Trichotillomaniac Times: MY ENTIRE YAHOO 360 BLOG

Size DOES matter.: So I went to go take a leak, and after having been quite drunk the night before and sleeping in a cluttered room on a cluttered bed, I discovered a sticker on my dick when I went to piss this morning. It was one of those clear stickers that said "XL"; a size sticker from a new shirt. It was one of the first times I've laughed out loud at spontaneous physical humor. Good times...

Wednesday February 1, 2006 - 11:05pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments
Week 3 of Paraprofessionalizing

Not a single source so far has supported the education classes offered at any college. “Too textbook,” they’ll say. “…not applicable in reality,” I’ve been told. Even from a woman who personally traveled to Japan and studied with the founders of the Suzuki method came, “Don’t let those education classes turn you off to education.” Though I personally don’t believe the classroom can teach you everything there is to know about teaching, but I also don’t believe it’s useless. Only time and experience will tell.

Classes this week were unruly. Talking and more talking permeated virtually every instance of should-be learning time. Though this was frustrating at times, it was actually a perfect opportunity to observe how an experienced teacher deals with this sort of thing.

I also had the privilege of observing a first year teacher. This was such a pleasure, as this teacher happened to be Justin Whitcomb, a colleague who graduated last year (three years ahead of me but still the same age). He has become a substitute teacher in his interim between college and career (though some make perfect careers as subs).

Kids today are fidgety - maybe they always were - but I see it in them now. This was the major advantage Mr. Whitcomb had over Mrs. Connor; in band, kids have instruments they can hold and (mostly silently) fiddle with. They don’t have this in a general music class but once in a while. Mrs. Connor had to finally resort to the one thing kids at this school seem to respond to: discipline slips. And this brings me to my next point.

In a church, I was told, you have two different kinds of Pastors; you have the pioneering ones who start new churches, and you have the settling ones, who take over and run things once the churches have been established. In this case, I feel like the settling kind. Things are very orderly already, and I find myself amazed at the way these kids automatically react to various techniques, commands, and situations. I wonder who decided that CLAP, CLAP, CLAP CLAP CLAP was the best way to get the whole class to pay attention when they echo the rhythm.

As a side note, I am glad the Pledge of Allegiance has all but been abolished in school (sadly, only to be replaced by the “Character Creed”). I always felt it was an abomination to pledge allegiance to something before you understand what that something is. This is indoctrination, and this is what they do in Islamic extremist societies and the like. Also, I feel it only works against the human race to perpetuate the myth that each country is separate from another, and that any country is “indivisible under God,” as each persons conception of God varies. Anyway…

Here are some of the various organizational things I’ve noted that create order within the classroom environment:

Kids all have assigned seating. This demonstrates arbitration, a consistent and predictable environment to walk into, and excitement at the newness when seats change every quarter.

Kids enter and leave class in a line, providing yet another bit of structure, and necessarily when one class is coming and one going in a narrow stairwell.

Lunch is all done electronically with barcodes on cards kept by the teacher, saving the hassle of lunch money or lost tickets.

Classes are transitioned with the teacher leading the group of students to their destination.

Lunch is orderly, with children being released for recess when their table is quiet.

Names of the students are on cards so when no one volunteers, Mrs. Connor can volunteer someone forcibly.

All in all, there are many “fences” set up to keep the kids “out of Mr. MacGregor’s garden.” (oh great. A Beatrice Potter reference… now I’m scraping the barrel’s bottom)

There is very little room for kids to really stray from the path. I watched a kid being interrogated for just going to his locker (so he says). Again, I’m really impressed with the way things are set up. The only things kids fear (not unlike adults) is loss of recess time, getting in trouble with authorities (parents and faculty), and the scrutiny of peers. Mark Twain Elementary has certainly used these fears to their advantage (though I personally believed that a fear-based justice system - like ours - is doomed to fail).

I spent Thursday at Mark Twain, so I didn’t get to see my buddies at John Harris this week. This week though, was the first week I got put in charge of my first bunch of first graders. A lack of attention span is the key phrase here. With their minimal understanding of music, it was extremely difficult to boost any further interest in music. I tried showing them how to draw notes, but I might well have tried to potty train my cats.

Finally, teaching is definitely in my future. How could I choose a career that doesn’t have treats in lounge where kids aren’t allowed (that is still sacred to me, by the way). The more days I spend at school, the more it feels like home. It’s an honorable profession I could be proud of. It doesn’t destroy the world (save for the overuse of paper and the mind washing of gullible minds). Also, I was told that a male elementary teacher is a valuable thing, and I know this from experience. One of my favorite teachers was Mr. Penning, my fifth grade teacher. I would still like to visit and observe intermediate and high school teaching. I think maybe that even if I didn’t become an elementary music teacher, I might still enjoy just being a teacher. But after all, is there any such thing as being just a teacher?

Tuesday January 24, 2006 - 11:38pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments

Judge Not Lest Ye be Judged...

A man was murdered with a small knife. He was stabbed six times, but lost track after the first penetration of his skin. Immediately he reacted, but the pain and shock of the cold, dull blade splitting his flesh and tearing his bowels rendered him helpless. The self defense classes did not prepare him for an attack in the middle of the night. His response was an alarmed grunt as he swung randomly, trying to land a debilitating blow on his aggressor, but he was gone. Lying in the bed, bleeding uncontrollably, he was too far gone for modern medical help. His only solace was the fact that God would be his salvation and avenge his death. He died with comfort and faith in a righteous judge in his heart.

A man entered a dark house late at night. This is where the famed Christian evangelist lived. He held a knife that was very old; it was a family heirloom, given to him by his grandfather. As a child, he was raised on stories of men gaining glory in heaven by doing God’s work. He had finally gotten a chance to kill for God: “As for the infidels, their wealth, and their children, shall avail them nothing before God…” (The Holy Koran, Sura 3.10) He approached the door to the master bedroom and quietly finished the verse, “…They shall be fuel for the fire!” He quietly entered, said a final prayer before thrusting hard and deep into the dark mound beneath the blankets. His hands were soaked, and he knew now he would receive riches in heaven.

Which of these men found favor and refuge in God? Who went to heaven and who was punished? Each of them believed the other to be damned and themselves to be righteous. We must understand first that each of us have only our own experiences, belief systems, and learned ideas by which to navigate this subjective world of morals and ethics. For one person to judge another based solely on his own belief system and life experiences, which is the very extent of his ability, is unjustifiable.

There are several issues to examine before one can form an illuminated idea about judgment. One must decide who will be judged, how judgment will manifest, what to criteria to be judged is, and perhaps most importantly, why there is even a need to judge.

First and foremost, what is a judge? Is a judge an objective arbiter of truth as so many like to believe? Our own court system denies this with the number of innocents convicted, celebrity scape-goats, and criminals getting off with no punishment. The more money one has, the better the lawyer he can get, and the more likely he is to get the desired results from the court system. A judicial system which relies on money can in no way be objective and impartial, and therefore truth must take a backseat to money. ‘Arbiter of truth,’ perhaps, is little more than a fantasy for the definition of an Earthly judge.

So who then is truly fit to judge justly, objectively, fairly, and finally? Jesus is the perfect judge, right? Only if you believe the Bible to be true and infallible down through the ages would you accept such a statement. Everyone does not accept this, though. Muslims claim Allah is the ultimate judge. New age teachings, which are nothing more than ancient religious ideas rehashed, teach that each individual is his own judge. Organized religion vehemently objects to this, though these ideas far predate Christianity and Islam. Humanity, due to different cultural and personal belief systems, can’t agree on the perfect judge. Jesus’ words, “Judge not, less ye be judged,” (The Holy Bible, Matthew 7:1) make the most sense, as will be examined here in length. A blanket definition is more appropriate to illustrate Jesus’ warning. A judge is everyone and anyone who makes any choice after weighing possible outcomes, from choosing socks to choosing college. In other words, everyone judges everything all the time. For example, a man will drink water instead of pop. His reasoning is that pop rots teeth, makes people fat, and eventually, the sodium will increase the risk of heart disease, whereas water does none of the above. He drinks water instead of pop because he wants to keep his teeth, maintain his weight, and keep his heart healthy.

How though, does he know that pop damages his teeth? How does this man know pop is making him fat? There is one simple answer to both of these questions: He learned it and chose to believe it, judging it to be true. He has judged the sources of his health knowledge to be accurate and honest. At the same time, for reasons of his own, he’s judged it to be a bad thing to be fat, toothless and prone to heart disease. Why though, would a young man be resistant to poor health? Somewhere along the line he has connected poor health to death. Why again, would he be resistant to death? His religion teaches of paradise after death, which should outweigh the resistance to death, but everywhere in society he is bombarded with messages that tell him death is bad and something to fear. All of these factors have helped to develop the young man’s belief system, on which he bases all of his judgments. Judgment can be as seemingly simple as making a good decision for your health, or very difficult, as this next case illustrates.

A young girl became pregnant at seventeen. Seven months later she contracted gonorrhea. If this girl was still infected when she gave birth, her baby would more than likely be born blind. If, however, she got the treatment for the illness, chances were high that her unborn baby would suffer irreparable brain damage. This shows how gut-wrenching a choice can be and how an error in judgment can have devastating results.

Judgments span the spectrum from easy to difficult and from virtually insignificant outcomes to dire consequences. Let’s examine the nature of judgment further.

The decisions each person make, and the morals by which they live, are birthed, raised and sustained by their own individual belief system. Each person’s is different and just as valid, right, and moral to that person. There are no races, peoples, nations, colonies, natives, or cultures. There are no ‘people,’ there are only individuals. Each and every life is a living, thinking being, experiencing the universe from a completely unique perspective. This is important to remember when considering how a person judges them self, others, and the world around as a whole. For example, the self preserving American mind can’t comprehend how a Japanese samurai can fall on his sword in order to die with dignity, while this was commonplace in Japan, and the only way of life the samurai knew. Likewise, a modest Afghani woman surely would be stunned to discover that pictures and videos of sex are the largest sources of income on the internet in the U.S.

