineapple to me: me, completely unaware, and all the happier for it.

On Sunday night, I was unable to see the meteor shower, for the cloud cover was drawn completely over the sky. Yet the night was still gorgeous, and I remained outside to hear the sibilance of insects with the knowledge of the motion above me, hidden from sight.
I began to do the metta meditation:
may you be safe and protected
may you be peaceful and happy
may you be healthy and strong
may you have ease of well being, and accept all conditions of the world
and then went inside and had the best night's sleep I've had for some time.
A lovely, delicate surprise.

Yesterday I was running on behind, and feeling that I've been juggling too many things, as has been my usual of late. When I got to the university, I logged on to do some blog reading before the beginning of class. I was surprised and touched to learn that Bee and Jai had chosen to gift me with this:

I've long admired their work: they are master jugglers who craft an amazing juggle, and are most generous in the tossing-back-and-forth to others---you know what I mean?
I arrived at home late last night, stiff and tired, and decided to go for a walk, for the night this night was clear and glowing, most conducive to the coaxing of stiff joints and muscles. As I walked in the bend of the road, the one place without streetlights, and thought of all these things---of Vermillion, the metta meditation and the lovely sleep that followed it, of Bee and Jai and the community of friends here in the blogosphere---I looked up; and there, just so, dear reader, there it was: a meteor, long-lived and colorful, falling down through Scorpio, and fading just as quickly, as if it had been sugar melting into the warmth and skipping of my heartbeat.

Sometimes it seems life loves to toss to you the pineapple, the chainsaws, the flaming torches not because it wants to cause you to feel overloaded, but because life has a way of knowing just how fun it is to juggle and to take joy in the moving; of knowing when you just need to walk into a surprise party.

When it came to decide where to bestow this gift next, I looked to the point in time before I myself arrived here, to those whose words I've followed for a long time.
I thank you, dear writers, for your words, and sharing your show with us.
I'm passing this lovely juggle to:

Carolyn at Field to Feast
ArtistFKAPW at The House of the Purple Worms
Estee at Joy of Autism
Kristina at Autism Vox
Adam at Genkaku

Keep those plates and chainsaws spinning.
I'll see you all soon.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYS80f32i0s

Insomnia Becomes Her; or Yearly Reunion

I know I'm late, dear reader, lagging behind, with schoolwork and insomnia, but for those of you who still have time, the Perseids meteor showers are coming to a peak.

Please read about it here .

Tonight I will be most glad to be an insomniac.

How many of us haven't wished upon a star at some point in our lives? I mean, Jiminy Cricket knows what he's singing about, yes?

(Side note: how wonderful is it that I loved Jiminy Cricket as a child, and now have the pleasure of working with the students that I do, and am able to laugh again and again with them at the Jiminy Knock-Knock joke that they created? Believe it, my friends: life is often beautifully strange and ofttimes strangely wonderful; expressing the wishes of your heart in ways so much more eloquent than your own, in ways that you had not foreseen.)

Make as many wishes as you want, dear reader: I will be awake, and watching, and will send them along for you.

It would be the least that I could do. I'm glad for your kindness: something I had not foreseen, and so much more than I could ever have wished for.

Clear skies to you, dear reader.

I'll talk to you soon.

www.nasa.gov

Guest Blogger; or, Insomnia Makes Me Stupid (Hopefully Not Contagious)

Dear reader, please welcome our guest blogger, Little Guy. The post today is the first installment of an adventure story that he dictated to me; he had written it on his own, and somehow lost the document in the saving. I happily offered do the typing for him to re-create the story; and in so doing, what tenuous grasp my mind had on the web of words for today's post was broken, and the words floated away, unfettered.

I'm certain his words are just as fine, and possibly even better, than mine, depending upon your viewpoint.

Enjoy, dear reader. I'll talk to you again soon.

