More Code Monkey

Does anyone remember the post about Jonathan Coulton who wrote the Code Monkey song? I posted the Youtube video of a dance that had been created for it. I still love this sweet, silly song, so here's video of Coulton singing it in a club in Seattle (where there are lots of code monkeys). This acoustic version is really nice. Listen carefully, and you can hear the audience singing along with the chorus.

Don't Even Think About It

I read about the workings of the subconscious mind in today's New York Times. The first few lines of the article piqued my interest; here they are:

In a recent experiment, psychologists at Yale altered people’s judgments of a stranger by handing them a cup of coffee.
The study participants, college students, had no idea that their social instincts were being deliberately manipulated. On the way to the laboratory, they had bumped into a laboratory assistant, who was holding textbooks, a clipboard, papers and a cup of hot or iced coffee — and asked for a hand with the cup.
That was all it took: The students who held a cup of iced coffee rated a hypothetical person they later read about as being much colder, less social and more selfish than did their fellow students, who had momentarily held a cup of hot java.

We've all heard about how our subconscious can push us to behave in certain ways without our "knowing" it. Remember hearing about movie audiences who bought more of certain snack foods when imperceptible images were flashed on the screen? The article says that one was made up, to promote the business of the ad man who claimed to have done it. Remember imitating Mr. Subliminal on Saturday Night Live to the amusement of "unsuspecting" friends?

According to the article it's more complicated than that. Isn't everything? But after reading it, I'm taking a fresh look at what's posted on the walls of my classroom. I'm thinking of replacing the poster that says "Question Authority" with "Suck Up." Ha!

Here's the link so you can read the entire article:
www.nytimes.com/2007/07/31/health/psychology/31subl.html?ex=1343620800&en=d63e52cd16496308&ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

Sometimes there's magic

My daughter is here with me; she's asleep in the next room. She's an adventurous, grown-up woman with a husband, a home, a job, and a life completely independent from mine, but there are times when I look at her, and I still see the little girl who was my closest companion for so many years.

Last night, she lit up as she delighted in explaining the birthday gifts she brought for me:
A little nature box with a glass top and sides that she painted herself and inscribed on the bottom-"Put your precious finds in there, and you can look at them later. I have one myself."
Citrus incense- "Citrus always reminds me of you."
A miniature music box that plays "Imagine" when a tiny crank is turned- "Listen, Mom, can you guess the song?"
Tibetan prayer flags- "So you can let the wind carry your prayers"
Two books, one about peace and one about the origins of color- "So you don't already have this one? Whew!"
A small bag that is a replica of a Persian rug- "Doesn't it look like a magic carpet?"

Do you have times when you remind yourself to remember a particular moment, to memorize everything about it, so you can enjoy the memory of it over and over again? Last night was one of those times.

A Wish

I suppose it's evident from the content of this blog that I have an affinity for poetry. It's such a treat to have a poem from The Writer's Almanac delivered to my inbox and read by Garrison Keillor every day. Sometimes, when I read a poem, I find myself rereading particular lines again and again. Here is part of today's poem called "Kindness" by Naomi Shahib Nye. The italicized lines are those that drew me back today.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.


I have this quote from Theodore Isaac Rubin on the wall in my classroom:
“Kindness is more important than wisdom, and the recognition of this is the beginning of wisdom.”

I am making a wish for us; here it is: That both the delivery and receipt of kindess goes with us everywhere, like a shadow or a friend.

Kiss the Cook

This is today's poem from The Writer's Almanac. I love it. Do you ever feel like a schlump-a-dink in a sea of accomplished people doing meaningful work? This poem is the perfect antidote to that feeling. It's good to remember how something like making a satisfying meal contributes to the lives of those we love. And having just listened to Barbara Kingsolver talk about mindfully growing, purchasing, preparing, and eating our food, I am reminded here that we need to be grateful for the bounty (especially the local bounty) in our lives.

Acceptance Speech
by Lynn Powell

The radio's replaying last night's winners
and the gratitude of the glamorous,
everyone thanking everybody for making everything
so possible, until I want to shush
the faucet, dry my hands, join in right here
at the cluttered podium of the sink, and thank

my mother for teaching me the true meaning of okra,
my children for putting back the growl in hunger,
my husband, primo uomo of dinner, for not
begrudging me this starring role—

without all of them, I know this soup
would not be here tonight.

