Tp Tech

I will say right off, from the beginning, this one may be a little strange, a bit odd. But stay with me if you can. I have point. Valid point? I do not know about that, but there will be a point.
Toilet paper plays a significant role in most of our daily lives. At least, we hope it does. If not, then you are probably experiencing some sort of gastrointestinal distress and need more fiber in your diet, or, perhaps, you are French. For most of us, however, toilet paper, in the end, is vitally important. It may not be air we breath or water we drink important, butt in the end it wipes away all of seemingly trivial items present in our daily lives. If you are an easily embarrassed sort and find yourself flushing a bit as you read, please, bear down and push onward: I will try not to let this swirl out of control.
Seriously though, many people do our best thinking in most private of spots, and sometimes those ideas lead to greatness. Sometimes, they are just ideas. I have not decided yet into which category this one might eventually drop. Here is my thought:
Does the way a person chooses to utilize TP say something about that person, his outlook or approach to life, or the principles by which he chooses to live?
By utilize, I do mean the more graphic or foul thoughts that some of you may be considering. No, I am basically referring to how an individual chooses to remove the perforated paper from the roll. There are a myriad of methods, and I would venture to say that the one that an individual selects, while not done through conscious thought, reveals much about that person. Take, as examples, the precise folder, the wadder, the catcher's mitt creator, the three square conservationist, loose layerer, or the stacker. Can a person be defined by the particular way in which he uses the bathroom roll? Does the wadder, who sends the roll spinning and gathers the long strip of quilted cloth into a bird's nest that gets the job done, approach his job the same way, never truly planning anything out precisely, but ensuring that there are plentiful resources available when needed, sometimes throwing them together as a deadline approaches, so that the process may not be pretty or efficient, but it is effective. He may roll through company resources and personnel, tossing some needlessly away without ever actually involving them in the business at hand, keeping them on the edges, even though they could be of better use elsewhere, or in the next job. This guy hopes to finish things cleanly, but he has gotten his hands dirty a time or two, usually if he has gotten into too big of a hurry or forgotten to check to see if there were adequate supplies at the beginning of the project.
Is the precision folder, and her close cousin, the three square conservationist, as neat and detailed in her personal life? Does she lay everything out, from clothes to meals to the route she will walk that evening? Precision is the goddess who guides each and every act of her day. No waste (Ok, there is waste, but no unnecessary waste). Every task is important enough to plan and every detail deserves attention. Clean. Precise. Efficient.
I will not go through each and every TP technique variation, but I hope the picture is becoming clearer. Actually, no, not the picture. That would be weird. I hope the concept, the idea is becoming clearer. However, there is one major issue, one aspect of my theory that does not quite work out. This theory is extremely hard to test. The act of using TP is, by its very nature, extremely private and unobserved. It is an extremely vulnerable time. A person is exposed, literally, and at his most human. Therefore, I truly know absolutely nothing about how a person does his paperwork. If I did know these intimate details, it would seem excessively intrusive. And kind of gross. And there, as The Bard would say, lies the rub. Or the wipe, if you will. I have no idea if the TP technique one chooses is even remotely representative of that person's lifestyle, principles, or outlook. It is a ritual performed in the seclusion of the stall, behind closed doors, alone. No one else should want to know or needs to know what occurs. Some things are not meant to be revealed, examined, or analyzed. There is always going to be something about a person that others do not know. One can take a swipe at figuring it out, but it would be only a guess, and nothing more. There are aspects of each person's life, each person's character, which most people keep hidden, either by choice or necessity.
It is something to think about, while one sits with little else to do.  In the end, however, does it really matter? In the end, does anyone really give a, well, hoot?

Observation Made While Writing by Hand

As I look down now at my hand, a hand which has pulled to me a beautiful woman who brightens my world, a hand which has held two miracles born of that angel and this poor mortal, a hand has felt my father’s firm handshake and has been clasped by a loving mother, a hand which has offered friendship and aid as well as disregard and belligerence, as I look down now at this hand, I am struck by this observation: a modern writing pen is constructed so that the printing on the side is upside down if one holds it in his left hand to write.  It does not matter the brand or the quality. It matters not if I am scribbling my name on a gas receipt or signing an insurance policy: the printing is upside down.

