"" Mental multivitamin: 08.07




Established in October 2003 for readers, thinkers, and autodidacts
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8.31.2007

All the leaves are falling down

Falling down, falling down. All the leaves are falling down....

It's as if someone flipped a switch. The red-breasted nuthatch returned on Sunday, August 19, one day early. We believe we hear the voices of our dearest friends, the dark-eyed juncos, calling on the wind. We're coming! Oh, we're coming! Put out the seed! Despite my protestations to the contrary, it seems that summer has, in fact, ended... or, more accurately, is dying before my eyes.

We will study outside today.
We will practice after dinner.
We will read in the sun.
We will leave with books and blankets and snacks not four minutes after I press "Publish Post."

And like Frederick, we will go and store up these butter-yellow-sunny days for that cold January morning when everything goes gray with an all-at-once-ness that makes everyone else gasp in sad surprise.

And we will be there then, with the right words and the happiest of thoughts because today we are going out to gather them.

8.30.2007

From the archives

When I hear somebody sigh, "Life is hard," I am always tempted to ask, "Compared to what?"
~ Sidney Harris
________________________

Sometimes, those of us who choose to find joy or (at least refrain from dwelling on all that is somehow less than what we had hoped or dreamed) are dismissed as being less transparent or true than others.

What bosh.

How much more "real" must one be than I am in my own writing, for example? Perhaps I should provide a SS# and address, eh?

We all have our burdens, great and small, to bear. All of us. If there is no shame in baring all -- whether in posts to a forum or entries to a blog -- then, truly, there should be no shame in choosing not to. Isn't it simply a given? We each have our issues, concerns, problems, disappointments, and bad dreams.

Although I am neither a religious nor a particularly Pollyanna-ish person, it seems so simple to me: Life is often hard, but it becomes waaaay more difficult when I focus on all that can and has made it hard.

In the ten years of our homeschooling adventure, for example, we have endured health scares (two of which involved our children), two moves (one of which was utterly unexpected), budget crises, a major automobile accident, the terminal illness and death of a parent, the deaths of friends, the frequent business travel of a spouse, and numerous other pains and sorrows that a marriage and a life (neither of which looks exactly as it did in my girlish dreams) can yield.

Through it all, though -- no durned question about it -- Mr. M-mv and I have provided our children with an education far superior to that which we received. The kids read more, ask more, do more, challenge more, work better, write and speak more clearly, fear less, and reach further than we ever, ever did at their ages.

That is, in the end, both our gift and our responsibility to them -- to parent them, teach them, guide them, care for them, celebrate them, protect them, let them go -- no matter what life is doing to us.

We are, after all, the grown-ups. Imperfect, periodically troubled, but adult and therefore responsible -- for ourselves, for our children, and for our choices.

And my choice when confronted with life's difficulty is to remind myself of its possibility. Writing about the books that we're reading or the music that we're playing or the birds that we're seeing, the museums we're visiting or the Shakespeare we're enjoying or the discoveries we're making -- in fact, chronicling the reading, thinking, learning, and just doing that defines this family is rather like a long-needled immunization against the soul-sucking nature of some aspects of the quotidian (e.g., the unceasing need to wash dishes, fold socks, provide meals, and even, some days, work) as well as some of the more difficult problems life can assign (e.g., automobile accidents and work deadlines and budget concerns).

Do you get it?

Navel-gazing can arouse in me a sense of dissatisfaction and unease. Braces. Body aging. Bills. Books due at the library. Beat the deadline. Broken garage door. Boy needs a ride. Bike needs repair. Blimey, does it never end? Thinking, though, the synthesis of my reading and learning -- oh, how that energizes me. So, too, does the occasional daydreaming session. Yes, in time, I will call the orthodontist, rub lotion into my wrinkles, write the checks, return the books, finish my work, arrange for the repairman's visit, drop off my son, change the tire on my daughter's bike. But first I will dwell on those things that enliven my sense of self and of life's possibilities and promises.

May you find some value in doing the same.

___________________

Note: For those of you who have arrived via the Carnival of Homeschooling, welcome! If you enjoyed this post, you may also appreciate the entries collected here.

Click image to enlarge.