Crayfish Park

Once there was a boy on a lost island which was called Crayfish Park. It had giant blue crayfish which were ice-crayfish. They had blood-colored crayfish and nude crayfish, but it was shell. Then the boy saw a crayfish and he jumped up and bit off its claw. Then he roasted the claw, and ate it like a gorilla. Then the claw made a claw-shape in his body. The boy reached in there and threw it out of his body. Then he caught a chicken and ate it Mexican-style, which means that he got some burritos and refried beans in the chicken. He saw a tiny rock and sat under it. Then he saw a delicious bass. It was one hundred inches long, and he caught it with his bare hands. He had a nice dinner. Then he met cavemen. A caveman hit him with a club, and then the boy hit him back. The boy finally got rescued. But not so fast! A giant crayfish jumped up and destroyed the helicopter.
To be continued……

Oh, One More Thing; or,Same as It Ever Was

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7NpiVTR11MI

On Time, Motion, and Momentum; or The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same

Dear reader, the more I attempt to become facile in this practice of writing, the more visual my thinking becomes: an unexpected outcome of this behavior plan I've made for myself.

As the visual is a preferred activity/modality for me, I'll start off what I've been wishing to write about, about motion and time, solitude and isolation, and how we take it--- with some visuals.

I think in this schedule of reinforcement, I'm ready to be able to engage in preferred activity.

Departure, Max Beckmann www.moma.org
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ij738Q-wWmk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LHhcx52CF0

Oh, Bother; or, Keith Haring Has Left the Building

One of the things I loved most about my drive to the university was a particular bit of graffiti art painted high-up on the face of an industrial building facing the interstate.

It was outsider-art-quality, quite charming, really; naive and beautiful: Winnie-the-Pooh, smiling beatifically out at all of us on the interstate, quite large and lofty, cheery-yellow and lolliopop-red, displaying his middle finger.

It's painted over now.

I miss him.


http://russian-insider.blogspot.com/2005/12/winnie-pooh-russian-version.html

Here are Pooh and Piglet as they are animated in Russia.
Same cognitive dissonance as the Bird-Pooh; yet, alas, not as funny.

Did I mention that I miss him?

Considering the Feminine in Art; or, A Flip-book

Unicorn in Captivity, c.1505 www.metmuseum.org

Georgia O'Keefe: Hands with Thimble, Alfred Stieglitz, 1920 www.kameraclub.co.za

Madame X, John Singer Sargent (neroli's zoom), 1884 www.metmuseum.org

Self-portrait with Cropped Hair, Frida Kahlo, 1940 www.abcgallery.com

Judith I, Gustav Klimt, 1904 (neroli's edit) www.art.com

Mother and Child, Gustav Klimt, 1905 www.art.com

Red Tara Kurukulla www.exoticindiaart.com

L'invention de la vie, Rene Magritte, 1928 www.abcgallery.com

Departure, Max Beckmann, 1935 www.moma.org

Collective Invention, Rene Magritte, 1934 (neroli's edit) www.abcgallery.com

US Postal Service, sheet stamps of quilt's from Gee's Bend www.outsider-folk-art.org

Nude Descending a Staircase, Marcel Duchamp, 1912 www.artofeurope.com

Birth of Venus, detail, Sandro Botticellli, 1485 www.art.com

Simhavaktra, Lion-faced Dakini www.exoticindiaart.com

Sky Above Clouds IV, Georgia O'Keefe, 1965 www.artci.edu

Surprise; or, More Things to Learn

Dear reader, I'm glad that you enjoyed the poem "Watermelons" by Charles Simic, the newly-ensconced US Poet Laureate.
I was so glad to be listening to National Public Radio's Weekend Edition yesterday and to be able to hear Mr. Simic speak about writing, as well as to hear his reading of what I understand to be one of his most well-known works, wherein he imagines what it would be like to be a stone.
You may find the audio from the broadcast here. (I was sorry that the interviewer asked him questions about immigration and national identity when she could have been asking him more about his working with words; should you wish to go directly to the poem in question, it begins at about mark 4:24.)
What a simple joy it was to be washing up the dishes, the sun streaming in the window, the dish soap sliding down the china, and listen to this broadcast.
When I went to wipe the kitchen counter, I picked up an aluminum foil packet, a piece of cornbread I had made for supper a day or so ago. Unexpectedly, it was hot to the touch, the cornbread inside beginning to mold. When I held its warmth in my hand, I saw and felt the energy: the hum and the swarm of my old hive of bees rising up through the wood and wax of the hive, heavily fragrant and smokily humming; the body of my cello against my body, its throat, its bow the words of its song humming in my hand; the murmuring of the molecules as the metal is heated, excitement expressed in malleability, a fevered pitch; the eager feeding of simple organisms upon simple food, creating a funk, creating warmth.
I understood what Simic was speaking to--- of stones struck together, and sparks flying out: a moon that shines from somewhere, with just enough light to read by. It was a wonderful thing.
Cognitive dissonance: nobody expects the unexpected.
When it comes, may it more often than not be a happy visit.