A person will act on what they believe. That person can only believe what he or she knows, and can only know what has been learned. The person can only have learned by being taught. The teacher can come in many forms. Experience and books are good sources, as are adults, children, music, or animals. At the most basic level, learning is any and all sensory input to the brain from the six senses. This being established, we’ll now examine the nature of man judging man.

This is what we do now; we sentence people to death in the courts, we kill because we want another man’s car or cash, and we even kill out of anger. We have judged that person to be undeserving of life for one reason or another. If this weren’t true, then no one would ever die at the hands of another man. If we are taught from birth that each person is a unique and wonderful sentient being with every right to live and prosper, not one person would be killed maliciously because taking life would not be part of our belief system, and therefore not in our vocabulary of appropriate actions. If we are raised with the doctrine that all blacks are sub-human and worthless, we’ll treat them as such: owning them as property, beating them like mangy dogs, or even killing them without a second thought. If we grow up hating Jews because they are inferior to the Arian race, then we’ll burn and gas them, if only to rid the world of such vermin. If we are taught that Christians are heretics and liars, we’ll boil them in oil, burn them at the stake, or feed them to lions, laughing all the while.

Why then do we feel it necessary to judge a person, what exactly about them are we judging, and what outcome are we hoping for? Very simply, we judge to be wrong and immoral that which does not fit cleanly into our narrow range of understanding about ourselves, the world, and our relationships with each other and with God.

The backbone of judgment is justice; without it, judgment is merely an abstract opinion, without any merit. We all claim to want justice, but how are we to understand justice? Is justice exemplified when a man is killed after he has committed murder? Did the first man who died pay his debt with his own blood? Was the murderer doing justice? Maybe the murdered man was innocent, and the killer was just evil or insane, therefore deserving of death. Where did the cycle of cause and consequence start? Where will it end? Any religion has its own answer, but all religions are subjective interpretations of the original ‘inspired’ text. Each person will then interpret the translation differently teaching his or her own understanding of the material. The students will then accept the message differently and subjectively perpetuating the cycle, and much is lost in transmission. Religion itself lays no indisputable claim to the answer to this question. Almost no one can claim to have the answer that can make clear this idea of ‘justice.’ This is what I call the before/after ignorance theory. This is much like playing ‘Devil’s Advocate.’ Paraphrased, the theory states that short of direct and conscious communication with God or the Akashic Records (the books in heaven that store every event of the universe: past, present, and future: the ‘book of life’), one cannot know what happened before the event that would warrant such actions, and one therefore cannot know what the outcome will produce down through the ages.

Support for this theory is abundant, but we’ll take for example the betrayal of Judas Iscariot. From one point of view it seems like a horrible and tragic decision on Judas’ part. Without it, though, Jesus might never have been crucified, therefore nullifying entirely Old Testament prophecies and leaving humankind without a savior. We don’t know Judas’ motives or his place with God, so it would be inaccurate to call this choice to ‘betray’ Jesus sinful, wrong, or evil. One could even argue that Judas is the true savior, sacrificing his life and name to evil and negative connotations throughout all history so that so many could be saved through Christ’s death and resurrection.

Secondly, history records the Holocaust as a dark travesty: a stain on humankind’s memory, but there are other ways to look at it. The most controversial way is to question, “If heaven is such a great place, why was it such a crime to help millions of Jews on their way there (everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to die)?” There are many ways to look at any event.

Judgment is not cut and dry. Jesus understood the problems that had arisen and would arise from human-judging-human. One cannot judge a person to be ‘beautiful’ without judging everyone else ‘ugly’ that does not meet the standards of beauty. When a person is judged to be a ‘saint,’ anyone who is not a ‘saint’ is a sinner. This a fine state of being from the ‘saint’s’ point of view, and from the person that is ‘beautiful.’ But to those who are the ‘sinners’ or ‘ugly,’ this is not a trait people willingly accept. This, therefore, is a flawed dogma and not conducive to acceptance, peace, and diversity; yet it is the way of the world. It is important to remember before we judge another person that any point in our lives, we all have the potential to be the judged also.

Each of us must understand that not one single person does anything wrong or immoral, given that persons model of the world and how it works. The disharmony caused by judgment of one another seems to be inescapable and all-saturating. Yet each person, at the very least, has the power to end his own contribution to this problem. It starts with fundamental beliefs. When love is a person’s motivation, judgment is not a part of his repertoire. When judgment about or toward another is demonstrated, love cannot possibly be a part of that person’s character.

In the old testament, when God punished the Israelites “…even unto the fourth generation,” it wasn’t because God is vengeful. One generation had a problem and passed it on by teaching it to their children, until at last someone woke up and saw the damaging effect a certain action was having on the community, and changed it by not doing this act them self, and by not teaching this detrimental behavior to offspring. This is how each person can best follow Jesus’ teaching; heal ourselves first, then those we have influence on, but always ourselves first.

Friday January 20, 2006 - 10:18pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments

Got Sex?: got sex?

From the outset of the campaign, the direction that the National Dairy Promotion Board took more than ten years ago was a dubious one. The new slogan’s predecessor, “Milk – it does a body good.” was inspirational and beautiful in its simplicity. The effects of milk were laid out on the line in the plainest of terms; Drink milk and your body will be healthier. Now, however, one must force back a suspicious assumption or impure thought when they see one of the new milk ads.

Tony Hawk, Steven Tyler, Toby Keith, Cindy Crawford, Hanson, the cast of “Friends,” the cast of “Everybody Loves Raymond,” the Olson twins, Tyra Banks, Angelina Jolie, LeAnn Rhymes, the Dixie Chicks, and even Dr. Phil have this in common: they have all posed with an absurdly thick “milk” moustache on their faces. Also, all of these people are considered sexy or beautiful. This is a truly sad statement about the mentality and evolution of Americans.

First of all, to start with the technical issues, I’ll point out that no milk is so thick as to be clearly visible in a photograph as an opaque white moustache. Second of all, when did having a milk moustache become a cool thing? Actually, to this writer’s knowledge it still isn’t. The sexual innuendo is perhaps the most noticeably disturbing aspect of this ad campaign. If a man sees Britney Spears with thick white stuff around her mouth, he’s only thinking one thing (let the reader do the math). And if a young girl sees the Hanson brothers in the same situation, well, my logic falls apart, so we’ll exclude this scenario.

The advertisers have since the beginning of advertisement taken advantage of the simple but true adage “sex sells.” Why though is this true? If America was such an ‘oversexed’ society like certain special interest groups would have us think, then why would sex sell? It is the authors opinion that sex sells because we are a horribly sexually repressed nation.

Some indigenous cultures of Africa or south America don’t even wear clothes. These people don’t feel ashamed, but an American child will never forget the humiliation of having a hole in his swimsuit in just the right place for the whole class to see. Penises and breasts are not to be seen by the general public ( It is the authors opinion that the reader will have cringed if only slightly at the last sentence).

We cover these parts up with underwear and even give these parts silly names, referring to cats, roosters, and other barnyard animals. We teach our children to be afraid of their own natural functions, and that doing certain actions and thinking certain thoughts is ‘sinful.’ This is how it starts and is passed on from generation to generation.

As a child gets older, and starts to change, he must learn about these changes from an educational institute, or maybe his parents might even have ‘the talk.’ This is all necessary because every time the child’s parents would have sex, they would go to their bedroom and close the door, and maybe even try to be quiet. Thus the child would never, until a very late age, be exposed to the very thing that led to his or her conception. The only reason that parents would ‘hide’ this act of sex from their child is because it was hidden from them by their parents, who were taught by their parents etc. that this was a private thing to be done when no one else is looking. This, sadly, will continue forever until we abandon our outdated ‘morals’ and lift the taboo that has been placed on everything sexual. We have stigmatized that very thing which we were created by. This could also be said that we make a sin that which God gave as a beautiful gift. He placed no limitations on sex; humankind did.

It boils my blood when some group is outraged because someone flashed a boob during the super bowl, or the naked back of a woman is exposed during prime time television. Surely these people too were created as a result of sex, born from a woman’s womb and nursed her breasts! Why then do they oppose the very thing which brought them into being?

Sex sells because it is something we want and are not getting. In more sexually free societies, people notice sexual messages in subliminal advertising much quicker than Americans do. There is a danger in protecting children from sex because children are the future’s teachers and parents. We have only begun to see the effects. Sex would not need to be cleverly disguised as a thick white moustache around a hot girl’s mouth if we were freer with sex and less imprisoned by taboo and morals with no foundation. Advertising would be just as unreal, but at least it would be less subliminal or under the radar. It would be much like a beer commercial from the hit show “Family Guy” where there are several people by a pool drinking beer and the camera pans over to about 6 women in bikinis. The announcer comes on and says, “Pawtucket beer: Drink it and hot girls will have sex in your back yard.”

Friday January 20, 2006 - 10:16pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments

My Letter To Machiavelli

Dear Niccolo,

After our numerous discourses over the years, I consider myself a student of yours, as well as a dear friend. This you know already, but it is my current situation that is most relevant to your thought. I write today, offering you further proof for your arguments. Your great wisdom is masked by your apparent foolishness and amorality, though one need only live life for a short while to prove your thinking pragmatic and truthful, though it took me many years to see the truth.

I want to express to you now how I despise generosity for its deceptive and damaging nature. The position I find myself in inspires my soul to write such a letter. I must thank you, dear friend, for your understanding and for making clear in my mind that which I have truly known all along, but failed to truly understand. Your concepts are not beyond the reach of even the simplest of men, though the ideas have surely left a bitter taste in the mouths of those professing faith in a God that demands morality and charity. I too experienced this ‘bitter taste’ and inner conflict when my lord, Lorenzo de Medicci, whom I advised for so many years, asked me read your letter to him.

