About that first week (see last post), it's not often that every single second of one's day one's week is an entirely new experience. That, and coming out with arms and legs and health, for the most part, fully intact. This second week was not nearly as difficult and I'm beginning to relax and get a sense of the rhythm, what I need to do and how much time I can take doing it. My students are smart and proactive, and definitely different than the academy students. They seem a lot more driven, are younger, and are better readers. It's nice to be able to assign longer readings. And the material that I'm teaching is more interesting than the Academy courses. This is part of what I came here for.

As far as classes, I oscillate between mind-on-fire and there's-no-way-I-can-finish-all-this-by-tomorrow, but it's, for the most part, completely engaging and energizing. The world of rhetoric and composition is surprisingly unfamiliar, having spent the last ten years amidst writing teachers, it's strange that most everything I'm encountering here, as far as ideas, is news. On the other hand I've gotten the impression that all my teaching experience doesn't count for much in terms of the Rhet/Comp conversation. What I was teaching, a variation on "current-traditional", is considered "bad" teaching, and so I've been experiencing, first hand, the divide between the academic world and the "real world." A quick dismissiveness of experience, and faith in a certain kind of intelligence that I'm not convinced holds up well beyond campus (see the Republican National Convention and the possibility that Romney might win, for proof of this).

But I'm going to try and keep my mouth shut, as best I can, try to keep my ego in check, and try to submit to the discipline. I trust my teachers and I trust the program. Change is hard and doubt is useful. It will take some time to settle in, and in the mean time, why not enjoy this sliver of perspective? Balurble wargle. Waddle waddle waddle. Flallulaluls. Yeeeea howwwh. Uhf. Blaburble bloggle bah. Hffft. And so ends the second week. Dara is back (in California) from her silent meditation and thank god, I missed her. The weather people say Hurricane Issac will make it's way as storm, up here this weekend. Looking forward to staying in and reading, taking care of my sore throat and resting. Happy Labor Day.

A classic is something that is always nice.

One day when I was a kid, I felt something in my ear. I tilted my head and a fly covered in ear wax came out. I expected a bean or something. Once I woke up with something in my mouth and this time, thought it was a fly. But when I opened my mouth into the bathroom sink and let it roll out, it was a tooth. Last night I had a dream about playing cribbage with my brother and he was cheating. He played five cards straight in the counting round and made a slew of points and I got so mad I stood up and left the the table. Later in the dream, or maybe in waking life, I realized that you can't play five cards straight if you follow the rules of cribbage. And thought about how if I hadn't gotten so mad and blinded my reason, I would have called him out.

Graduate school has been difficult so far. It's wonderful to have to time to read and study and discuss but the adjustment to taking classes, the schedule and relentless work load, that I'm certain will only get more intense, has left me questioning if this was such a good idea after all. Change is hard and this is going to be painful. Of course, there are worse pains and worse problems, but it will be some time before I settle into a manageable rhythm. On top of the work, there is the work of teaching, teaching a brand new course in an unfamiliar format. Fifty minutes five times a week. I told Don that I couldn't set the chairs up like I was used to doing, the rooms being so small and full. Don said, "it changes your pedagogy [these kinds of adjustments]." I've been thinking about that simple phrase ever since.

And so I'm at the bottom of the learning curve, and in some sense, slightly below it, having to unlearn six year of teaching habits while simultaneously adopting new pedagogy and approaches to teaching. The good news is that all these approaches are interesting and I think, better and more helpful to students than some of the ones I was using. And that's why I'm here, to grow into a more versatile creature. But in the mean time, survival mode is on and the walls are up. Lots more to say but there is even lots more to do, and I need to get to it. See you soon. Love,

One of my neighbors, I just learned, used to be a hog farmer (he's now studying veterinary medicine) and it made me think of one of this poem. By David Lee, from the Porcine Legacy (Copper Canyon Press, 1978). It works best when read out loud as fast as possible.

For Jan, with Love

1.

John he comes to my house
pulls his beat up truck in my drive
and honks
Dave John sez Dave my red sow
she got pigs stuck and my big hands they wont go
and I gotta get them pigs out
or that fucker shes gonna die
and I sez John goddam
well be right down and John sez Jan
he yells JAN wheres Jan shes got little hands
she can get in there and pull them pigs
and I sez Jan and he sez Jan and Jan comes
what? Jan sez and Johns red sows got pigs
stuck and his hands too big and wont go
and hes gotta get them pigs out
or that fuckers gonna die (John he turns
his head and lights a cigarette)
(he dont say fuck to no woman)
and Jan she sez well lets go
and we get in Johns beat up damn truck
and go to pull Johns pigs

2.

Johns red sow she doesn't weigh
a hundred and sixty pounds
but he bred her to his biggest boar
and had to put hay bales by her sides
so the boar wouldn't break
her back becasue Carl bet five dollars
he couldnt and John he bet
five she could and John he won
but Carl enjoyed watching anyway

3.

Johns red sow was laying
on her side hurting bad
and we could see she had a pig
right there but it wouldn't come she
was too small and John sez see
and I sez I see that pigs gotta come out
or that fuckers gonna die
and Jan puts vaseline on her hands
and sez hold her legs and I hold her legs
and Jan goes in after the pig
and John gets out of the pen and goes
somewheres else

Jan she pulls like hell pretty soon
the pig come big damn big little pig
dead and I give Jan more vaseline and she goes
back to see about any more
and Johns red sow pushes hard on Jans arm
up to her elbow inside and Jan sez
theres more help me and I help
another pig damn big damn dead comes
and Johns red sow she seems better
and we hope thats all

4.