Smiles Like a Watermelon; or, Old Dogs Learning New Tricks is a Happy Thing

One of the good things about getting older, dear reader, is the ability to be able to freely admit that one doesn't know something; or perhaps, if one knows somewhat about something, one is able to allow that there is Plenty More to Know about that something than the knowing that one currently enjoys.
This ability is a rather joyful thing to possess; handy in most situations that one can think of, and in some that one may not readily perceive.

For instance, I employed the Crocs website to order a pair of red Crocs for Little Guy's birthday, the item at the top of his handwritten wish-list. Being a person of a certain age, my experience with navigating websites is still rudimentary; I still regard the online ordering process as filling out a form to enact an exchange: this is who I am, this is how you can find me to deliver the goods, and here is how I'm paying you to do so, thank you very much, and now I will click the send button. In most instances, this viewpoint has been quite functional.
I began to check both porches of our house when the stated window of delivery arrived. In my previous experiences, the online ordering process has ended at either of these porches, and I didn't wish to Take Any Chances. He is going to be so excited! I think.
LG's birthday came and went. My ritual of the porches continued each day.
About a week and a half ago, I sent an email to Crocs, asking them to please advise me as to the status of the order; usually when I've ordered online in the past, the order confirmation has included tracking information, and I could not find any in the correspondence from them in my inbox. He is going to be so excited! I think.
My porch ritual continued. No delivery; no reply in my inbox.
Friday morning, I attempt to phone the customer service toll-free number listed on the Crocs website. I reach a recorded message that says the system is down, and if I know my party's extension, I may dial it at this time. Thinking I've misdialed, I dial again, and receive the same message, though I'm now listening to it in its entirety. It tells me to dial '0' for assistance, as I hoped it would: and then it continues to ring for the five minutes I remain on the line before hanging up.
Now feeling thwarted, for I had so hoped to speak with A Real Person, I begin to fill out the form provided on the customer service section of the website; the form is given as an alternative to phoning and speaking to a customer service representative: yet, I feel strangely irritated by the form. The form was my last option, and I feel as if I've been forced to use it.
Pull over, FedEx truck, and give me my Crocs, LG jokes, everytime we pass a FedEx truck.

So, from my limited experience with How Things Work When You Order From Crocs Online, I wrote my inquiry into this form, and I am sad to say, I was somewhat more terse than in my first written and unrequited inquiry: being in a job where I don't sit down all day, I felt that I could be a lifetime customer, but I would go elsewhere if I did not receive satisfaction, the choice was theirs---more or less.
Pull over, FedEx truck, and give me my Crocs, LG jokes, everytime we pass a FedEx truck.