And let me just add that I could not
have made it without the marrow bone, that blood—
brother to the broth, and the tomatoes
who opened up their hearts, and the self-effacing limas,
the blonde sorority of corn, the cayenne
and oregano who dashed in
in the nick of time.

Special thanks, as always, to the salt—
you know who you are—and to the knife,
who revealed the ripe beneath the rind,
the clean truth underneath the dirty peel.

—I hope I've not forgotten anyone—
oh, yes, to the celery and the parsnip,
those bit players only there to swell the scene,
let me just say: sometimes I know exactly how you feel.

But not tonight, not when it's all
coming to something and the heat is on and
I'm basking in another round
of blue applause.

Alaska Dreamin'

Some day, I WILL see Alaska in person. Until I get to go, I'll always be a sucker for slide shows like this:

http://www.nytimes.com/packages/html/travel/20070722_ALASKA_FEATURE/blocker.html
(sorry, I still can't get this program to link to an address, so you'll have to paste this to your browser- I promise it's worth the effort)

Proofreading

This is Taylor Mali, the guy who is known for his spoken word performance, "What do teachers make?". I wish I could show this to students, but the language makes it "unacceptable for the classroom." It's funny, though, especially to an English teacher:

Summer Love

This summer I am involved with a group of high school students who are parents, or are about to be. I began the group by inviting six girls and two guys, former students in my creative writing class. In class, I saw how they loved to write about and share their experiences with pregnancy and parenting, and I thought it might be a good idea to continue to provide a place for them to do this. The only thing I was sure about when we began was that though I was more than willing to be a supportive adult presence, I had no desire to play “teacher,” in the sense of assigning or critiquing their writing, and that, within appropriate limits, they would direct our time together. What has developed is a small group of mostly girls that meets every other week in a local coffee house.

When we met last night there were three girls, three babies (two on the outside, one who will be born within the month) and me. The boyfriend of the still-pregnant Angela has been attending. He was there when I arrived but left soon after, explaining that he had to go. Tiffany brought a portfolio of poems she had been promising us we’d get a look at. She also brought her son, a sweet, sleepy baby we had visited in the hospital just two days after his birth 16 days ago. I met his father in the hospital that evening. Tiffany asked me to phone her mom and verify that she was with me, so I did.

I had been leaving reminder messages for Emma before each meeting, and she joined us for the first time last night with her darling five-month-old son. Emma still communicates with the father of her child, but he lives somewhere in the South and has yet to meet his son. All of the mothers express that whether or not the fathers of their children will be in their lives for the long term is questionable. To greater and lesser degrees there are issues of mistrust, unreliability, and immaturity that are discussed regularly, but they all remain attached. All of the girls live with either one or both of their parents.

Angela’s baby has dropped, and she is experiencing some new back pain and other discomfort associated with late pregnancy. When I asked about a writing topic for the next meeting she volunteered “Labor and delivery.” She openly expressed increased anxiety as the big event draws closer. She works as a personal care assistant to a disabled young man, and when we talked about circumcision she expressed that though her unborn baby is a girl, if she were to have a boy she would definitely have him circumcised. She has attended to the problems her client has with his uncircumcised penis. She has plans to become a special ed teacher. She is determined to complete her first online college psychology class, which is set to begin 1O days after her due date. We’ve had conversations about her goals, and I do all I can to encourage her to believe she has the ability and strength of character to accomplish them.

Emma handles her son with the ease of an experienced mom and tolerates his extreme attachment to her with the patience of a knowledgeable parent of a five-month-old. When I asked her what she has been doing this summer, she said “Taking care of him and spending time with my family.” Throughout our time in Creative Writing class, her sweet, sunny personality was a constant, something I haven’t experienced with most of the teenagers I’ve come to know through teaching. She must have had bad days, but never let it show.