Here are three of our crow friends in one of the trees I can see from my office window. Crows, as you know, are among my favorites.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended, and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season season'd are
To their right praise and true perfection!
Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion
And would not be awaked.
You're going to look that up, aren't you?

Don't.

Just think.

Yes. That's it.

There it is. Right... there.

Act 5, Scene 1.

The Merchant of Venice.

8.29.2007

Meta-blogging

It's a fairly common question set: Why do you blog? Why do you read blogs? Isn't blogging a rather self-absorbed, attention-seeking activity? And so on.

Questions like these implicitly demand an apologia -- in this case for blogging. I'm not sure I'm an appropriate "Speaker for the Blog" since I've never entirely bought into the "front porch" mentality that permeates blogging rings or circles, nor am I a fan of all genres of blog.

Heck, I don't even have a blogroll.

And I don't allow comments.

Still, I have some ideas.
_________________________

In the preface of Writing to Learn, William Zinsser discusses the development of his book, which was born from the then relatively new concept of writing across the curriculum. "It's an idea I like very much," he writes. "It establishes at an early age the fact that writing is a form of thinking, whatever the subject." Yes! And later, describing the project, he notes:

The book took on a life of its own and told me how it wanted to be written. I found myself yanked back to many corners of my past -- to long-forgotten people and projects and travels that together taught me much of what I know. I realized that my life had been a broad education and that I couldn't write a book about learning without saying how much it has meant to me to be a generalist in a land that prefers narrow expertise. The anthology began to look suspicously like a memoir.

[...]

[W]e write to find out what we know and what we want to say. I thought of how often as a writer I had made clear to myself some subject I had previously known nothing about by just putting one sentence after another -- by reasoning my way in sequential steps to its meaning. [...] Writing and thinking and learning [a]re the same process.
We write to find out what we know and what we want to say.

Yes! again. Splendidly put, and, for me, anyway, spot on. Clear writing is clear thinking. If one can communicate in clear prose what he has read or seen, for example, it will read like clearly articulated thought. Better still, if one can synthesize what he has read, seen, and experienced and still manage clarity -- well, good work.

No. That's Good. Work.

Heh, heh, heh.

Anyway, that's why I decided to begin Mental multivitamin -- to write across this autodidact's, this unabashed generalist's curriculum; to synthesize what I was learning about astronomy and history and physics and current events and literature and technology and art and, yes, myself, my family, and the world. I write to learn, to know.
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As far as seeking attention, well, the act of putting the pen to the paper (or the fingers to the keyboard) is always the act of drawing attention to oneself, even if it is only to draw one's own attention to one's deepest sense of self (as in a personal journal, for example). That is the nature of communication, no? To draw attention to one's self and to one's message. But to one's self first: Look! Look! Oh, look! Listen! Can you hear me? Is this thing on?

I'm not entirely sure that this is a bad thing. George Orwell certainly didn't think it was. From "Why I Write":

(i) Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen--in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all--and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.
More vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money -- that does sound a little like he's talking about bloggers, doesn't it? Heh, heh, heh. (For the record, though, I do think it's a mistake to brand all bloggers "serious writers." Ahem.)

[Trailing off in thought...]

Maybe, in the end, the question of whether blogging is an attention-seeking and/or self-absorbed activity is all a matter of intent, and only the writer has the truest understanding of his or her intent. There are clues -- some so obvious, it's painful to see. And -- I say this gingerly -- I happen to think that some blogging genres, including "mommy blogs" and, yes, homeschooling blogs, social blogs (e.g., My Space), can and all too often do trip-trop into a place that loudly echoes with the collective cry: "Attention must be paid! Attention must be paid!" or, worse, the plaintive version of "Look at me! Look at me!"

But... that's certainly not a problem, is it? Because communication is a transaction, and no one can force me or you to listen or read or visit or even respond to their cries. No one can make us pay attention or look, right? Communication is a transaction: One believes he has something to say. He says it. Either another listens... or he doesn't. No one can force you or me to listen... or read... or visit a blog.

So if, in fact, the medium is inherently attention-seeking, it also refuses to guarantee gratification on that score.
_________________________

The clock has betrayed me. This is a conclusion-free post. Consider it an invitation to draw your own conclusions about blogging, eh?