As you know, from my youth I have enjoyed the fruits of generosity; more so perhaps, than many others because of my wealthy father and my position in the Prince’s court. It was generosity that led me to become an advisor in the first place. I genuinely wanted to serve the people with the best of my talents; to give and to help. I wanted the people to prosper as well as the nation. Now though, I have come to ruin in a way that might easily have been prevented, had I been truly able to see what was happening around me.

I say that I have received generosity, but now I tell you that I have been most generous to others. You could say I have been foolishly generous. Twenty years ago I started down this road towards complete poverty, unaware of the destruction it would eventually cause me.

Dearest Niccolo, understand that I had good intentions! “What goes around comes

around,” was the adage I lived by. I never refused a request or left a needy hand empty, for as it says in the Almighty’s Holy Word, “We might be entertaining angels unaware…” Naturally I wanted to do what was right and please God. Morality has been my guide since childhood. My belief was that the more we give here on Earth, the greater our reward will be in heaven. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” I could continue on and on with these cliché’s that now haunt and mock my soul.

I was too generous, dear Niccolo! I gave until it hurt and then I gave more! I kept on giving; I could not pass an open hand pleading for mercy and a coin without giving of what I had. I would take pity on the homeless and welcome them in my house to bathe, shave, and eat. I would give them new clothes from my very wardrobe without any conditions or expectations. Soon my own means grew scarce, and my stomach suffered because I had given away that which was for my own sustenance and survival.

Surely you understand dear friend, how it broke my heart to see a child in need and knowing that I had the power to help. “Who am I,” I thought, “to ignore such hurt?” What kind of man would I be to deny that child that which I could part with easily, but he could not live without? What then of my soul? How could I defend my apathy before God, that great Judge who sees all men’s hearts? What defense could possibly suffice? Poverty, I soon realized was truly a disease in my own heart and a stain on the whole of humanity.

All hope had left me as I found myself sitting beside the same road I once traveled as a man who had great potential (and money, I might add). Now it is I with outstretched hands: dirty and cupped like a beggar’s hands. Occasionally someone will toss me a coin, and I love these people for their gifts. I also hate these people for their stupidity, and I pray for them that it is not themselves they are giving charity to. As you can see friend, generosity had delivered me into the ever-open arms of destitution. How could this have happened to me?

I have discovered within myself that there is no noble or logical reason to be generous. This is not to say that giving money or services strategically won’t pay off, but to give for any reason other than this is hurtful and ultimately destructive for both the giver and the receiver. For example, if I pay my brother’s debts then he has not learned the hardships of repaying his own loans, and will likely get back into debt once more, and all the while not having learned a thing. I also will have forfeited a great sum of money to essentially no end.

People give money for many ‘moral’ reasons, which all very hard to pinpoint or define, as you well know, friend. This is the absolute worst reason to give anything, especially money, unless the giver is in fear of hell and that fear, as you mention in your letter to the prince, will never abandon whom it consumes. Another reason I gave money and possessions is because I believed the good deed would eventually come around and I would prosper. This is Greed! There are many examples and moral reasons for being charitable that deal with the giver ultimately prospering. Generosity eventually turns to selfishness in a very backwards sort of way. You want the greatest reward so you give the most. You want the greatest treasures in heaven so you give the greatest treasures on Earth. Generosity for moral’s sake is clearly anything but holy.

This and more is why I must write to you today. Generosity is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and you alone have understood this. I now realize that I only gave these men fish, and no means by which to catch their own fish! Generosity proves itself time and again to be futile (I see some of the same men beside me now that I ‘helped’ years ago) and has finally led me to disgrace. Being generous can only bring a person to ruin and handicap the recipient, making him or her weak and powerless to deal with life’s problems. Consider my experience when you update your wisdom, my friend. I send to you my love, my friend. Be well and keep learning.

Sincerely,

Jasonini de’ Lefebvreicci

Stop Killing Yourself

Foreword

After finally compiling this portfolio to a state that I would be satisfied with, it was quite clear that I would never be satisfied. Like music, you never really ‘finish’ a song, you just abandon it. We as the audience of the song on the radio think the song is perfect. “Elton played ‘Candle in the Wind’ perfectly,” they’ll say. They who say this would be right, but this is not always the case to the artist. He knows he accidentally hit a B-flat in an A Major chord during the second half of the third chorus blah blah blah… The audience didn’t even know he played an A major chord. They only heard music! It is the artist that cringes with his own perceived imperfections. This is the profoundly beautiful thing about being a performer; and we’re ALL performers. Every action is cast in stone the moment it takes place, and that performance is the one life records. We can’t undo anything. We can only deal with the fallout and learn from mistakes. Likewise we can rejoice in our good decisions and celebrate the opportunity to live another wonder filled day in a beautiful and radiant universe. That said, my portfolio is perfect but it can always be better. That is, if I had an eternity to get it just right.

I’ll digress from the ‘Jerry Springer-final-thought” writing and do what this assignment asks for. The constituents of my portfolio were obvious choices, considering my understanding of myself and my universe. I say ‘my’ universe because it really is mine. Each of is at the apex of history, if only our own. No one else was born at the exact time I was and no one will die at the exact same time that I will die.

Naturally, I chose my masterworks ‘The Seventh Hole’ and ‘Cut and Dry’ as the two major papers to include. I felt with these essays I was able to play with concepts and see how far a certain line of reasoning could take me. I was also able to explore my new mind, as it’s been at least ten years since I truly considered and recorded any intelligible discourse about any subject in depth. I enjoy playing Devil’s advocate, because it’s the hardest position to defend. To defend the bible, all one has to do is quote the bible, and when that well of argumentation runs dry, you simply say that it’s a matter of faith, not proof. This is an unarguable, indefensible, closed-minded communication dead-end. But to defend the other, unconventional side of things both gets you to think about things from a new perspective and gives you insight into many things that a person imprisoned by ‘belief’ will never see. Of course this could be argued that the subject of the previous sentence is not desirable…

First in line is ‘Writing Is My Foe…,’ which was the first thing I have written academically in years. An interesting note: While typing it is MS Word, there were virtually no times where the computer wanted me to correct something or check spelling. This is interesting because every major paper has been a grammatical train wreck every sentence or two. This paper is included merely for comparison.

What I refer to as my ‘spiritual awakening’ was (is) an important aspect of who I am and who I’m choosing to be this very moment (wherever I am while you’re reading this). Who, though, is wise enough to recognize when their awakening is taking place? It could be any time or always! It’s so mysterious and wonderful, not to mention important. Naturally then, I had to include ‘Paralyzed;’ where I elaborate on a strong memory and wonderful revelation in my life that I believe was an awakening of sorts.

With the terrorism in the world right now, I felt it was important to write a reaction to a song about that very issue. It is important to understand our enemies – more so perhaps than eliminating them. Honestly, terrorism is a microscopic threat compared to even one other cause of death like car accidents, not to mention heart disease, cancer, diabetes, etc.

Finally I have includes four poems, not to mention little quips and poems all throughout the binder. Poetry is simple beauty. Its one medium I use to meditate. Its an important, honest spring of truth and reflection. I’ve written poems consisting of nothing but cuss words. I didn’t think you’d appreciate those, though I had other motives for not including them. ‘Dustin The Wind’ was inspired when I watched my brilliant friend have to play snare drum on some stupid march in band. I have seen this guy truly let go on stage with his own music, and I felt it a travesty for him to be utilized so generically. ‘When Farmeeliona said to Spardwickee…’ is self explanatory, but it must be read VERY slowly. It will take some effort, I must warn, but it’s fun!

‘A Letter To Emily’ is an actual letter I gave to Emily (thus the title) because I believe in her with all my heart. She is smart, kind and beautiful. She’s got it all and I felt I should tell her; ‘A Letter To Emily’ is a prophecy. The last poem is a window into the inner dialogue that ravages my mind day and night.

I don’t believe this portfolio is pointless. To me it’s not a grade. It’s not an assignment. What it means to me is far more complicated because I don’t know the future. This may be to my ultimate benefit or ultimate detriment. I believe I am a more educated and well thought out man because of the process, not the finished product. As touched upon earlier, I am abandoning this project knowing full well that it could be better, but with complete certainty that it is absolutely perfect.

About the cover art:

“Mentology” by Jason Lefebvre, depicts the subjectivity of the ‘world;’ how it’s all just information until we interpret it into usable shapes, colors, smells, sensations, sounds, and tastes. Also implies the quest for reality.

Alternate Title: “Summerland,” meaning what each of thinks of as the ultimate goal; or ‘heaven.’

Writing Is My Foe...

An introspective assessment of my

personal experience with, and thoughts

about writing.

Writing is my foe. Writing is my friend. Depend’s on the day, I guess. I’ve never been great at writing, but when I do write I like it to be good. If it’s not perfect I pitch it. This has always been my weakness, weather writing music, lyrics, stories, or even letters to my friends in California. I always feel my audience is either unpredictable and non-specific (in the case of lyrics) or have the “I can do it better” mentality when they hear my music. I’m sure this comes only from my own insecurities, and I’m glad I’m in a class such as this to help me write better and become more confident in my approach.

Over-analyzing has been another pit I’ve yet to build a bridge over. I feel I can write good and colorful stuff, but motivation leaves me when I think what my audience might think. Will it hold their attention? Will they cringe every time I write “weather” where “whether” should be? Will I become boring with detail? Will my writing be something worth remembering? Some schools of thought say, “You should do what you do for you, regardless of what others might think.” That’s all well and good in Happy Fairy Land, but when your ability to write a good song (in my case) or article for publication depends on the continually renewed interest in your work, you tend to ditch the “do it for yourself” mentality pretty quick. Or not. Is this right? Is this wrong?