That doesn’t seem right.  It seems unfair. It is as if those who possess the strength of the left hand and the sharpness of the right brain are somehow unworthy of this tiniest bit of information. I must twist my head awkwardly, almost comically, just so I can see who produced this fine scribner's instrument or which drug company chose cheap ballpoints to push the latest antidepressant or erectile dysfunction silver bullet. Honestly though, is there a more fitting tool for advertising ED meds than a pen?

Still, I must ask: What have I done to deserve such treatment? What is the genesis of this bias? How am I, and those like me, to take this slight, this subtle “spit in the face”? Am I to feel inadequate, unappreciated, or belittled because I cannot effortlessly glance down to see that Bic is the culprit that produced the gloppy, smudgy, barely legible collection of scribblings on the page before me? Are we, those of the left-handedness, to be forever relegated to second-class status by an entire society that assumes that because we are nondominant in that manual dexterity which said society has declared dominant, we should not even be considered in low level mass-marketing strategic decisions? I am I doomed to write ever-lengthening draw-out, convoluted, confusing sentences as I rant about a topic which no one truly cares about, all the while unsure of who has crafted my writing utensil?

The answer? Probably not.  

After all, let’s face it: it’s just flippin' a pen.


*I actually wrote this last spring at Prairie Winds Writers and Artists Retreat, and had not looked at it for a year.

'Sweg' or 'Down the Youtube Rabbithole'

I sat down this morning to put together a lesson for this Friday. It is spring break (or spring burp, or spring pause, or whatever term you want to use) after all, so, as most teachers tend to do, I have been working on lessons. I am going to be out on Friday at the annual Writers' and Artists' Retreat at Rock Springs, so I need to have an enlightening and engaging lesson ready for my kids, especially my freshmen. So, I was looking for a couple specific video clips that would fit nicely into the what I had developed in my mind. Then it happened. I should have felt the Earth beginning to give way beneath me, but before I could stop it from happening, I was descending into a swirl of lights and sounds that washed over me and took me deeper and deeper.

This has happened before, and I have somehow managed to swim to the surface, gasping for breath, wondering how I could have given up the minutes, sometimes the hours, of my life to that vortex of bits and bytes. And then I would do it again. And again. Sometimes, I am not even draw in by its blackhole-like gravity; sometimes I jump in headfirst, happily, and swim as deeply as possible, smiling and laughing the whole time. Some of you know of what I speak. You have been there too, haven't you? You have tumbled down the Youtube Rabbithole.

Youtube is a seemingly endless universe of videos. Some are professionally produced. Most are not. Most are ameteur offerings of questionable quality. However, there are some truly entertaining, educational, and enlightening nuggets among the heaps of worthlessness. One of the greatest aspects of Youtube is that I can access videos that I would otherwise never see. Sometimes, that is amazing. Sometimes it is frightening.

On this fine morning, I started with TED Talks. These videos are lectures, lessons, presentations, and discussions by quite possibly the most varied collections of educators ever assembled. Many of them are not what we would call "traditional" educators, and they offer some of the most interesting insights. One presenter is a part of the Hip Hop Shakespeare Company, and his name is Akala. I have used one of his presentations with my classes, and I really enjoy what he has to offer.

I easily found one of the clips I was hoping to use in my lesson for Friday, mainly because a valued colleague of mine, Laura Miller, had found it first and emailed it to me. It is a boiled down and yet meaningful explanation of slam poetry and the process one might use to write it.  From there, I was able to locate a talk from Sarah Kay, a spoken word poet and teacher. That is when I should have felt the whirlpool beginning to rotate beneath me. But I didn't. I was doomed. Youtube has this little feature on the righthand side which suggests other videos one might want to view. Sometimes this list makes sense, and it is extremely useful in locating related clips. Sometimes, it is just the gateway dealer standing on the corner of the alley, not yet in the shadows and the filth, still safe and in the lamplight, but on the edge of something shadowing, something shady. Once he shakes your hand, slips you that first taste of what looks harmless and fun, there is no turning back. You are hooked and will only go deeper. At first you think you can handle it. It's just a video man, and I know what I am doing.  Yeah, right. Then three hours later, you look up, bleary eyed and numb, your coffee cup still half full but cold, the laundry still piled on the window seat and in need of folding, and kids wondering where their daddy went. Ok the last part is hyperbole; Dylan is still in bed, and Emily just came in and asked me a questions, but still, you get the point.