A few hours later, I receive a short reply from a polite representative. The order was shipped and delivered, and indeed, arrived on July 13 (note, dear reader, 3 full days before the birthday); but if I indeed had not received the shipment, she would arrange to have a replacement delivered. I should, she notes, have been able to find this information on my account page on the Crocs website.
Oh. So that's how they do things, I think, glad to add some new knowledge to my previous experience.
I share with Snowy, LG, and Big Guy what the representative has told me.
Intuitively, like the most quiet flash, LG, BG, and I go to the front porch, the porch whose door we never, ever use. We open the screen door; inside the screen door, outside the front door, in that little space between, sits the box: snug, waiting.
LG and BG tear it open, laughing.
LG puts on the red Crocs and jumps up and down. He's beaming.
So am I.
Dear reader, I think so much about learning, and about experience. I'm glad to have this experience, as mortified as I felt, for many reasons.
I love to learn new things; so I'm glad to have my experience and knowledge about online ordering become more nuanced.
I'm glad to also have the lesson reinforced to me about assumptions: we assume so much knowledge as a given. I assumed that the FedEx driver would place the box openly on either porch, as the mailman and countless UPS drivers have done in the past. To the Crocs representative, so facile in the Crocs system, it was incredibly apparent how to navigate that system to find the particular knowing I wanted. To me, my experience of How Things Have Been didn't match with How Things Are For Crocs: and as a result, I felt frustrated, powerless. It caused me to feel anxious because I was trying to use what I knew had worked before (emails, tracking links, and telephone inquiries) to get me what I wanted (LG's happiness: beaming and leaping in bright red shoes).

We are told in our classroom management classes that students want most to feel as if they can affect others in a positive way (LG's happy leaping) as well as to feel that they have a sense of power and control over the environment (thus the desire to speak to a real person to reason out the situation as opposed to filling out a form and waiting) and to belong (I've been able to navigate the environment successfully, and make a positive outcome, so therefore, I'm in my element here---I belong).
In my Birthday Crocs lesson, I didn't feel power, belonging, or able to affect something positive, until I was able to have my experience more nuanced. Someone had to Spell It Out (delivered on the 13th, see it on your account page), and I had to be able to be Sufficiently Motivated ( Pull over, FedEx truck, and give me my Crocs, LG jokes, everytime we pass a FedEx truck) to step a little outside of my experience (box in plain sight on the porch), to Meet It Halfway (halfway between inside and outside, to be exact!).

How much do we assume as a given for our students with autism? For our students in any classroom? Or as a given for anyone that we meet?
My experience is too much, too often.

What a wonderful gift, this lesson: I'm much better equipped to Meet Halfway---and then the real good stuff of the trip, that part where we all learn good, new stuff together---in fact, because we are together---can begin.

I'll finish posting with a poem by the new United States Poet Laureate, Charles Simic: in honor of different ways of perception; in honor of a belated bit of LG's birthday celebration.
As I have another post to make up for my weekend silence, more about poetry later today, hopefully, dear reader, wherein I will again confess to how much I don't know, and why I revel in my foolishness.

Watermelons

Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/watermelons/


Former location of the "Green Buddha," in Wat Phrakaco, Laos
http://galen-frysinger.com/viet_nam/laos16.jpg

Pictionary, Abstract Expressionism Edition; or, More Signal to Noise

http://en.easyart.com/art-prints/Mark-Rothko/Untitled-Violet--Black--Orange--Yellow-on-White-and-Red-135567.html

Signal to Noise; or, A Field Trip

Dear reader, I've been meaning to address the theme of motion that has appeared here lately: the toys, the automata, the motion that is the progress of language development, the progess that makes up a personal story, a life; all somehow connected to thoughts of Brownian motion and stochastic resonance.

For now, it is more pressing for me to discuss those scientific constructs in a different context. Please go visit over at Bee and Jai's place via the following link.

http://jugalbandi.info/2007/07/whats-wrong-with-this-picture//

I then offer a comic for your additional consideration.

http://www.muttscomics.com

Dear reader, let's not wait for A Big Wind.

Let's be the small noise, almost imperceptible within the greater static, that affects a change, that helps direct the motion of our neighbors. For at the most basic of levels, we affect each other in the same way as particles under the scope: the most basic, intricate, and wondrous laws of the universe that we all move and hum, dance and live by are one and the same.

Please believe that; and in so doing, it begins.

Give a Little Whistle; or, A Short Post

Dear reader, courtesy of our K-1 students, a knock-knock joke:

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Jiminy.
Jiminy Who?
Jiminy Cricket!
(guffaws and hoots ensue)

Those persons holding the belief that children with autism don't possess a sense of humor are sadly mistaken.