Tiffany tells us her son is doing what he has done since she brought him home from the hospital: sleeping and crying only when he’s hungry or needs a diaper change. She is the most outspoken of the group, telling Angela (rather loudly, but that’s just Tiffany) that sex with her boyfriend late in the pregnancy contributed to her quick labor and delivery. I have known Tiffany since she attended a summer class I taught to get struggling eighth graders ready for the demands of high school. Her matter-of-fact demeanor and the openness with which she shares the ups and downs of her life are familiar to me.

As I left the group last night, I pondered the purpose of our meetings and questioned what they offer to these girls. As a writing group, we lack structure and discipline. Sometimes our meetings turn to bitch sessions about the boyfriends or the gossip common among any group of teenagers. If things get too intense, I make an effort to redirect, but I mostly sit back during those times and keep still. Should I be doing more to aim their energies toward their writing? Should I be encouraging them to think less about their daily dramas and more about their futures? If I am supposed to be the all-knowing sage, dropping perfectly formed pearls of life-altering advice on these girls at precisely correct teachable moments, I am failing them miserably. Freedom Writers we ain’t. But what are we? To be honest, I don’t know.

Then I thought about what I do know, and that is that I love these girls. Yup, love them, and they know it. Whatever need in me this group fills, I’m pretty sure that it fulfills some of their needs too. Acceptance and stability can be scarce commodities in the lives of these young mothers. Though the shame and insecurity previously associated with teenage pregnancy has abated, the need for acceptance and assurance is universal. Showing up, for ourselves and each other, is what we do best. As long as they continue to show up, I’ll be there too, loving them and doing what I do and don’t do, still wondering if it’s enough.

*Names have been changed to protect privacy

Not that I am...

I like this guy's stuff- his name is Jarvis Cocker (no relation to Joe) and especially this cool, bitterchick anthem. The video is *funny too.
*No human beings were harmed in the making of this film.



Completely off topic, if there is one, but how cute is this?

Worlds Apart

There's a house for sale two doors down from my apartment building. It's a cute ranch that needs some work and the price has just been reduced from $125k to $119,500. Just for fun, I recently put my numbers into an online mortgage load calculator- my number came up at 74k- HA! There isn't a shack on a dirt road for sale at that price within 1,000 miles of me. But I digress... The house is empty, and I have peeked in the windows and sniffed around the back yard- it even has a sweet screened porch that looks onto a pretty, private back yard. I've fantasized about what I might do to make it a home I'd love to live in. This morning, I read this in The New York Times:

While real estate in much of the country languishes, property in Manhattan continues to escalate in price, and that includes parking spaces. Some buyers do not even own cars, but grab the spaces as investments, renting them out to cover their costs.

Spaces are in such demand that there are waiting lists of buyers. Eight people are hoping for the chance to buy one of five private parking spaces for $225,000 in the basement of 246 West 17th Street, a 34-unit condo development scheduled for completion next January. The developer, meanwhile, is seeking city approval to add four more spots.

Come on! 225k for a parking place?!?!?!!!

I'm all about the idea that people are usually far more alike than we are different. That folks are just folks, we all put our pants on one leg at a time, and we are all one in The Great Family of Man. Yadda yadda yadda. Then I imagine myself trying to make small talk with someone who travels in the circles of the $225,000 parking space, and I realize I have way more in common with those I see yelling at each other on The Jerry Springer Show, or working on a counterfeit social security number, or standing in the street with a cardboard sign than I do with the parking space magnates.

While I count myself among the blessed, I wonder how it is that some can have so much while others have so little. The peace-loving, nice lady, do-gooder in me thinks about minding my personal responsibilities to the poor, while the radical in me cries out for bloody justice and I wonder if any of those eight Manhattanites on the waiting list for a $225,000 parking spot would consider cabs and rental cars in exchange for shelter for a needy family or a debt-free college education for a working class kid. And if I traveled in the circles that would put me on that list, would I?