I had "wasted" three hours looking at videos ranging from TED Talks, to ADD Poetry, from "Rap God" to Def Poetry Jam, from lyrics video (full of grammatical errors and misspellings) to rambling video blogs. Was it really a waste though. I had never heard of ADD Poetry's channel before, and it has some great pieces on it, although I cannot use most of them in class. I found the "Fat Guy Poetry" clip that a student had told me about and that I wanted for the lesson. I found numerous new songs that I had never heard, and I saw examples of some truly horrible poetry. Was Alice's trip down the rabbithole a waste of time? Definitely not. And neither was this tumble. I will admit that I would be hard pressed to explain why some of my previous trips through the "suggestions" lists should be considered worthwhile, although I am sure I can develop a definition of "worthwhile" that would, in turn, support each and every internet excursion as somehow valuable. However, today's tumble yielded so many useful gems, few could argue that it was not time well-spent.  Odds are, I will end up diving headlong into the tempest once more, looking to repeat the outcome, and, more importantly, the adventure.

I feel that I owe any of you who are still held here some sort of reward for staying here this long. So, here you have it. George Watsky is a spoken word poet and artist who have a wide variety of clips on Youtube. He is interesting, and, I think, talented. His list of suggestions of the right led me to this video. It made me laugh. You will probably know why fairly quickly. Enjoy.

Well, now I did it.

Well, now I did it.  This weekend, I posted an entry about the competition that exists between siblings, most specifically between my sister, my brother, and me. It sprang from my brother Darrel's  (but not my other brother Daryl's) sharing his workout on Facebook. This prompted a rapid series of one upmanship that raced through our extended family, brother to sister to cousin to aunt. Today, Darrel had to carry it on with another workout status which included a specific mention of his older brother. That is just how this works.

And that is a good thing. I was not going to work out tonight. I had a meeting after school, we had to attend conferences with Dylan's teachers, and my sinuses had been killing me. Besides, it is a lifting day (Do you even lift, Bro?). However, I just could not let Darrel's volley across my bow go unanswered in some way.  So, I hit the bricks. Slowly, but hit nonetheless. I took a light walk on this glorious evening, just at dusk, as the sun sank to the horizon as it can only in Kansas. I did not match Darrel's distance, nor his pace. I did not match Kim's distance from her last workout either (which I am sure she increased based on my challenge; you're welcome.). I did, however, get out there. It cleared my sinuses to some degree, and my mind to an even greater extent. In short, it was good for me.

Thanks Darrel.

Sibling Competition

I hit the streets this morning in an effort to burn a few calories, enjoy the beautiful day, and feel a little better about myself. As I ran/jogged/walked briskly through my my workout, I gauged mt progress with a handy little app called Map My Run. I love this app because it uses GPS to map out my route, it keeps a record of the distance and duration of my workout, and my speed. It even allows me to share my workout with my friends on twitter or facebook. It is pretty neat.
That last feature of the app is one that I seldom use. I am not a big fan of sharing the details of my workouts on social media. My workouts are more solitary, more about me and myself. My shoes are not synced to a lifeband that measures my heart rate, blood pressure, and rate of perspiration. There is not connection between my iphone and my footwear that controls my music playlist help speed up or slow down my pace. In fact, my shoes are not synced to anything except my feet. Today, however, when I tapped "Save Workout" on the screen of my iphone, I paused, and took the time to also click the button that shares the workout to my Twitter, and due to my Twitter settings, my Facebook page.  I had one reason and one reason only for breaking my prohibition on social media workout boasting, and that reason is named Darrel.

You see, yesterday Darrel, my younger brother, posted through Map My Run to his Facebook that he had just completed a 3.63 mile run. There are few forces on this green and blue ball we call Earth that initiates competition more strongly than a sibling popping off about doing something, even if he or she is not even popping about doing anything. So, as I progressed through the streets of Hutchinson this morning, I was motivated to continue my trek a bit further. I am early in my workout calendar. I have been running a little as a basketball official, I have been lifting when I can with the kids after school, and I have been walking when the weather has permitted it. Today was my first outside run of the spring, however. So, when I saw Darrel's shared workout record, I had goal that I had to meet today. For the record, I went 4.04 miles this morning. So, I had to post it. 3.63? Weak.