8.28.2007


1001 Paintings You Must See Before You Die
by Stephen Farthing

From The Smart Set, "A Dilettante's Guide to Art":

Yet, mock her as we might, our woman in black from Brown is right, because the dilettantes are always right, because paintings are for looking at, and because every claim about what painting “should be” gets shriveled and old and academic even before the canvas does. The dilettante doesn’t care much about what painting “should be,” only about what it is and has been. And the thing that keeps this standpoint from being utterly trivial is the hint of melancholy in it. The dilettante is interested in all things equally because in the long eye of time all things are equally transient. Looking can become delightful again from that perspective, but it is tinged with the mark of death. The dilettante acknowledges this mark, and then goes about the business of living.
Related entry here.

8.27.2007

It's that time again. I am thisclose to this month's deadline. In the interstices parenting and teaching permit, then, I'll be a researching, writing, and linking fiend, unable to offer my regular readers much more than this image of me working my fingers to, well, bloody stumps. (Hey, it's a living.) I'll see you on the other side with something more edifying than this animation, I promise.

By the way, don't forget to set your alarm tonight -- you wouldn't want to miss the lunar eclipse. More information can be found here.

8.26.2007

This morning, a juvenile Cooper's hawk alighted in the tree beside our back patio.
In his claw, he clutched a hapless chipmunk. Master noticed the predator when he headed out back to get the mower. Today was the first sunny, comfortable day in about two weeks — a perfect morning to mow the lawn. Come look, he called gently.

We gingerly stepped outside to see the hawk, which remained surprising unperturbed by our presence.

As he greedily tore into his meal, he sent down tufts of chipmunk fur — a gentle rain on our upturned faces.

Um. Ew.

But cool.

When he became messy, though, spilling entrails in his eagerness...

we backed away.

A bit.

The cardinals rang the alarum bell again and again. Hawk! Hawk! Oh, can't you see the hawk! Hawk! And housefinches, goldfinches, and black-capped chickadees arrived to perch in the tree and hurl insults (from a comfortably safe distance, of course) as the predator placidly ripped, tore, and swallowed.

It was not until the ruby-throated hummingbird arrived and upstaged every creature gathered in the dying pin oak tree that the Cooper's hawk showed any signs of discomfiture.

She flitted and spiraled, drawing closer and closer, then dashed away, only to return, her wings bzzzzzing angrily around his head.

The tiniest creature in the yard made him shift from foot to foot, caused him to move from one branch to another, and finally forced him him to flee with the partially eaten chipmunk dangling from his claw.

Brave, beautiful little hummingbird.

She and her friend have been darting about our yards for about two weeks now.

We are transfixed by them. Everything and everyone in the house holds a collective breath when they draw near, hovering, as if by strange magic, in the front windows or dipping in and out of the gernaniums and fuschia.

As for the chipmunk, well, here is a funny aside: My office looks out onto the main wildlife "highway" connecting our front and back yards. I can see and hear all of our wild friends, guests, and neighbors — the many, many birds, the squirrels who nest in the white birches out front, the chipmunks who have made our home their home, the silly little voles, the stray cats, the lonely rabbit, the raccoon family, the fox, the skunks, and the opossum posse... all of them and more — as they flutter and flee past my window. Far and away, the abundant chipmunk population is the loudest of our summer friends, guests, and neighbors. Oh, the chipping, chirping, chattering noise they make!

Yesterday afternoon as one of the chipmunks eyed me through the window and gossiped at full volume for ten minutes straight, I thought, It's a wonder we haven't seen a Cooper's hawk swoop in for one of these hapless fools.

I am, apparently, a visionary.

Click images to enlarge.

"In short, do not be afraid."

Writing in the current issue of Philosophy Now, Ray Tallis asserts:

Yes, we shall change; but the essence of human identity lies in this continuing self-redefinition. And if we remember that our identity and our freedom lie in the intersection between our impersonal but unique bodies and our personal individual memories and shared cultural awareness, it is difficult to worry about the erosion of either our identity or our freedom by technological advance.
You'll find the complete essay here.