Heavy thoughts, articulated more intelligently by minds much greater than mine. Speaking of great minds, today is the birthday of the brilliant 20th century poet Pablo Neruda. The radical in me loves this poem of his:

THE HEAVENLY POETS
What have you done
you intellectualists?
you mystifiers?
you false existentialist sorcerers?
you surrealistic poppies shining on a tomb?
you pale grubs in the capitalist cheese?
What did you do
about the kingdom of anguish?
about this dark human being
kicked into submission?
about this head
submerged in manure?
about this essence
of harsh, trampled lives?
You didn't do anything but escape
you sold piles of debris
you looked for heavenly hairs
cowardly plants, broken fingernails
"pure beauty" "magic".
Your works were those of poor frightened folk
trying to keep your eyes from looking
trying to protect their delicate pupils
so you could make for your living
a plate of dirty scraps
which the masters flung to you.
Without seeing that the stones are in agony,
without defending, without conquering,
blinder than the wreaths
in the cemetery when the rain
falls on the motionless
rotten flowers on the tomb.

Chipper stuff, huh?

It's also the birthday of Thoreau, who died in 1862. My do-gooder nice lady likes this Thoreau quote:

I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestioned ability of a man to elevate his life by conscious endeavor.

Today, I am more than grateful for not having to hang with the crowd making a grab for a $225,000 parking spot, nor ever having had to suffer in the kingdom of anguish. Now if I can just remember, every day, not to question my ability to elevate my life by conscious endeavor.

Weird Science

Surgeon General Sees 4-Year Term as Compromised - New York Times

A Photo and a Thought

Sharing this beautiful photo and a thought today:

"Never mind what I have been taught. Forget about theories and prejudgments and stereotypes. I want to understand the true nature of life. I want to know what this experience of being alive really is. I want to apprehend the true and deepest qualities of life, and I don't want to just accept somebody else's explanation. I want to see it for myself."
From an explanation of Vipassana meditation practice, by Bhante Henepola Gunarantana

Give 'em Hell, Michael

See Michael Moore speak the truth to Windbag Wolf on CNN.

Why is it that whenever one of MM's projects is covered by the mainstream media, the talking heads go to such lengths to criticize it? Go to this page and click on the video. If you love Michael like I love Michael, you'll be so proud:

http://www.alternet.org/blogs/video/56446/

Sorry I couldn't get the link to post, so you'll have to copy and paste this to your browser, but believe me, it's worth the effort.

Beautiful Barns

I just read an article from the University of Iowa's The Daily Iowan newspaper, on the disappearing barns of the Midwest. It cites their declining usefulness and the expense of upkeep as the causes for this. I have fond memories of playing in barns, when I would ride along with my dad on his sales route to dairy farms.

Awhile ago, I wrote about "helping" my dad do his work on dairy farms. I wrote "Dad's Truck" for a class, back when I was going to the U of Iowa. Here's what I said about barns there:
"I’d lay the parts on a rag and let them dry in the sun while Dad finished the service job and I explored the farm, with a warning to stay off the fences and away from the corn bin. I listened, as I was a good girl, and would head straight for the barn to search the musky hay loft where summer swallows careened closely over nests of mewing kittens and in winter, cattle shuffled and lowed below, huffing warm puffs of visible breath from their velvet noses."

I remember being jealous when kids who lived on farms would tell stories about swinging out of the hay loft on a rope. It seemed so dangerous and exciting; I wanted to do that. For "town" kids like me, the immensity of the barn inspired an awe on par with the feeling of being in church. Not until I visited a city did I actually realize that buildings existed which could dwarf the size of a barn. That probably sounds silly, but as a child, pictures of those city structures didn't produce much of an effect.

Reading the article in The Daily Iowan made me realize, once again, that somehow I have become old enough to witnes changes in the physical, social, and economic landscape of my home state. I was in high school in the early 70's, when farm commodity prices were high, land values rose, and a relatively small farmer could make a good living. Life on the farm no longer consisted of long hours of back-breaking manual labor as tractors with enclosed, air-conditioned cabs and ergonomically cushioned seats pulled implements that plowed and fertilized wider and wider swaths of ground, and huge combines did the harvest work. Livestock feeding and watering became more mechanized and eliminated the kinds of chores that kept farm families close enough to home to get back to the farm at least twice daily to perform them. Entire generations of animals were born, raised, bred, and slaughtered without ever setting foot in the mud of a sty or feedlot.