AS I tend to do, I thought a little bit as I worked out. The thought that swirled today was about the sense of competition that can only come from siblings. Siblings basically compete whenever possible, even if they are not aware that they are competing. We compete to see who will be the first to call Mom on Mother's Day. Kim, my sister, has resorted to having Mom and Dad over for dinner on such occasions, but that does not really count. Darrel went so far as to send flowers last year. Fine, but I was still the first one to call. A few years back, Kim decided, for some reason, to begin training to run a half marathon. She ran a couple, and those feats became a popular topic at family gatherings, until Darrel popped off and told him eldest sibling that it was not that big of a deal, that one did not truly have to be an athlete to run a half marathon. A person just had to have the intestinal fortitude to go out and do it. "Jason or I could go out and run one after month of training if we wanted," he said. For the record, I never said that. But he did, so, Kim signed him up for a half marathon and he ran it.  DArrel then started training and competing in short sprint triathlons. Those require much more athletic ability, he said.  For the record, Kim has now run a full marathon, and I have not yet even considered running a half. As justification, I go back to sibling competition and point out that I ran when I was young, when a person is meant to run, and even held track records at Kanopolis Middle School for quite a while. I believe my 7th grade 800m record stood for nearly twelve years before it was broken, by an Orosco I believe, who would go on to run at an Ivy League college. Neither Darrel or Kim can say that.

This sibling competition thing goes back a long time. It has pushed each of us to become better students and stronger people, but it also led us to do some incredibly ridiculous and often idiotic things.  We used to see who could read more books at the library in the summer. We passively competed to be the smartest (my sister claimed to have invented the word doubleknot). We competed to see who was the fastest and the bravest on the frightening hill across from Bender Apartments that was called Dead Man's Hill. Ok, no one else may have called it that, but they should have. We would race sleds down that hill, and we saw who could jump the farthest on the crudely constructed bike ramps amid the piles of grass clippings. Darrel may not remember much or any of those afternoons, since he went ass over elbows more often than anyone, even Jim Carson.
The competition between siblings never really ends. Darrel has definitely claimed the fertility portion of our lifelong contest as he and Jana have pushed their offspring total to four while Kim and Dee and Heidi and I hold steady at two  children apiece. However, I fathered a girl first, and we had a boy second, so i was the first complete mixed set of perfect children.

Stupid? I do believe so. Productive? Usually not, although the competition, as evidenced earlier, does sometimes push us to workout harder and push ourselves. Near an end? Absolutely not. Whether we realize it or not, we are competing with one another. Darrel may not have meant to set the competitive wheel a'turning, but he did nevertheless.

And just so everyone knows, I am the first one of us to write about sibling rivalry in my blog. Oh, and if you are reading this Mom, Happy Mother's Day 2014.
I win.

Poetry Is...

Today, my freshmen English classes dived into our study of poetry. Actually, we jumped back into it. We have examined poetry through the year, from Shakespeare to songs, metaphors to meter, but this is our actual focused "unit" of study into poetry.  As an English nerd, I am excited. It is my goal to pass some of that excitement on to some girls who lack confidence when they should be proudly speaking out and some boys who can easily shatter the stereotypes so many young people allow themselves to fall into. 

We looked today at the quote, the verse, above from Thomas Gray. I came across the line while looking for something else last week (I have no idea what I was looking for now), and it grabbed my attention.  "Poetry is thoughts that breathe..." So simple, and yet it fosters such an image. So cool. First, it prompted my students into a discussion of whether a plural or singular verb was needed based on the structure of the clause. We have the pleasure of studying that part of English as well. Then someone pointed out the activeness of the verb, the personification. It's alive! Alive. In a freshman English class, sometimes alive is an admirable goal. Usually, my guys and ladies step past just alive, and often, they impress me with what breaths those thoughts exhale. 