Fine Art Friday (late edition)

I am absolutely enchanted by Lisa Snelling-Clark's creations. Take a look at these... and these.

Here is the story behind my Poppets; and here is some more Poppet-y goodness. Embedded in both of these posts are links to Snelling-Clark's sites.

More on Pollock
Jackson Pollock first saw Pablo Picasso's "Guernica" in the spring of 1939, when the painting was exhibited in the Valentine Gallery, New York. (Read more about Picasso's "Guernica" here.) Four and half years later, Pollock's first solo show opened at Art of This Century, the gallery of his patron, Peggy Guggenheim. Critics couldn't help but notice Picasso's influence on Pollock's work -- an influence that was particularly evident in the exhibition's centerpiece, "The She-Wolf."

Related M-mv entries
Fine Art Friday (7.27.2006)

Pollock Sunday (8.12.2007)

The recommended daily allowance (7.16.2007)

8.25.2007

Music lessons begin in two hours and fifteen minutes. I don't wear chagrin often (or well), but, well, I didn't really practice this week. I gave Hanon some half-hearted, muddy-fingered attention on Tuesday. (Was it Tuesday?) I whipped through "Moonlight Sonata." Once. Maybe Monday? And I cleaned the keys yesterday while I was talking to my sister.

That's it.

We began studying piano last October, and this is the first time in nearly a year of (often crushing) work deadlines and other adult responsibilities that I have simply not had time to practice.

Strike that. Reverse.

I had time to practice.

I just didn't.

Because every free minute I had (which did not amount to much this week to begin with) -- every minute I wasn't teaching, parenting, working/writing (major deadline looming), driving, or sleeping -- I was reading this.

And this.

And tomorrow I will read this.

Practice will resume on Tuesday afternoon -- after my work deadline is met.

And after I'm done reading.

8.23.2007

"Wilson!" Donna shouts near the bottom of today's post, which made me laugh since I have been holding onto the above image from our Pollock Sunday post, waiting for the right moment to drop it in. I love that photo -- nearly as much as I love the paintings themselves. Who can resist, after all, putting a hand wet with paint on clean surface?

SPLAT!
___________________

May I share something with you? I have always been attuned to both the differences and the similarities in my three children; the differences and the similarities in the dynamics of their relationships with me, with each other, and with the world at large. I know them well. And I know myself thoroughly.

Yet somehow -- even as our family-centered learning project became mostly "Mom and the Misses" -- my teacher-self was tucked under the impression that this current stop on our reading-thinking-learning journey would look much as it did when the Misses' brother was their age. Honestly? I assumed that I had been here, done this and that it would all look much the same as it did seven or so years ago, with minor adjustments for this one's math-zeal and that one's writing hang-ups, and so on. Change a few books here, a few films there -- shake! stir!

No. An emphatic No!

I was *SHHH* wrong.

It's not like that at. all.

Which is utterly exhilirating.

And about one morning every two weeks... somewhat frustrating.

Not in the tearing-my-hair-out, why-am-I-here way. Just a "Hey! I thought I had this all figured out" way.

Please note, then: If someone tells you she has it all figured out, she is lying.

Or else, she is Athena.

Heh, heh, heh.

8.22.2007

The recommended daily allowance


Walter: The Story of a Rat
by Barbara Wersba

He would never forget the day he learned to read -- or rather, the day when reading happened to him. It was not a question of learning, it was a matter of instant comprehension. One moment he had been dozing in his nest beneath the laundromat -- pressed up against his siblings, feeling warm and contented -- and the next moment his eyes had fastened upon some torn pages his mother had used for the nest lining. The markings on one page slowly formed themselves into letters -- letters into words -- amd suddenly these words had meaning. Walter still remembered the exact words, because he found them beautiful.

And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

8.20.2007

New beginnings

That he stopped so we could take a photo is testimony to what a nice guy he is. After all, how many seventeen-year-olds good-naturedly indulge their parents in a "first-day-of-school" photo, however surreptitious?

Yeah, not many.

We didn't notice until just now that we caught him with his eyes closed.

'sure hope he doesn't look like that in trig this afternoon.