Again with the overanalyzing. I failed a paper the first time I attempted college when I was sixteen, because the question for the writing assignment was, “If you could take a pill that would make you live forever, would you do it?” I needed more info. Could you drink and smoke? Could you drink bleach? How does this alleged “eternity pill” preserve your body? There was not an answer I could write. I would have written fifty questions. Needless to say, I dropped that class, and since then, writing has been my foe. It’s been fun today, though, so writing is my friend, at least just for today.

The Seventh Hole

An arrogant and pretentious assertion rooted in a

completely indefensible discourse presented with a

presumption sure to offend any who possess a

working intellect and/or common sense.

Note to the reader:

The intended purpose of this essay is not to scare or accuse you, or make any speculations. Neither is it to excuse your actions or bring you any undeserved peace or comfort. Rather, the purpose of this essay is to plainly convey the reality of your decisions and the consequences you have brought upon yourself. You will already have your answers; do not cry out to God for an explanation. He will not save you because this is of your own doing; this is your own choice. God’s greatest gift is free will, and it is this same gift you have carelessly discarded.

------------

Suicide is a volitional act of violence toward oneself paid for with free will. For the sake of this essay, anyone who chooses this path will be referred to as a ‘suicide.’ The current statistics are devastating. Suicide accounts for more teen deaths than any other cause in this country. This discussion is intended to suggest and support that suicide accounts for every death, everywhere, since the beginning of time. Thusly, Dante would sentence every soul – himself included – to the fate of suicides in the first part of his masterwork, Inferno.

When a person dies after ending their own life, they are immediately cast into the seventh hole in the inferno, according to Dante. There they fall into a forest where they land wherever fortune decides. Here, as if turned into seeds, they germinate and grow up into reviling and mournful trees. Their colors are wretched and black. In this forest live creatures called harpies: winged beasts with female features and straw-like hair feed on the ‘plant life.’ The harpies’ teeth cause the souls great pain, which is the only outlet for their grief.

As in Dante’s age, modern thought has allotted suicide its own department in the wide world of sins and even a seat with other unclear and debatable issues such as masturbation and divorce. It is commonly thought to be the ultimate tragic end of a lost and hurting soul. There are posters, flyers, support groups, and even public service announcements bringing the general populous’ attention to the devastation suicide causes to those who kill themselves and those around them. They plead with messages such as, “Its better to lose a friendship than a friend.” This, of course, would not likely inspire many contestants. What about the suicides themselves, though? Who can really say what that last moment is like for them? Is there fear? Are they relieved? Do they regret their choice the very moment it is written in time? Only suicides can answer these questions and surely the responses would span the spectrum of emotions.

Society thinks of suicide as the quick and often unannounced ending of one’s own life. Examples include a bullet to the head, hanging oneself, jumping in front of any number of automobiles, taking the whole bottles of various pills, slitting wrists, the ol’ toaster-in-the-bathtub, consuming poison, and anything else the imagination can conceive. These are seemingly undeniable acts of fast suicide; though this analysis too can be challenged.

In macroscopic common speed (the time that some event takes place as decided by, and commonly witnessed by humans: i.e., 365 days in a year, 24 hours in a day, 60 minutes to an hour, and 60 seconds to a minute), events are much different than when experienced from a microscopic perspective where, for example, one macro common speed second might equal 100 variable micro speed years (since time is a continuous analogous loop with no beginning and no end, and since perception of time is relative and variable, we’ll assume this operation is possible).

For example, a person who shoots themselves in the head might appear to die instantaneously, but if every event were analyzed and every physical change catalogued, this tiny event could be described as to take many, many years to unfold, filling up millions of books with data. This goes to show that these supposed ‘fast’ suicides can be slowed and examined, so that this seemingly short even can take centuries to play out. This is an important pretense to understand, as it will apply to the next subject: ‘slow’ suicides.

‘Slow’ suicides are less known and even lesser recognized as such. This would include - but is not limited to - those who smoke cigarettes, those who consume untold amounts of fat, cholesterol, salt, alcohol, or even those who live high-risk lifestyles. High-risk lifestyles include – but again, are not limited to – skydivers, dare-devils, gang bangers or thugs, those in the military, or those involved in police work. Any combination of the above is also a brilliant recipe for slow suicide. High-stress jobs are included also, from pilots to the president and everything in between. Stress is a part of these professions, and is known to cause heart disease, and yet there are still people who willfully and deliberately do them.

All of these ‘slow’ suicides have one thing in common: they can all be summed up in one sentence. For example, “My dad died of lung cancer from smoking for 45 years,” or “Fatty finally had a fatal heart attack,” or “Dude’s ‘chute didn’t open; poor guy,” and “Two more marines killed in Iraq today when…” These aren’t very obvious suicides, but they are suicides nonetheless. The people involved knew the risks, and went ahead with their business anyway. A person who pulls the trigger on a pistol in their own face knows the risk and goes ahead with business anyway. The all permeating factor is that each of these deaths is a willful result of the person’s actions. The smoker could have quit cigarettes. Fatty could have put down the Cheesy Poofs. The person could have stopped drinking, or forfeit their skydiving license. Even if a person died of heart disease before it was common knowledge that saturated fat was bad for the arteries, it could be argued that they should have waited for adequate research to be done before eating five meals of bacon a day for twenty years. This brings us to perhaps the most controversial type of suicide: ‘indirect’ or ‘roundabout’ suicide.

An interesting type of indirect suicide is what’s known as suicide by cop. If someone wants to die, but can’t pull the trigger on themselves, what are they to do? Charge a squad of heavily armed police officers with one or more guns pointed at them, of course! Protocol says a cop must shoot the ‘perp’ in this case and there is a good chance the wound will be fatal. If a homo-sexual, Jewish, black man wants to die, he can simply crash a Klan bonfire and shout the Torah in ebonics with a lisp while threatening the lives of the members’ children.

If Jesus knew what his fate was before he was born and yet incarnated anyway, only to be killed in the exact way he knew he was going to die, then this can be nothing other than suicide. His omnipotence was holding a loaded weapon at his face, and his act of incarnating anyway was pulling the trigger (remembering the macro and micro time pretense). Our mere choice to be born is suicide (unless a person believes souls are forced to be born, which would contradict free will) in that once a person is alive, he or she can’t leave the state of ‘being alive’ without dying. At some point they must choose to disunite from the ‘jar of clay’ they have been occupying, which is essentially willing death.

As stated earlier, this essay is not a theory or a proposal. This essay is merely an informational pamphlet regarding your fate, should you wonder why hateful and ugly beasts are tearing at you barken flesh in the underworld. Know now that it’s too late to change. Even if from birth to death you were in a sealed room you would still not be safe from your sin, or the consequences thereof. You chose to separate yourself from God, and because of God’s grace and his Holy doctrine of free will, He was forced to let you go. You will not, however, be lonely.

Cut and Dry

A discussion about the human

predisposition to, necessity for, and

problems arising from judgment.

Judgments span the spectrum from easy to difficult and from virtually insignificant outcomes to dire consequences. Let’s examine the nature of judgment further.

Paralyzed

A narrative essay about how

my spiritual awakening happened

when I was asleep. Kinda.

A few years ago, I experienced what some might call a demon possession. Some might call it cultic and unnatural. Others would even say it was supernatural. It has been regarded by the church as something to fear and avoid. Curiosity, condemnation, and enigma surround it. All of these descriptions are correct, depending upon one’s belief system. I like the term awakening.

After hours of making out with my beautiful half-black, half-white girlfriend, she had gone home and I was finally alone, content with my own thoughts. The room was dark. I had always felt that the darkness made making out more mysterious and exciting; eyes see enough sex during the day. In the dark, other senses can get involved. In my room, darkened by layers of tin-foil and sleeping bags draped across the windows, I lay staring at what would be the ceiling, were I able to see anything. The only light in the room came from an old tape deck my Dad had given me. The level meters shone brightly, but were still; the tape had long since finished playing. It was the same tape Deborah and I listened to every time we would get together. The small plastic fan next to my bed was the only sound, showering me with white noise.

The day’s events passed before my mind’s eye. Thoughts would make their presence known one by one, then two or three at a time until at last all the day’s worries, hopes and concerns became faint and fragmented. If I talked at all to God that night, it was surely awkward and uncomfortable for us both: me, reciting out-dated buzzwords and rhetoric, and him, having to listen. My thoughts finally ceased, and I was left in limbo. I found myself in the sacred space between the inhale and the exhale.

Not yet asleep, I was not quite fully awake. A quiet buzzing sensation crept upon me and overwhelmed me with frightening speed. Before I had a chance to react or even register what was going on, my mind began falling backwards in a vibrating, dizzying decent. I was like a child twirling round and round, becoming dizzier with each nauseating revolution. The sensation was more alien than any other I’d ever felt before. My thoughts consisted of helpless, panicked phrases that I hoped would explain or alleviate my unease. I kept falling into a dark pit, faster than anyone can fall on Earth, and then… Nothingness.

“I can’t move,” I thought. It wasn’t like being chained or strapped down. It wasn’t like being subdued at all; rather, it was as if my mind had disconnected from my nervous system. It was as if I physically forgot how to move my limbs.

These strange events filled me with fear, and naturally I began to panic. I tried screaming. Nothing. I tried again, this time the loudest and strongest scream I could possibly muster. Far away from myself, from what I perceived as my physical voice, I heard a quiet but desperate groan. That voice didn’t matter here, though. That voice was somewhere above and outside of where I was (which I still had yet to figure out). That voice was inaccessible to me now. I had had enough and finally lost it. I began kicking, flailing my arms, and twisting in every direction at once, trying to shake off this paralysis like it was a spider on my shoulder. At last I was able to rid myself of this supernatural straight-jacket. I awoke, opening my physical eyes in relief. I turned my head and saw the lighted tape deck. Underneath it, the small fan still was blowing steadily. I was able to feel and operate my limbs again. I was relieved beyond all sense of the word.