My sister, who was nine years older, experienced a time when farm kids were teased for coming off the school bus smelling like the manure on their shoes after doing early-morning livestock chores. When I was in high school in the early 1970's, most of them arrived in better cars than the "town kids" owned, smelling like the rest of us. They could participate in after-school activities and compete for after-school jobs, as the work on the farm required fewer hands. They had more spending money and fewer restrictions, as their parents, having been raised in the previous generation, were conditioned to trust them with the adult-sized decisions required of farm kids. Their parents didn't know much about setting a curfew; in their generation you'd have to be crazy to stay out late or drink beer to excess, as the wake-up call for morning chores came at 4 a.m., and no one cared or took up your slack if you were tired or hung over. Life in rural Iowa had changed.

Things changed again, in the 80's, when prices began to fall and failure to meet the payments on large, high-interest loans was becoming a big problem. Those who had over-mortgaged to buy more land and the latest equipment had the most trouble. More and more of the wives, and eventually the farmers themselves, took jobs in town to supplement income. Those unable to meet their obligations defaulted. Kids who had previously grown up with no other intention than to work an inherited farm often went to college rather than gamble their futures on the instability of markets and the weather. Farm auctions were commonplace; those who had the means bought up land and equipment and the corporate farm was born.

I started this post writing about barns disappearing in the Midwest. Their declining numbers is a symptom of all that has changed on the farm, as their function served a way of life that no longer exists there. Even though it means I'm getting older, I feel so fortunate to have had actual barn experience. Anyone who has, knows: Barns are beautiful.

There's TV, and Then There's Me

I haven't blogged for awhile because I've been working on redecorating my bedroom. The ease with which those words roll off the tongue make it sound almost as simple as the shows on HGTV make it look. I especially love the programs in which people like me, with a budget laughable in the purview of most professional decorators, are treated to the quick redo of a room in which only paint is purchased for the transformation.
To that, I say, "HA!"
These programs begin with a few creative stars idly scanning the furniture arrangement and possessions of the occupant, and in a fast half-hour, with time out for waaaay too many commercials, voila!, a picture-perfect, magazine-ready room sparkles its way onto my tv screen.
First, in fast-motion, the room is effortlessly cleared of furniture and all clutter that daily life demands (the clutter never returns; where does it go?), and a perfect, no-regrets paint job is applied without taping, cutting in, the schlepping of stools or ladders, or covering the floor or furniture to protect from spills and spatters.
Then, lackluster, sometimes downright ugly furniture is painted or recovered with fabric that happens to be lying around, and new window coverings are fashioned from old bed sheets with the flick of the sewing machine's on-switch.
Next, before viewers' eyes, the revived furniture is rearranged in practical, yet elegant configurations that only the spacially gifted can envision.
After perusing the rest of the homeowner's meager possessions, the perfect lighting and accessories appear from the ruins. An old lamp is given a shade fashioned from sticks and a few hunks of left-over fabric; previously-ignored art is re-hung; vases that just happen to be the perfect accent color are filled with flowers from the garden and artfully arranged (I once saw dead plants made into an attractive, fake, indoor topiary, perfect for the room's new French country decor- no lie!), and recycled candles are lit.
Finally, a wide shot of the room so amazes its inhabitants that they sometimes weep for joy! Hugs are exchanged all around, and the tv stars shine while the homeowners proclaim that the new space has given them a fresh outlook and will surely change their lives forever.
Whatta load o crap.
My room took ten days, though in the end I accomplished little more than the pros on the shows do in a half-hour. I sweated, grunted, and even cried during the process. The tears came while shortening a miniblind, and believe me when I say I don't cry over decor, ever... except for this once. One morning, after the previous day's wrestling with furniture, my body ached so severely upon waking I thought I was getting some weird disease. I've swallowed more aspirin in the past ten days than in the previous year. My legs are bruised and scratched, my checkbook is empty, and half of my clutter is now on display at the local thrift store while the other half pollutes the local landfill. But the room is done.
It ain't world peace and it certainly won't change my life, but I did it alone and with a minimum of whining, unless you count the aforementioned crying or the pissing and moaning patiently endured by my dear friend and daily walking partner, Heidi.
Oh, and it looks nothing like those showplaces on HGTV; not even close. Just where are those darn decorating wizards when you need 'em?