Celebrating Master M-mv
The regular season (3.03.2005)

Last night... (6.29.2005)

Morning meditation: What I live for (8.11.2005)

Guard (6.13.2006)

Four Five questions answered (5.17.2007)

From the archives: Mr. M-mv rose at 5 a.m. (7.21.2007)

Untitled (7.26.2007)
And, if you're interested, here are some thoughts on parenting and educating -- the journey from the starfish hands of a baby and toddler to the square jaw of a good young man and all of the smiles in between: It's that time again.

Added a little later
We're letting go of them from the moment they arrive, but today it felt a little all-at-once to me. A little "Wait! Stop! I want to get off!" A little like watching his back as he loped into the elementary school a little more than a decade ago.

Wait!

Stop!

Come back.

Come back.

It's fine. It's all right. We did well, it seems. He'll be great. Today the cicadas will hum, and the grackles will rob me (again!) of all our good seed. And my daughters will make art and make me laugh. Night will fall, and then tomorrow will be here.

And so it goes.

But, in focusing on the moment I'm in right this second, I realize that sometimes a job well done feels like a terrible loss.

An empty place.

An unheld hand.

Wait. Come back.

Go. Be well. Be good. Be kind. Work hard.

Come back.

8.18.2007

A Short History of Cosmology

Apparently, to be human is to care how the physical world came to be, whether it has boundaries and what is to become of it. Modern cosmology is a highly sophisticated subject funded by governments with hundreds of millions of dollars a year. It is unquestionably interesting, but is it, even in its modern guise, convincing?
Read the complete article here.

File these under...
"why I love Book Moot":

:: Advice for School Librarians

:: Book Stack of Reproach
After I finish my work, I'm going to get to work reading -- and writing about -- my own "Book Stack of Reproach."

8.16.2007

Crows Display Incredible Common Sense.

(Unlike one of my clients. What? I'm just saying.)

New Caledonian Crows Find Two Tools Better Than One.

(In other words, crows are bright! Unlike... erm, I'm heading to bed now.)

Aaaaaaaagh! Aaaaaaagh!

Sometimes the client is not right, okay? Not even a little right. Aaaaaaagh! [Insert long stream of curse words.]
It seems that our family has been planning to return to the Bristol Renaissance Faire since the moment we arrived home from last year's adventure. Naturally, then, N.S.'s column on Wednesday made us smile:

But if you like strange -- to me, strange is good -- if you are intrigued by hundreds of people acting out some kind of mass summertime fever dream, then this is the place for you. An engaging blend of low and high -- to turn sociological -- "The Idiots of Drumming" and a bookstore brimming with Shakespeare, people eating mud over here and playing the harpsichord over there.

The most astounding fact, I saved for last: When the park closed at 7 p.m., I was sorry to go.
If you're at all interested in the Faire, (re)read our 9.03.2006 entry. It's full of tips for first-timers.

8.15.2007

Teach, damn it.

Drawing on some previous recommendations and adding a couple of new titles, I pulled together some easy-to-digest books that may inspire you as you prepare for the new school year.

Marva Collins
In the 9.06.2006 "On the nightstand" I talked a bit about Marva Collins. Chicago appropriated Collins as one of its treasures in the 1980s, as her Westside Preparatory School students captured national headlines with their academic achievements. I met her (in the literary, not personal, sense) early in our home education adventure: Every Chicago educator I encountered would, on learning what I was doing, ask, "Have you read Marva Collins?" Tired of replying, "No," I borrowed some books from the library. If you seek inspiration in your teaching and learning this academic year, (re)read these two:

:: "Ordinary" Children, Extraordinary Teachers

:: Values: Lighting the Candle of Excellence
Collins writes plainly but enthusiastically about the call to teach well.

Many of us can be excellent for a day, but we find a lifetime of excellence to be just a bit difficult. Good teachers leave their egos and problems at the door each morning. They become so immersed in the children they teach that they forget time, problems, who they are, or what they can't do. They believe that they exist for their students. They hear with their hearts, they see with their souls, and they teach with their conscience.
Here's a challenge from me: This year, refuse to lower your expectations. Instead, raise them. And then exceed them. Enough of the whining and complaining and self-indulgence. Teach, damn it. Lead. Coach. Motivate. Inspire. Give your students the best that you have to offer every. single. day. Remember: The goal is a lifetime of excellence, not a day or two here and there. A lifetime. Begin, then, with raised expectations — of yourself and of your students.