“What the hell was that all about?” I asked aloud. My voice was quiet, though. It was not louder than a whisper; it was almost a prayer. I was reminded of a nightmare I was once plagued with.

When I was a young boy, I would sleep in a twin bed that was about three feet off the floor. The lower part of the bed had six drawers, two rows of three. On the other side of the bed by the wall was an empty space, creating a fun place to hide when my brother and I would play. At night, in order to feel safe and comfortable, I would bury myself under the covers to hide my face from whatever lurked in the darkness. Once asleep, I would have a recurring dream that I would fall into a pit of monsters, with about six creatures resembling monsters from the children’s book, Where the Wild Things Are. They would all gather around me and I would lie helpless and scared. The monsters would poke at me and prod me, laughing all the while. These dreams were maddening to my four year old mind. When I would wake up, I would look around and find myself to have fallen off the bed towards the wall. Sure enough, I would be under the bed, sweating and frightened. That was ten years earlier, but back in my bed, my fear of the dark resurfaced with a new ugly face.

As I was playing the last few minutes over and over in my mind, I proceeded to rationalize it any way I could. Alone in the dark, I lay considering demons, extraterrestrials, God, and the bible. I thought about things I had been told, things I’d heard, and things I’d read. I remembered hearing of cases where a person, lying in his or her bed at night, would become incapacitated by a demonic presence crushing their chest. I finally decided that this was not what happened to me. This was not a malevolent spirit. This had nothing to do with demons or angels at all, or so I thought. I did eventually fall asleep that night, though not without a measure of fear, curiosity, and excitement.

My Dad, his girlfriend, and I left the apartment of my awakening a month after it happened. We moved to Sacramento, California, and I had told no one about what was now the most important and intriguing thing in my life. I started to do some research, mostly on the internet and in books. I listened religiously to paranormal talk-show, Coast to Coast AM with Art Bell, and he had several guests who experienced similar phenomena.

There was a radio show at night called, “The Dream Weaver”. The Host would take callers, analyze dreams, and give advice. Satisfied, the callers would hang up, now possessing new insight into their waking lives. I called one night, after learning the term sleep paralysis. I took the host through my experience step by step, clearly conveying that what happened was not a dream. Sadly, she analyzed my experience like it was a dream, so I hung up dissatisfied, but more determined to find answers.

This was not something anyone, let alone everyone, talked about. I felt lost and alone, but, going with my instincts and curious nature, I believed my first sleep paralysis incident to be a sign of something bigger. This was something I felt I had a duty to explore and share in order to help others who might feel lost with nothing but questions. The helplessness that I felt that night-dark within my room and mind-turned into a righteous hunger for truth and explanation.

Seven years have passed since the night I was filled with fear, confusion, and the most unnatural ‘physical’ sensations, and I can say honestly that my quest for enlightenment has proved fruitful beyond my wildest imaginings. I now understand how limited our everyday perception of the world is. There’s so much more out there: visible things that we never notice, and unseen things that would melt our minds with their wonder. The potential for grace, beauty and true freedom war revealed to me on that momentous evening.

George Carlin says, “Nothing is more boring than listening to someone else tell you about a dream they had.” Nonetheless, I can’t wait to tell everyone about a dream I had once. I think it would go something like this: “I was an American… I think, and I remember playing music and going to college. There were these beautiful cars and women… wars… I remember wars… but I remember the skies the most. There were beautiful sunrises in the mornings and sunsets every night. I don’t remember the rest, but it was awesome. Man, until I woke up I could swear it was real!”

In The Name Of God

A personal reaction to and reflection

of “In The Name Of God,” as originally

recorded by Dream Theater.

Dream Theater, as a band, has somehow always been on the cutting edge of recording and production techniques, and is considerably more lyrically mature than many of their contemporaries. Though this band normally writes about philosophical issues such as past lives, their own beliefs about death, and the meaning of life and love, it is not wholly unexpected for them to take on the more weighty social issues.

My first exposure to this aspect of the band was a song called “The Great Debate.” It’s a wonderfully musical composition showcasing not only the band’s songwriting skills and technical proficiency, but their awareness of important socio/political discussions. “The Great Debate” focuses on stem cell research. It starts off with an audio montage made up of clips from news anchormen and women, along with radio talk show hosts, all discussion the possible ramifications of proceeding with such unknown scientific and moral territory. The first verse in the song illuminates the promise that lies ahead if research is conducted and successful. The second verse is a warning to those who would treat unborn life as something less than sacred, saying we don’t know what kind of Pandora’s Box we’re really picking the lock on. The issue is said to have both miracle potential, yet possibly violate the sanctity of life.

That being said, I was not surprised to find a song called “In the Name of God” on the quintets latest release. Like the name implies, it’s a commentary on the state the world is in now with Muslim radicals crashing planes into buildings and such. More than that however, I think its attempt for ‘those with ears to hear’ to listen and understand the motives of our enemies. They are not our enemies because we hate them; rather they are our enemies because they hate us. There are two passages that seem to sum up the entire conflict at once. The first;

“Listen when the prophet speaks to you,

Killing in the name of God;

Passion twisting faith into violence,

Killing in the name of God.”

If one is to live out his faith, he must obey God. If God, or the person telling you what God wants from you, says God wants you to kill Americans, or any person or group, you will obey. If you don’t obey, you believe you will suffer whatever consequences your religion mandates, a life of this is what Dream Theater refers to;

“Blurring the lines between virtue and sin,

They can’t tell where God ends and mankind begins;

They know no other life than this;

From the cradle they are claimed.”

From the cradle they are claimed. The last two lines are perhaps the most powerful lines in the whole album. The music bursts into climax as everything comes together for the thesis statement of the song. Sonically, it grabs me by the throat and forces the urgency of understanding the truth into my heart. This is a very well composed and exciting piece.

If America was a truly evil nation all about killing, conquest, bloodshed, money, and spreading its corrupt version of ‘democracy,’ we who grew up here would never know it or believe these ‘lies’ even if they’re true; We are taught from birth that our country is the greatest, with the best governmental system in the world. Whether this is a truth or a lie doesn’t matter and never mattered, and for that matter, won’t ever matter because people believe what they want to believe regardless of evidence placed before them. No convincing otherwise could undo the brainwashing. From the cradle we are claimed. This might help us understand the enemies mind, therefore finding a more peaceful solution.

Four Poems

Dustin The Wind…………………………………………………………………………34

A poem about the tragedy of wasting a

brilliant young man’s talent, a

man whom I admire greatly.

When Farmeeliona Said To Spardwickee………………………………………35

A poem.

Words Change……………………………………………………………………………36

A poem about God, confusion, life,

faith, and humanity.

A Letter To Emily………………………………………………………………………37

A poem to my beautiful girlfriend.

Dustin The Wind

It’s like watching Mozart play the triangle…

Brilliant and skillful

Limited though…

A sickening and profound image

You are graceful

And with a silent confidence you push on

Even if you stay in your shell

It too is beautiful

Dustin the wind

All you are is Dustin the wind

You won’t last—you wouldn’t stay

Were we even to beg

You would not stay

And we will…

Dustin the wind

All you are is Dustin the wind

When Farmeeliona Said To Spardwickee…

Farmeeliona vanderquetleakk Abriggiggiggo

Nazavrandonilikita Ishlopenzoon villaborg

Laa pettzanaftopy requintazillafoneifica

“Brigando!” said Spardwickee

Neftopolyclat Rivandodoeniffs

Facebirdifizittypal frizzal azigabah

Merrifrikko andolli visobrathener

“Brigando!” said Spardwickee

Blethlikket Subbaddonononicalif zed

Nigrinallo flalapallettina vorgineopazz

fallicific vrampeenanop vission quettertineal

“Brigando!” said Spardwickee

SIGINARCO BLONCATALLI

Words Change

Words Change as I get older

Their meaning lost in new experience

Old memories don’t attract my lust

Their impressions so varied

So conflicting…

No more expectations

Dead faith? Awakening mind?

I’ve often said

“God would rather honest questioning,”

“Than blind faith.”

But now I’m not so sure

It seems my certainty has left with my innocence

“I could never kill…”

Yea right.

To have the choice

To decide and be wrong

Or to be a slave to destiny but always right

Is this the will of God?

If it exists, how can it be any other

Than the will of God?

Sadly I fear, or rejoice in the fact

This “person” we call “God”

Is bigger than any of us can imagine

And is he one with us?

Can a creator truly be separate?

Separate from his creation?

They say,

“Oh, that’s a Picasso…”

“This is Mozart…”

These creators to their work are forever bound.

Could creation exist

Were it not for definition?

Could there be experience

With no experiencer?

But definitions change

As we grow

As we get older

Generations pass…

Civilizations pass…

A Letter To Emily

I know you’ll touch hundreds of lives and make a difference

I know you’ll accomplish all you want and more

Everyone will have a special place for you in their heart

They will see the love in you

Like I do

I know your reality will be one of beauty

Not without a few rough rides, of course

You will have more triumph than trouble

More fortune than failure, more luck than lamentations

You’ll discover the depth of your beautiful soul and see it clear

Like I do

I know in all you do you will have success

Your strength will win always; your tenderness will melt angry hearts

And your caring hands will mold great sculptures

That will never decay, without or within the gates of time

Your heart will last forever

A light for all who wish to experience true grace

Like I do

I know you deserve every ounce of wealth;

Spiritual, physical, material – its all for you

They’re all gifts from your own generous heart

So take and enjoy this life is yours

And have faith – like I do

For you are going to be great

In any and every way you want

I love you

Friday January 20, 2006 - 09:34pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments
The need for snide (sneed): I'm an asshole. I sit around and think of ways to upset the applecart. I hope with every sentence that a baby dies somewhere, and my dream is that I will be there when it happens. I just want to offend everyone. THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE. This is actually harder than pleasing everybody. So am I to understand there is no way to universally impact everyone?; There was this guy at work today, we'll call him "Dan." He was being a dick and threatening our dishwasher (as a side note, if you ever work somewhere where you have a dishwasher as a co-worker, something has gone terribly wrong in your life). I feel sorry for the dishwasher, so I say, "Dan, if you whip him with that towel, I'll join him and we'll take you down."; "Oh, really," he said; "Yea. I'll hold you down have "Brandon" piss on your face." Then I walked away.; Anybody can just throw fists around, but it takes some creativity and lots of diet coke (uncapitalized on purpose) to dredge up this plan. I only wish it could have happened.