I like the second thought of the piece even more: "...and words that burn." The kids saw so many ways that this line can be read. Some resurrected the classic "That 70s Show" exclamation uttered so many times by Kelso, bringing up the idea that words can destroy a person. Others focused on words filling the role of candle wax, wood, or gas, serving as the fuel that allows the flame to ignite and grow. Some equated words with the flame itself, spreading and growing on the page and in the mind. One even pointed out that you can burned by, of all things, water, which led to being burned by dry ice, which is on the other end of the spectrum, and yet no less painful in its effects. We examined how flame and water, while so often seen as opposites, actually have so much in common, symbolically. In the 1997 version Romeo and Juliet, water is used throughout the film, and the young minds in classes settled on the fact that water is necessary for life, and it allows us, and everything to flourish. However, if uncontrolled and in excess, water can drown and destroy. Love, or in R&J, lust, is the same type of force. So is fire. Without it, we would shiver and die in the cold. Some people would shrivel and waste away without fire to cook our food. The stench of adolescence would become unbearable in our classroom were it not for the flames that heat the water needed to bathe. However, if that flame escapes and grows unchecked, it will consume everything it licks with its flickering tongue. One student hearkened back to the words of the Friar and paraphrased that advice he gave Romeo concerning passion, using as his example honey, which, though sweet and nourishing, becomes loathsome when taken in excess. In the end, one young man took the conversation all the way to milk, or as he said, "malk" (thanks Julian Smith).

All of that discussion sprang from a nine word verse. That is one of the qualities of poetry that I love. It feeds thought, and that feeds discussion, which in turn, feeds more thought. It also prompted some deceptively strong lines to be written in the form of parallel poems in response. That was even more interesting than the poem itself. I was proud of many of their shaky, hesitantly penned thoughts, which blossomed, morphed, and sometimes choked on the page. I know not all of my kids were enthralled by the exchange, but a several were, and most were at least listening, soaking it in. I also know that I cannot turn every kid in my room on to what poetry has to offer, but some will catch the verse virus, and it will incubate in their minds, in the souls, and someday, it will spread from them to others a well. I am not naive enough to think that every person who can read or hear will one day fall in love with reading or writing poetry. However, poetry comes in so many forms, there is something out there in the realm that can appeal to nearly everyone. As the saying goes, "If you don't like it, you must be doing it wrong." That was about reading, wasn't it? No, I think the saying is actually "If you say you hate reading, you just haven't found the right book yet." 

So, we will continue on, hoping to find the right poem, the right lines, that will hook each of my kids in its own way. In the words of Billy Collins, we will "press an ear to its hive", perhaps "drop a mouse into the poem and watch it probe its way out," or maybe even "walk inside the poem's room

and feel the walls for a light switch" (Collins). That would be neat.

*Collins, Billy. "Introduction to Poetry." The Apple that Astonished Paris, 1996
University of Arkansas Press, Fayetteville, Ark.

Marshmellow

Pets hold a special place in a family, one which people who are not pet-people cannot grasp. A cat or a dog is a member of the family. They are there and love you unconditionally. They have their own personalities and approach their humans in their own ways.  As a kid, we had Mittens, a large cat who somehow made his way into our house despite the fact that Mom claimed to be allergic to cats. My sister brought him home as a stray kitten, and Mom agreed to let him live under the backporch, where we could feed him. Then, as the year progressed, we would return home from school to find Mittens had made his way into the unfinished basement. Then, the door to the upstairs would mysteriously be left open. Soon, Mittens had free access to the house, and he would perch on the back of the couch or curl up around your head on the pillow. He was gentle, friendly, and one of us. He passed away while I was at college, and Mom waited to tell me until I came home that spring. She did not feel it was right to tell me over the phone.  It is hard to lose a member of your family. If you are blessed enough to be a pet person, you get that.

My family had to let go of a family member named Marshmellow this week. Before you think it, understand that that name is not misspelled. It is entirely accurate and correct. When we moved from Liberal, Emily had just finished 3rd grade, and she had wanted a kitty for some time. She was not entirely happy that we were moving, and we told her that since our house in Hutchinson was bigger and had a basement, she could have her kitty. We found Marshmellow on a farm northeast of town. He was part of a litter that had a mixture of different colorings, and he looked the most like his mother. Heidi and Emily chose him for a number of reasons, but, as women sometimes do, they chose him mostly because he was pretty. If the picture in your head, based solely on the name Marshmellow, is a puffy, white kitten, you are slightly off. Actually, you are way off. Marshmellow was a shorthair kitten, with a coat of caramel swirls and sort of off-white, one that can only be described as the color of a perfectly-toasted marshmallow. His coloring, like him as a whole, was unique. 