Ron Clark
As I've mentioned before, Ron Clark is not the world's best writer, nor are his ideas terribly original. Yet, the Clark texts are quick reads with an upbeat tone. Perhaps the dose of encouragement some of you seek?

:: The Excellent 11

:: The Essential 55 (Ron Clark)
Clark reminds us:

It's one thing to have a lot of enthusiasm and energy, and it's another thing to use that spirit and attitude to make a difference.
Parker J. Palmer
If you'd like to refine or (re)define your teaching philosophy, I recommend (again) consulting The Courage to Teach: Exploring the Inner Landscape of a Teacher's Life, an excellent book.

Palmer maintains:

Good teachers possess a capacity for connectedness. They are able to weave a complex web of connections among themselves, their subjects, and their students so that students can learn to weave a world for themselves. The methods used by these weavers vary widely: Socratic dialogues, laboratory experiments, collaborative problem solving, creative chaos. The connections made by good teachers are not in their methods but in their hearts -- meaning heart in its ancient sense, as the place where intellect and emotion and spirit and will converge in the human self.
Rafe Esquith
Like Clark, Esquith is not a writer. Yet his books — again, like Clark's — breezily offer a number of tips, tricks, and inspirational bits that may be the balm some of you seek.

From Teach Like Your Hair's on Fire:

p. 33
Reading is not a subject. Reading is a foundation of life, an activity that people who are engaged with the world do al the time. It is often exceedingly difficult to convince young people of this fact, given the world in which they are growing up. But it is possible, and when you consider what is at stake, the effort is worth it. If a child is going to grow into a truly special adult—someone who thinks, considers other points of view, has an open mind, and possesses the ability to discuss great ideas with other people—a love of reading is an essential foundation.

p. 95
These children are not geniuses. They are ordinary, as is their teacher. They have become extraordinary by working hard and by being exposed to activities that go beyond the norm. [Note: This, of course, smacks of Marva-speak to me; she said it before Esquith, anyway; and she said it better.]

p. 211
We are not an exclusive club. Anyone who is willing to be nice and work hard can participate.
Esquith also penned There Are No Shortcuts, which is not as compelling as Hair's on Fire. I do think the documentary about Esquith and his Hobart Shakespeareans is worth your time, though.

8.12.2007

Pollock Sunday

"Pollock didn't use pink," asserted Miss M-mv(ii) as she mixed red and white. "At least not much."

No, not much, we decided after two weeks of poring over books about the life and work of the artist known as "Jack the Dripper" and "Action Jackson."

He was unhappy.
He drank.
He spent (a lot of) time under a psychotherapist's care.
He either had too much confidence in his work -- or too little.
He rarely smiled.
He alternately fascinated and repulsed -- critics, friends, family.

Miss M-mv(ii) is right: Pink was probably not his color.

"Pollock was the epitome of the tortured artist," I declared.

"That's it!" exclaimed Miss M-mv(i).
______________________________

This morning, we spread an old sheet under the precious shade of the pine trees out back. We had planned to do this project last weekend, but, at ninety-six degrees, it was simply too hot to enjoy an outdoor project. At eighty-nine, it wasn't much better this morning, but... we made it work.

And as we splattered and sprinkled and stroked the paint over the clean white boards, we laughed and talked and wondered.

We injected a little joy into Pollock's somewhat bleak vision.

We used pink.

Pollock Didn't Use Pink (2007)
30 x 20, tempera on foam board

Tortured Artist (2007)
20 x 30, tempera on foam board

Confessions of an Autodidact (2007)
30 x 20, tempera on foam board
_________
Click images to enlarge.
More images here. (Use the magnifying glass to enlarge.)

8.11.2007

The rumors of summer's death have been greatly exaggerated. Summer, the season, ends September 23; summer, the event, ends on Labor Day, which is, at this writing, twenty-three days away.

Please, no more, "Summer's practically over!" Yes, I love back-to-school supplies as much as the next autodidact, but their reduced prices at Target do not herald the end of summer, only the end of the "summer fun" aisle.