Thursday January 19, 2006 - 09:27pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments
Week 2 of Paraprofessionalizing: I’ll begin this week with what was neglected last week. I had my observations regarding Mark Twain’s technology in my notes, but when it came time to report, the notes were overlooked. I tend to shoot from the hip with writing, keeping only a general idea of the assignment in mind.; The school has decent, practical technologies. The best computers are in the office or in the mobile lunch-card cart (as should they be). The classroom computers, area bit out of date; slow and running Windows 2000 or 98. This is primitive by today’s standards, but perfectly practical considering Judy is not playing the latest Unreal Tournament in Hi-Def with surround sound on a T3 internet connection (as far as I know). The room itself is equipped with plenty of instruments (mainly percussive - kids like to hit stuff and shake stuff). There aren’t 30 of each, but there is enough variety and quantity that no-one gets left out. There are CD players-a-plenty and hundreds of Cds that correspond to lessons in the various grade’s books.; As far as picking a few students to observe more closely, this would have been at least nearly impossible and at best arbitrary, considering the volume of students Judy teaches every week. To compound my already short memory, she doesn’t teach on Friday, and out of the 18 classes I observed, I did not see one student twice. That said, however, there were definitely students that made an impression on me.; Aaron is an autistic first-grader about whom my girlfriend’s mom (also Mark Twain’s lunch lady, “Mrs. Mayo”) has raved about every chance she gets. From just the little I’ve interacted with him, I think he is a really neat kid and I enjoy seeing him when he comes to music class. There are also two other autistic kids at John Harris that stick out in my mind: Justin and Ethan. Ethan is a kid who almost always has the deepest look of melancholy on his face - more than depressed or sad - and it always seems misplaced on a child so young. Then, in the next moment he smiles so bright you’d swear he was the happiest kid in the world, not excited a t a toy, but really and joyously happy. He loves to play with the E.A.’s hair; He loves the smell and feel. Then there’s Justin. This little guy is extremely vocal and loves to sing and clap. Funny thing: he has perfect rhythm! He’ll be yelling excitedly and shaking his head wildly while clapping to the song, and he somehow maintains the precise beat with his hands, even nailing the fills at the end of the verse. I was told that he has a tendency to pull hair, and when he does, doesn’t let go. Emily, a third little girl who is fascinated by my ponytail, has short hair as a result of Justin. It’s funny how someone can be so innocent and such a monster at the same time.; With the cluster classes, Mrs. Conner has little choice but to sing familiar songs the kids like. She has them all gather around a table and distributes toys relevant to the song. For instance, she will give the kids stuffed puppies for Polar Pups, and various tambourines for Tambourine Kid. As one would imagine, these kids are in no condition to learn the progressively more complex concepts of music theory, like the “other” kids. The classes run smoothly with this remedial, yet appropriate group interaction.; The other kids (average to high intelligence) learn differently. Group learning is prevalent throughout the grades and classes. The Kindergarten kids will all do the same thing - they all gather around the tape-circle in the back of the room and learn together. The older kids will have an assignment, such as arranging an excerpt of a rhythmic poem, and will break off into groups of three or four. It was most interesting watching the dynamics of each group. I would walk group to group asking, “So, who’s going first?” and with this one question, the kids would giggle or comment, and it was apparent who is a performer and who is not. This one question exposed the leaders and followers, the extroverts and the recluses, the class clowns and the weak-willed.; When a class is not divided into individual groups, they’re each seated in their assigned seat. Judy will talk about a song and ask the class questions regarding the subject matter of the song. Most of the time, everybody wants to answer, but occasionally she will need to draw a card (with a kid’s name on it) to force-volunteer someone. Unfortunately, when everyone wants to answer, no one wants to listen to what their peer has to say. There is much noise on one side of the room when a child is speaking on the other. This happens about every class, everyday.; I mentioned Cds earlier, as this is the main accompaniment that the kids sing to. These Cds augment Judy’s interactive and animated lessons, and with repetition the kids get more and more into the songs. Cds are a great way organize and maintain the songs in the books, but I started thinking, “Why not use an iPod?” CDs can get lost, damaged, or stolen, and hundreds of Cds for quick reference takes up much space and time (two commodities that are always lacking). I have even seen Judy have to improvise her lesson (kudos to her all-around) on the spot because a CD wasn‘t where it was supposed to be when she needed it for a class. With an iPod, she could have her entire library at her fingertips with a play list for each class or grade level, and best of all she would have a backup copy on her computer were anything to happen to her iPod. Just an idea. I researched this a little, and discovered that a education company in Texas was distributing iPods for free to music teachers who would teach their curriculum, with this same concept in mind. Oh well, food for thought; I know which road I’m taking if I do this for a living.; Do I still want to be a teacher? *sigh* Teaching is in my blood - everyone’s infact. We’re all teachers and students at the same time. I don’t know. I wish I could write a nice clear cut thought on teaching, but its not that simple. Quite honestly, Judy’s job seems too hard for me. How could I possible remember almost 400 kids a year? How could I possibly plan 36 lesson plans a week? How could I create a demeanor that commands respect from elementary school kids, while effecting love still? Just when I think I couldn’t teach elementary school, I see little “ah-ha” moments all over the place. I see the opportunity to lay a solid foundation for secondary and High School teachers. I realize that what I teach these kids now is going to stick with them more deeply than possibly any other period in their life. I realize I can turn them on or off completely to music. What a responsibility. Who knows? I don’t NOT want to be a teacher. Is that a good answer?

Tuesday January 17, 2006 - 11:04pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments
Got the "Hots?": Ever get the "hots" for someone? Its been cited in reputable research journals that the "hots" is actually a type of Herpes. Think about this the next time you fantasize about that MLF or that child (you sicko) of that man (you fag) or that woman (you lesbo) or that dog (you... dog fucker) or that toaster (you applianceophile) or that... where was I going with this?; Jason

Thursday January 12, 2006 - 08:54pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments
The Sneeze: This was one awesome sneeze. What you see is the product. Good times. It pisses me off when someone says, "God bless you," after a sneeze. The sneeze WAS God blessing me, I think. I just didn't like wiping it off my shirt. I don't like wiping in general. Wiping really isn't my thing. Lets just say I go through a lot of underware. Until next time...; Jason; P.S. Yes, I am sick with Bronchitis and a chronic sinus infection, so my mucus is a celebration of color.; Thursday January 12, 2006 - 08:51pm (PST)
Learn To Speak

You remember the Jerry Seinfeld episode where Jerry goes out with the "low talker?" These people are real. At what point is it okay to not speak up or speak clearly, or not look in the general direction of the person you're talking to?

Thirty two, I guess. and it starts young. As a waiter I'll ask the kid what he wants for supper and he will kind of mumbly-cryingly say something. Sometimes I wish I didn't understand what these yahoos were saying. That makes me an enabler. You get the point. I can't elaborate my frustrations any further here, so you're spared my grief. Celebrate while you can.

Thursday January 12, 2006 - 08:44pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments

New Insult No. 1

If someone says to you, "Hey buddy! I really liked your show, you played bass great!" You would reply:

"Fuck you, SCROTUM CHOKE!"

or perhaps:

"Why don't you go go choke on some some scrotum you scrotum choking scrotum choke!"

Always finish everything out with a nice clean "I had your mom last night." These tips will help you get along in the 21st century.

Word of the Day: SCROTUM CHOKE

Please submit your stories on the use of this illustrious retort! Send mail to decreebass@yahoo.com

Jason

Thursday January 12, 2006 - 08:37pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments

Two Music Scholars Walk Into A Bar...

Two music scholars walk into a bar sharing a set of headphones, clearly enjoying what they were listening to. A man seated at the bar sipping a whisky sour asks, "What are you listening to?"

"Beethoven." says the man on the left.

"Debussy." Says the man on the other left.

"That don't make a lick o' sense! One of you is lying!"

The music scholars look at eachother and proceed to beat the man's ass until he is reduced to a bloody pile of flesh and shards of bones.

The moral: Music scholars are pretensious assholes with an unquenchable bloodlust.

Thursday January 12, 2006 - 02:36pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments

Why Does Every Bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos Taste different?

The most delicious and perhaps the most inconsistent snack in the whole snackimal kingdom, the flaming hot phylum takes the cheese. That last sentence sucked, and I'm sorry for making you stupider. Moving on... No matter where or when you buy a bag, it will tast different. I suppose I could tell you, the discerning cheetos connoiseur, where the good ones are and which ones to avoid.

Well FUCK YOU.

Jason

Thursday January 12, 2006 - 11:17am (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments

Flush The Fucking Toilet!

I'm at school, right? I go to the little boy's room (four inches or less must use this bathroom) and I find a nice stall where I won't have to avoid eye contact with the next stranger who walks in. To my awe and disgustamazement, there's shit in the toilet! Not regular shit! This shit looks like the child's parents feed them cardboard and stuffed animals.