The spelling of his name was initially unintentional, but it was appropriate. Marshmellow was one of the most mellow cats ever to claim a house as his own. He was never in a hurry, and he was amazingly tolerant of just about anything. He let Emily haul him around without complaint. He did not protest when Heidi brought home a dehydrated and starved little black and gray kitty who would eventually jump all over him, bother him as he tried to chill in the window seat, and follow him down the stairs so he could jump in front of him when Heidi filled their food bowls. Occasionally, we would see the little bugger, named Chocolate, sent rolling across the floor by a massive Marshmellow paw. Marshmellow had huge paws, because Marshmellow was a big dude. You could only truly appreciate just how big he was when he would stretch out on the livingroom floor, front paws out before him and his back legs completely extended back behind him, or when he tried to curl up in bathroom sink, overflowing the vessel that held him so well as a kitten. 

It did not take long for Marshmellow to earn his spot as our cat. He would curl up in the bathroom sink and just look up at you if you needed to brush your teeth. He perched himself on my nightstand and waited if I stayed in bed past 7:00 a.m. He would visit me in the morning in the bathroom, just to say, 'Hello" and start the day off right.  This cat, despite the fact that he had free reign over the house and did not need to ask permission to go anywhere, would walk up to the couch, look at me and cock his head to the side, before "Mreowing" his request to share the couch. I usually had to clear any throw pillows off the middle section so he could lay there, but he always made sure it was ok first. 

All of this is everyday and unamazing for those of you who do not know Marshmellow. They were just a glimpse of who this fluffy friend was. This winter, Emily got sick. She stayed in bed for a couple of days. Marshmellow stayed right with her, curled up on the right side of her bed, keeping an eye on his girl. They had grown up together, and he was going to make sure she was ok. In the fall, when my sleep schedule gives way to grading papers and watching film, Marshmellow would come downstairs after Emily had fallen asleep, and he would sprawl out on the giant ottoman next to my couch, usually just about when I was ready to toss a stack of papers across the room or put my face through computer screen. He would "Mreow", wait for me to pat the ottoman, jump up, and reach a paw out to so I would scratch him behind the ears. He seemed to know when a little perspective was needed, and he was there to provide an instant stress relief, "chill by osmosis", if you will.  I honestly believe he really felt as if this was his house, and he was responsible for us. If you came out of the bedroom early in the morning, you would usually see him, with Chocolate sitting just behind him, sitting on the hopechest in the hallway, or up at the corner of the wall of the kitchen across from the hopechest; either spot allowed him to see both kids' rooms and our bedroom, and he was on watch. We were his people, and he was keeping an eye on us.

After the vet diagnosed Marshmellow and gave us the news, he was able to come for a few days, and immediatley went into Emily's room. He spent two days there, on her bed. Thursday, he came out and sat in the window seat with Chocolate. He looked tired and sad, and he had stopped eating, but when I walked in the livingroom, he slid down from the window, moved across the room, sat on his honches in front of the couch, and asked for permission to jump up next to me. He had lost quite bit of weight at this point, and he was pretty weak, but as soon as I patted the cushion, he leaped up and laid down on his spot in the middle. He sat there with me for over an hour, and then went back into Emily's room to watch over her for the night. 

We were all able to say goodbye to Marshmellow. He said goodbye too. He nuzzled up to Emily right at the end, burying his head in her under her neck, as he had done so many times. The loss probably has touched Emily most, partly because she is so tender-hearted, and partly because the two really have grown up together. The passing has bothered me (I have been a little embarrassed by how much, until I found that others have felt just as I do when they have lost a pet), but as a dad, watching my little girl feel the loss is something completely different. 

There is a kids' movie called All Dogs Go to Heaven. I have never seen it, but I am sure it is a good flick. I don't know if all pets do go to Heaven, but I guarantee to good ones go somewhere where they continue to watch over their people. If reincarnation actually exists, I would have to guess Mittens might have found his way into Marshmellow. Or maybe they are hanging out together somewhere now, mellow as can be, watching the hyper little cats that bounce around, in a hurry to get, well, nowhere, but who had perfectly fit their respective families, too, the two of them purring contently because they have it all figured out. The big cats, they don't have rush around like that. It's not who they are.