Okay?

Okay.

Book talk
Semicolon hosts "The Saturday Review of Books." Consider participating this week.

8.10.2007

Fine Art Friday

8.09.2007

8.08.2007

To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all of the miseries of life.
~ W. Somerset Maugham

I was born with the impression that what happened in books was much more reasonable, and interesting, and real, in some ways, than what happened in life.
~ Anne Tyler

When the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerers and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards -- their crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble -- the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy when he sees us coming with our books under our arms, "Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading.
~ Virginia Woolf

8.07.2007

Thoughts on education and parenting

One hundred words a high school student (and his parents!) should know (10.02.2003)

About college
(11.16.2003)

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming...
(2.25.2004)

(Behind the scenes) at the museum (3.20.2004)

Reading, thinking, learning
(5.09.2004)

An open letter (9.01.2004)

The monastic preservation of our culture
(9.30.2004)

Parenting as performance art revisited
(1.31.2005)

Feed a cold; starve a (spring) fever?
(4.22.2005)

Be a sun.
(5.05.2005)

Paying for college: A rant of modest proportions
(5.20.2005)

Morning meditation: What I live for (8.11.2005)

Life is short.
(8.26.2005)

Many folks think...
(9.15.2005)

Parent-teacher
(9.17.2005)

I think...
(10.07.2005)

A typical night and day here
(10.11.2005)

Simple ways to inject fun into your children's learning days
(11.01.2005)

Advice to a new homeschooling mother
(11.02.2005)

"Good teaching isn't about being the old bore at the front of the class with a textbook." (11.14.2005)

On writing... and thinking (12.03.2005)

Let's go. (12.28.2005)

It all begins with me. (3.18.2006)

Guard
(6.13.2006)

The one you remember (9.07.2006)

Shakespeare. Yes, again. And again. (9.30.2006)

Fine Art Friday: The Lesson
(11.10.2006)

When other homeschoolers "fail"
(3.29.2007)

Twenty-five cedar waxwings... (4.25.2007)

On parenting teenagers (7.22.2007)

Teach, damn it. (8.15.2007)

Speaking practically (9.19.2007)

"The quality of teachers affects student performance more than anything else." (11.07.2007)

"They think... you rock." (11.15.2007)

Elsewhere... (11.20.2007)

A lifetime of excellence (12.29.2007)

"[T]he quality of an education system cannot exceed the quality of its teachers."

Advice: Take it. Leave it. (5.01.2008)

Sancti-Mom-ious (5.16.2008)

A typical day and night here redux (5.28.2008)

"Everyone wants to triumph. But not everyone can—in fact, most can’t. If they could, it wouldn’t be any kind of a triumph at all." (6.05.2008)

"[D]reary, boring, sadly misguided Kindergarchy" (6.07.2008)
(3.06.2008)

8.04.2007

The recommended daily allowance

From Where the Sky Began: Land of the Tallgrass Prairie (John Madson):

Of all of the relict prairies I've known, none was as poignant as the scrap I found years ago in the center of an intensely farmed Iowa land section. It was a small, lost graveyard, all that remained of a tiny settlement that had been almost wiped out by diptheria. About a dozen weathered stone markers leaned and lay in a patch of original bluestem. Among the graves were those of a young mother and her children, and when I found the place in late summer their graves were set about with a few tall magenta torches of blazing-star, stateliest of prairie flowers. It was part of an original place and time, and held fitting memorials. There were flowers of gayfeather to lift the spirits of beauty-starved women. There was bluestem for the men, for their wild hay and prairie-chicken hunting. For the children, there was compass-plant, with its wonderful chewing gum, and wild strawberries hidden in the grass.

That patch of tall prairie was a more enduring memorial than the stones that stood there, and infinitely more appropriate. Today, our memorials reflect our values, and we will probably be interred in manicured "memory gardens," our graves decked with plastic blossoms that are imitations of tameness.

And that, too, may be appropriate.
Semicolon hosts "The Saturday Review of Books." Consider participating this week.

8.03.2007

Fine Art Friday


On July 23, I received the following message:

I came across your blog while trying to locate information about Carol Amen's short story "The Last Testament." In your entry of 7.11.2006, you indicate that you had tried unsuccessfully to locate a copy of the story.