I examine the poo for a good three minutes before I decide it's not worth thinking about, and I decide to piss. Thankfully, when you piss in a toilet that has decaying shit in it, you are greeted with the "stirred-up old poop" smell. To myself I said, "Thank you Jason for stirring that poop up and making it waft into my nostrils. Thank you ... Yes... Mmm" It was aweful, yet for a nasty smell, it was actually quite colorful. I started to imagine that this shit was fermenting inside of some kid before it escaped to reak havoc in my nostrils.

I tend to be suspicious of such shit. Is it really hard to kick the flushy handle thing before you leave? Personally, I have a harder time NOT flushing. It takes more energy to reach for the handle, then withdraw, thinking, "well it's only piss; I should conserve water." To the fuck that left this bomb: Don't conserve water! MAybe if you just stopped eating blended boxes and stuffed bunnies we wouldn't be in this mess!

For the love of God herself - FLUSH!

Jason

Just A Kid On Drugs

The world is a cold and unfeeling place. If you believe any differently, its because you have not experienced what I have experienced. You are not special, and ultimately everyone will turn their backs on you in complete and utter abandonment. The world is not fair; this is evident everyday to everyone who steps outside of their front door or turns on their TV or reads a paper. This is also quite evident to anyone with a working knowledge of history. There is no such thing as luck. Even "good" fortune is ultimately to your own or someone else's detriment. For instance, you win a million dollars and you become paranoid about all the people trying to get a piece of it. You become lazy and miserly with material possessions you don't need.

There are no winners in life. Everyone must die. Everyone who does not fall to their death, get run over, shot, raped, stabbed, choked, or gutted will have getting old and watching their bodies fall apart to look forward to. This is the great joke. Sure, go ahead and spend 12 years in college to become a brain surgeon so that you might cure people, and get killed by an uneducated red-neck drunk driver the night you start your practice. There is no certainty in life. There are no rewards in death, only darkness and forgetfulness. This existence is chalk-full of ironies and unexplainable things. These are the very things up around which have sprung religions that claim to know the unknowable.

When you die, you will not be remembered. No one will mourn or even ponder the meaning of your life's work. Everyone will be much too busy living their own life and besides, people die everyday, so what makes you special? That's right; nothing. If we mourned every death, we'd do nothing else with our time. So what then do we have to look forward to? Decay? Death? Watching our children grow up and decay, lose their hair, teeth, health and hope. Then we have the joy of knowing they will get to watch their own children slowly die. This sure is a beautiful life God has created, huh.

"What is the point," I though, "What difference will it make if I die now or 100 years from now?" I took the kitchen knife to my wrist and pulled. I felt the sting and saw the blood, and thought, "Pain really doesn't hurt." would I be okay with going to Hell if this were to glorify God? This was the scariest night of my life and has left me completely numb to any peak or valley of emotions.

Let's Start At The Beginning...

The Arden Fair Mall was no different than any other that day: Hot girls hanging out with handsome guys, fat women wearing what they shouldn't, thugs trying to look cool, and little kids riding on their dad's shoulders; an average Saturday. It was late afternoon and the sky was clouding up as my friend Steve and I were loitering by the food court. He pulled out an "Ice Drops" vial and squirted it in his mouth. He offered me some but I turned it down for the fifth time already. At last I accepted and took two drops. This was not Ice Drops as I very well knew. This was LSD. I had already had a bad trip months ago, and as soon as I dropped the acid I knew it was a bad idea. We stayed at the mall for a short while and then headed home. I could feel the trip coming on on the way home, as I could feel a disconnection between my hands on the steering wheel and my perception of what my hands were doing. This was not a good idea, but we made it home safe anyway...

Steve had been taking acid for so many years (even though he was only 23) and had been doing so many hits over the past few days that it did not even affect him at this point. If you have ever done acid, you know this is a shocking concept. This was my fourth and last time doing it. And it was vastly different from the first time. The first time I dropped I was with another friend who worked with me and we had just gotten off. We worked the graveyard shift and it was now six in the morning. We had a wonderful time together: We watched cows have sex, we "freestyle walked," and we even had a blue plastic cup that we both loved because it could hold water. It was all around wonderful. The sun was shining and the grass was singing with the trees. In fact all vegetation was joyfully, like newborn babies cooing and reaching toward their mothers, reaching at the brilliant California sun.

This trip, however, was not like the first time. I immediately felt dirty. I could feel the chemicals seeping into my dirty bones. I felt guilty and restless. I was picked up by another friend whom I was supposed to play music with that evening and I confessed on the way to his house that I had dropped acid and would be useless as a musician that night. I asked him to bring me home and he did. I became frightened, because I had this feeling something bad was going to happen to me, but I suppressed it. Then the song on his car stereo seemed to sing just to me. It was Radiohead's "Karma Police." "This is what you get. This is what you get. This is what you get when you mess with love.." I suddenly felt that I had violated some sacred law of the universe and that I was condemned to Hell for this offense.

Back again once at home I paced around the neighborhood, going inside and outside, then back in, then back out. I kept pacing. I wondered what all this was about. Something told me I already knew. I was thoroughly frying at this point. I was overcome with feelings of condemnation and hopelessness, only interrupted occasionally by thoughts of innocence and clarity. These were few and far between.

Nighttime had come – in more ways than one. I looked up at the stars and they seemed dim and yellow. I started to read the bible and every verse, it seemed, was written just for me. I realized that everything in my life was (and still is) just for me. What was on the TV was just for me. All history had been preparing for me, and every law of physics was catering to my needs every moment of my life. And, to top it all off, I had blown it. My one chance to glorify God had been squandered. It saddened me to know that many many others out there (if they even existed) had blown the same chance. I knew that everyone I had hoped to see in Heaven was lost to me forever now, and I would be lonely and burning with hatred and fire when I died. I would be dying forever in the vast and uncharted depths of the unimaginable reality of Hell. God had completely abandoned me. A glimmer of hope came to me at last in the form of an idea. I would still be worth of Christ if I were to take my own life. So I set about the task

You would be surprised how resilient the body is to being killed. Cancer is a interesting disease, as to some it shows the fragility of the human body and spirit, and to others the strength. Anyway, I couldn't bring myself to stab myself with a kitchen knife, as I found my chest a bit tougher to stab through than TV would have led me to believe it would have been. At this failure, I devised plan B. I would take a bunch of pills. This was a flop, as all I had was Benedryl and my fear and hurriedness rendered me unable to open even one of the individually-wrapped capsules. If only I could get a hold of a gun...

I grabbed my kitchen knife and proceeded outside where I wandered house to house banging on doors. It was now 12 o'clock AM and someone finally answered their door. I said, "I need a gun cause I have to kill myself – Do you have a gun?" Naturally they said, "No," and locked their door. At this point I had already slashed my wrist five times and was bleeding. I can only imaging what this poor man thought when I petitioned him for a weapon.

Soon after, the police arrived and ordered me with weapons drawn that I drop my knife. I did so and they wrestled me to the ground. It was cold and hard and my dirty, sweaty hair was in my face as the cuffed my hands behind my back. This was it, I thought, and I had "missed the boat." God travels through the universe looking for beings who have the courage to follow him and I was not it. I would be the chaff that was burned up. I burned with an inexpressible anger and fear, knowing that now, the only way for me to glorify God would be to burn in Hell. This tore me up inside. It would not be like in the movie Constantine, where Constantine was granted a favor from Satan, and, rather than asking for his own freedom to Heaven asked for that of his friend's sister. As Satan was dragging Constantine to his doom, Heaven intervened and let him ascend toward Heaven for his selflessness. No, this was not like that at all. I would be burned and forgotten about. I was grasping at straws in my mind, trying to find some reason that I should be redeemed. I thought, I accepted Christ as my personal savior, and I was answered with the memory of the abortion. The universe seemed to scream at me, "Does that seem very Christ-like?" I was nobody. There was nothing good about me. There was nothing special about me. There was nobody who would love me. I was alone and lost. I was not a good bass player, nor was I a kind spirit. I was not a good friend, nor was I a generous guy. I was trash. I was not a vibrant youth with infinite potential and hope and a future. I was just a kid on drugs – nothing more – just a kid on drugs.

As I was being driven to the mental hospital, face down on a gurney in the back or the ambulance, I could tell how callous the EMT's were. I was just another run for them. They had people before me, and there would be people after me. This distraught me deeply. I wanted to be special. I only wished that someone would have loved me... On a side note, you might think that if a person were damned to Hell, it would be immediate and final. But just as a judge in an American court doesn't personally escort you to your cell in prison, God doesn't personally send you to Hell. Those in charge of getting you to Hell are cruel. You are the cat's toy. Only when he is bored of you does he put you down in your doom. Before then, he slowly introduces you to (and reacquaints you with) your fears: spiders, pain, screaming, blood, rabid and hungry wild animals, fire, drowning, etc. At last I was in the mental hospital and they shot me up with drugs, inducing sweet unconsciousness...

I was never confirmed in my fears, which is why I can write this account. I don't know if I let my imagination go with my fears at the steering wheel, but I woke up in a daze the next morning with other mental cases like myself. I still don't know if I was or am damned to Hell. I can't say I learned anything, other than the permanence of our decisions, our insignificance as individuals, and the unquenchable uncertainty of this universe. I was witness to the breaking point. Many people never have to see this. Many people will never have their faith tested. Of those that do, there will be those who fall, and this is sad but true. In church with other believers in the spirit of worship, you are sure you will choose and follow God at all costs. When you reach the breaking point, and it is not clear which choice is God, you may be the one who breaks. "What's with the negativity at the beginning of this paper?" you may be asking. The answer is simple. Attitudes are formed and you can't argue with opinions. You can't truly understand something until you have been there. This is why I don't judge others and don't say "never." I used to say, "I'll never do drugs." We know how that turned out. Then I said, "I'll never have sex before marriage," and again this "never" has come and gone. I still question if this is because my opinions changed due to new information and certain acts became rational in my mind, or because I was tempted and succumbed. I'm sure there would be proponents for both sides of the argument, as there are proponents for both sides of any argument.