Assuming you are still on the hunt, I thought that you might want know that while "The Last Testament" originally appeared in the September 1980 issue of St. Anthony Messenger, it was subsequently reprinted in the August 1981 issue of Ms. magazine. This, I believe, is where it came to the attention of Lynne Littman, who directed the film adaptation.
"The Last Testament" was available on microfiche from a library in the county system, and the tiny library in our small town secured a copy for me. I read it in the parking lot in a swallow-gulp-sob. I reread it later in the evening and again earlier this morning. Amen's story was -- even after all of these years of wondering -- as perfect (and as painful) as I had expected.

"If only we could have lived as well as we have died. I wish --"

Amen's bio-blurb in Ms. notes that she "dares to hope that her stories, especially this one, might make a difference in the world."

Well, "The Last Testament" and, more particularly, the film it inspired, certainly changed my world.

Thank you, Ms. Amen. *

And thank you, Professor.
This fall, Vanderbilt University is offering the course "Come Hell or High Water: The Doomsday Scenario in American Popular Culture." Among other books, stories, and films, the deceptively simple short story "The Last Testament" will be discussed. I'd throw over my beloved ornithology course for the opportunity to sit in on this class, and as many of you know, that's saying something.

Recently, Master M-mv read over the list of required texts and films and mused, "But we've already read and seen most of these."

Yes! That's quite the point! I want to hear how other young students respond to the quiet horror and despair that undergird, for example, Testament. As Dr. Dean Masullo writes, "It should be quite an experience -- I just hope that they don't find it too traumatic. (Then again, it may be just the thing for a generation of young people raised on Jerry Bruckheimer and Michael Bay movies.)"

Maybe.

Just the thing.

"I wish --"


* I loved that the reference librarian who took my request observed the unintentional irony of the author's last name and the title of her story.

8.02.2007

"I noticed something!"


:: The Painted Word (Tom Wolfe)
The perfect companion as our discussions of Pollock continue.

People don't read the morning newspaper, Marshall McLuhan once said, they slip into it like a warm bath. Too true, Marshall! Imagine being in New York City on the morning of Sunday, April 28, 1974, like I was, slipping into that great public bath, that vat, that spa, that, regional physiotherapy tank, that White Sulphur Springs, that Marienbad, that Ganges, that River Jordan for a million souls which is the Sunday New York Times. Soon I was submerged, weightless, suspended in the tepid depths of the thing, in Arts & Leisure, Section 2, page 19, in a state of perfect sensory deprivation, when all at once an extraordinary thing happened:

I noticed something!
Sometimes, I forget how much I love Wolfe. Then I become reacquainted and think, Now how did I forget this wordsmith?

:: Miracle of the White Stallions
A Disney retelling of a World War II sidebar story: Vienna's Spanish Riding School and the Lipizzan stallions are threatened by the reality of war -- specifically, bombs and Nazis. Can the school and the Lipizzan breed be saved? Recommended for girls who love horses (and the parents who love them -- the girls, that is).

8.01.2007

Soup personality

I love all food — the sublime, the ridiculous, the refined, and the gross. Like a parent who loves his or her children no matter how different they are, I love the galette de crabe at Le Bec-Fin, the Cini-minis at Burger King, and the braised duck tongue at the night market in Taipei.
In Mindless Eating: Why We Eat More Than We Think, Brian Wansink, Ph.D., notes that in his experience many veteran waitresses can predict the soup a patron will order based on his or her "look." Wansink and a team of researchers surveyed five hundred fifty-four soup lovers to develop a statistical personality profile of the type of person most likely to love each of the following soups: tomato, chili beef, vegetable, New England clam chowder, and chicken noodle.

The personality types that emerged were The Homebody, The Wit, The Affectionate Reader, The Life of the Party, and The Trendsetter.

Using these profiles, twenty-one of twenty-six waitresses asked correctly matched the five soups to the corresponding personality type.

Can you pair the personality to his soup?

Answers? You want answers? See page 151 of Wansink's intriguing book.

In the meantime, you might enjoy poking around the Cornell University Food and Brand Lab.