Wednesday January 11, 2006 - 09:19pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments

Steal This Entry

If I leave my car unlocked and my radio gets stolen, I am faced with a question. Is the theft of my car stereo wrong? Was it my responsibility? That is, was my stereo stolen because I left it vulnerable, or because a thief wanted it and stole it. Does the blame rest on me or the thief? Likewise, if I leave a bottle of bleach open on the floor and my hypothetical three year old toddler drinks it, is it the toddler's fault she died from poisoning or was it my fault for being negligent and leaving poison lying around where a toddler can access it? I offer that theft is not wrong for several reasons: first of all, like a child, this spiritually immature person doesn't realize they are hurting someone. They either tune this fact out or rationalize it in myriad ways. Secondly, the victim of theft doesn't actually own what got stolen in the first place, and last, the thief is not actually stealing said item.

The Possession Illusion

If advancing Americans take land from natives, is this stealing? Should this have been stopped by a higher moral authority? Is this evolution or regression? Likewise is a thief doing what he is doing for the betterment (in his own understanding) of himself and his situation? Why would he do so otherwise. No one steals something arbitrarily, and the exceptions to this would surely be so few as to hold no candle to the norm. Theft is a funny thing as one person can never truly own anything. I was not born with the car stereo, nor would I have died with it in my "possession." How is this relevant? Well, on a more eternal level, the thief may have been doing me a favor, giving me time to think and be undistracted while driving, preventing an otherwise would be accident, or perhaps the theft of my car stereo might have simply been fuel for my last essay, and the credit goes to the thief – like I'm paying for inspiration. What is ownership anyway? Is it holding something? What if someone takes it away from you? Is it having your name on something? What if someone scratches your name off from it? Is it using something? What if you put it down? Is it loving something? What then when you get bored? Is it preventing someone else from using it? What if you lose it? Then anyone can use it!

It simply seems impossible to nail down any practical and specific application of ownership. I "own" my car, but do I really? If by owning it I mean I do not still pay the dealership monthly checks, then yes. Still though I must buy gas, else my car is useless and I would discard it like a disposable cup. Still though I must have insurance and registration, else my car gets impounded I no longer have access or use of supposedly "my" car. And what do I need a car for anyway? To get to work to make money for myself and my company, who will just spend the money on things from other companies whose employees and owners will do the same on and on. So "my" car in this respect simply supports the economy to no end. Ownership is beyond my comprehension. How could the thief then "steal" something that is not and never was "mine," by any concrete definition, in the first place? He could not have.

If the stereo was never mine, and ultimately cannot belong to anyone, why would he have stolen it? Statistics could offer you reasons such as to sell it himself for drug money, or possible he just wanted a decent stereo. Either way, he did not consider that it would not satisfy his hunger that he believed would be satiated by a stereo. That is the case, unless he did it simply for the sake of itself, which is impossible, as all deeds are a means to an end, either conscious or unconscious, and nothing is done without some sort of motivation or expected outcome.

Not Mine In The First Place?

I may blame the the thief for stealing my stereo. An advocate of his might blame me for not locking my door, thus reducing the thief to a natural accident to be prevented by simple measures. This reasoning removes responsibility from the thief and places both the blame (fault) AND responsibility on myself. Is this the case? There is no cut and dry answer here, but since were here, we might as well look for one. Another side of the same issue lies not solely in the phantom of philosophical semantics, but in nature of existence as well.

As is common knowledge these days, all matter is made out of atoms. All people are made out of matter. All air and any other substance between people is also made out of matter, only in a different state, such as gas or liquid. All matter is made out of atoms. All atoms are made out of the same three building blocks: protons, neutrons, and electrons. Ultimately, all matter, thus people, are part of a sea of the same exact "stuff." We are all connected, and separation is simply untrue. Thus, the separation we can see with our eyes is an illusion because our eyes cannot perceive smaller objects than, say, a pinhead. We simply cannot see air. We are all the same stuff and therefore cannot add to or take anything away from ourselves here on Earth. We might rearrange the spacial position of come cluster of atoms or molecules, but we never can "lose" or "gain" anything. Therefore, no one can "steal" something they already "own." And nothing can be "taken away" from someone who is part of everything.

Why do we do hurtful things to each other? Why is life on this planet a sewn-together tapestry of lies, blessings, pain, pleasure, hate and love? Could it be we are simply an immature society, devoid of that piece of understanding that will lead to a warless world? They say a chain is only as strong as it's weakest link. I propose a species is only as good as its worst individual. I have few uncontroversial views on how this change and gain of wisdom might come about, but I'll spare you. The most important thing, which the thief of his brother's stereo did not consider, is that what we do to another, we do to ourselves. Jesus was not talking metaphorically. He was not saying what we should or should not do. He was saying what we do do, whether we are aware of it or not. Jesus knew we are all one. He was not giving instructions, he was answering the question (among others), "Why shouldn't I take whatever I want whenever I want?" Because it doesn't make sense to hurt yourself. You can do it, but why? Why do something that causes even temporary intentional harm to another (yourself). Jesus' advice was practical to an infant society. Protecting the child from hurting others is protecting the child from being hurt. Until society on Earth evolves past the point we're at now, locks will be necessary, but theft still isn't "wrong." We must, for the well-being and evolution of human society, make sure that children cannot drink the bleach.

Jason

Wednesday January 11, 2006 - 09:15pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments

First Week Of Paraprofessionalizationing

I’ve always wanted to be a teacher, or at least I’ve always wanted to teach somebody something somehow. I love imparting knowledge, and I especially love that “ah-ha” moment of understanding; either my own or another’s. And it is for this reason that I am quite sure I don’t want to teach general elementary music. There doesn’t seem to be that “ah-ha” moment. That comes later, I believe, when the student has not only learned about music but developed an appreciation and hunger for it. The magic of the “ah-ha” comes not just from understanding, but also from a gratification of a desired knowledge. For example, if you told me electricity was discovered by so-and-so at such a date, I wouldn’t care, even though it is perfectly good knowledge that I didn’t have before. I have no appreciation for electricity’s history, thus no passion, thus no “ah-ha.” These kids simply aren’t old enough to “get it.”
That said, I am in awe of people like Judy Connor (my teacher – try to keep up) who is relentless in her aim to teach these kids the fundamentals: higher & lower pitches, louder versus softer, “the steady beat,” and for the older kids syncopated (or “syncopotated” as one child said) rhythms and meter signatures. She is a woman of high energy and as a mother of two, full of love and understanding especially toward children. This has undoubtedly taught her patience and foresight; something I lack when it comes to children. I like to see results. I want a student to recognize a Sonata-Allegro form by ear or spell a complex jazz chord on command. I want the student to play the lick perfectly (I teach private bass lessons). You just don’t see this instant intent-to-manifestation dynamic in children of this age group.

Judy is a good match to me; she is energetic, I’m lethargic. She teaches thirty some different groups of students a week, whereas I’m used to a close group of few friends. She love children and relates to them well, I have no idea how to interact with them. This is exactly the experience I need right now. Judy and I can talk about any subject with (in my view) intelligent discourse. We both have very musical backgrounds, save for one difference: she has many musicians in her family and I have none.
The main school I spend my time at, Mark Twain, seems to teach students who come from middle class parents. Very few kids wear name brand clothes, there are very few poor-looking kids (don’t ask me to elaborate, I can just tell). Boys are well groomed with recent haircuts, and girls are pretty with very basic girl haircuts. The children look well, and smile or laugh often. This school is close to the historic district of Sioux Falls; between Center and Dakota just south of 26th Street, so it has the kids that come from the economy class of the parents who can afford to live in this area. This is a long-winded way of saying they aren’t poor. Also, there is little racial diversity, with about 80% white students, and more boys than girls.
Faculty and staff here are wonderful and welcoming and always helpful. I have not seen a single male teacher here (or at John Harris Elem. School) and something about that stirs my curiosity. I’ve been told the band conductor is male, though. The school is clean, well supplied, colorful, and of course euphemism-tastic. The retarded classes are called “cluster” classes, and at a recent geography bee, when a child was eliminated, the moderator said, “Okay boys and girls, it looks like we have another person to congratulate.” That’s idiotic. Sorry, just a personal pet peeve; I feel better now. Anyway, the teacher’s lounge is always stocked with goodies (just like you said it would be!). I also should add that the teacher’s lounge still feels like a sacred and holy place that I shouldn’t be in, and that I’m getting away with something by just being there.
I still think it would be great to be a teacher, but I would want a situation where I was able to nurture the class or individual children. In this way could I have an impact on the kids that would not only satisfy my own need to see growth and understanding, but give them the stable and “permanent” environment that a child works best in. With as good as Judy is with her hectic schedule, short classes, and multiple schools, it just isn’t something that I think I would enjoy. This could, however, change at any point.
In closing, I must say that after my first day, I was dreading this. The day was long, I was falling asleep and I felt awkward and nervous. I kept thinking, “Wow. There’s no way I could do this.” But the kids melt my heart and give me hope in humanity once again, so I’ve at least – at this point – opened myself to the possibility of elementary education.

Jason

Wednesday January 11, 2006 - 07:13am (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments

Phantom Tops!: Just Heard on AP news that Phantom Of The Opera is now the most successful show on broadway - 18 years and almost 8000 performances!

Monday January 9, 2006 - 10:05pm (PST) Permanent Link | 0 Comments
Entry for January 09, 2006: I've been ripping hundreds of CD's to my computer... Life's been tedious because of this, but when it's done, it will be well worth the effort. Also, I got control of my first group of 1st graders... they were insane, but cute. I wonder if I looked as goofy as these kids do when I was their age...

Monday January 9, 2006 - 09:39pm (PST)

Trichotillomaniac Times

Saturday, June 9, 2007

MY ENTIRE YAHOO 360 BLOG

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