Johns red sow wont go
out of labor so we stay all night
and John brings coffe and smokes
and flashlight batteries and finally Jan
can feel another pig but Johns red sows
swole up tight and she cant grab hold
but only touch so I push her side
and she grunts and screams and shits all over Jans arm
and Jan sez I got it help me and I help
and we pull for a goddam hour and pull
the pigs head off

and I sez oh my god we gotta get that pig now
of that fuckers gonna die for sure
and John sez what happened? and Jan
gives him a baby pigs head in his hand
and John goes somewheres else again
while Jan goes back fast inside
grabbing hard and Johns red sow
hurts bad and Jan sez I got something help me
and I help and we start taking that pig out
piece by piece

5.

Goddamn you bitch dont you die
Jan yells when Johns red sow dont help no more
and we work and the sun comes up
and we finally get the last piece of pig out
and give Johns red sow a big shot of penicillin
her ass swole up like a football
but she dont labor and John sez
is that all? and Jan wipes her bloody arms
on a rag and sez yes and John climbs in
the pen and sez hows my red sow?
and we look and go home and go to bed
because Johns red sow that fucker she died

I moved into my new place in Indiana last last Thursday and tomorrow I begin the orientation for the Rhetoric and Composition program at Purdue. It has been an amazing summer, focused on the sensory and experiential rather than the intellectual, which might make for a difficult transition this coming week as I'm plunging back into the world of academia. Next week I start teaching and taking classes but I'm told even though this week is an orientation, it will be intense, a kind of boot camp for the coming teaching and course work. Who knows. In the mean time, here are a few facts about my move to Indiana: there was a dead mouse in my toaster, 179, 451 thousand people "like" the website dmv.org and Chris Rock doesn't relate to his kids. The cicadas are sustaining a high pitched drone that isn't that annoying and I keep finding their carcases on the sidewalk. The sky is over cast and it's about a fifteen minute bike ride to get to campus.

I have health insurance now, and a spacious apartment in Lafayette Indiana. People are nice here and it's been not too hot. Last night there was some kind of festival on main street but I stayed in to apply a few changes to the collection of songs / album that I've been working on this summer. Here is one of my favorites, it's rather long and I recommend you sit down and plug in. Pause pause. It's been a very non-literary summer in the sense that I've done hardly any writing. Having Dara next to me almost twenty-four hours a day for two months meant, amongst other things, that instead of sitting on thoughts until I had a chance to express them, I just talked all day non-stop. Why write anything down if you can just lean over to the person next to you and say it? There's an answer to that question. I don't know the answer to that question. But it might take me a little while to find my "voice" again for the blog.

The Wabash river runs through the middle of the town, dividing Lafayette from West Lafayette. The county is named Tippecanoe, which you might know from the expression, "Tippecanoe and Tyler Too" which, growing up, I heard about three hundred times from different people when they learned my name. Google search. The short version is it was a campaign song for the Whig part in the 1840 presidential election. Better yet is the actual song, as re-recorded by Oscar Brand for the Smithsonian and easily found on Wikipedia. And by better I mean pretty weird. This one goes out to the state of Indiana...

 

Still in Madison. Big storms last night. Scary but I have yet to come to harm from a thunderstorm. Went swimming in the lake before and watched the clouds roll in across the lake. Approaching the end of the summer, also approaching the end of putting together a collection of songs. Mixing and mastering and ironing out kinks is takes time. My mother gave us a bag of cookies. Having a washer and dryer in the kitchen leads to more washing and drying. Like my professor said, when they invented the washing machine instead of saving people time everybody just bought more clothes to wash. We don't really need three blades on a razor. I left my hat at the old folks home and people in Madison don't make eye contact. I met my brother's new baby and finished reading All The Pretty Horses, speaking of border crossings. I'm back where I started. An excerpt:

At a crossroads station somewhere on the other side of Paredon they picked up five farm workers who climbed up on the bed of the truck and nodded and spoke to him with real circumspection and courtesy. It was almost dark and it was raining lightly and they were wet and their faces were wet in the yellow light from the station. They huddled forward of the chained engine and he offered them his cigarettes and they thanked him each and took one and they cupped their hands over the small flame against the falling rain and thanked him again.

De donde viene? they said.
De Tejas.
Tejas, they said. Y donde va?

He drew on his cigarette. he looked at their faces. One of them older than the rest nodded at his cheap new clothes.

El va a ver a su novia, he said.
They looked at him earnestly and he nodded and said that it was true.

Ah, they said. Que bueno. And after and for a long time to come he'd have reason to evoke the recollection of those smiles and to reflect upon the good will which provoked them for it had power to protect and to confer honor and to strengthen resolve and it had power to heal men and to bring them to safety long after all other resources were exhausted.

Bonjour! I am writing this email from a cafe in Le Madison du Wisconsin. New Mexico is behind us. Ahead of us is Indiana. Here until the end of this month and then into my new place in August, five years in Indiana.  Been on the road and without internet for most of the week. It's hot here! It's hot everywhere! Kansas was like nothing on earth. Iowa stormy. New Mexico is in the past. Texas was short. Oklahoma had lots of police. Missouri contains Ozarks. May contain peanuts. I haven't read a newspaper for a week and am not sure what time it is. 4:30. Metaphorically. Actually it's 5:30. My clock is off. But I did finally get a good night's sleep last night. Motel 10. Camping. Super 8. Back to a regular work day tomorrow. I hope you're well. Just glanced at the paper and crazy in Colorado. What's wrong with us?

An edited email I sent out this morning...

Hi Again C, Thanks for those songs! You sound really great. Steven is also an amazing musician. You all should play some together. Do you have wave version of those songs or any other songs? I like doing remix projects and I'd love to play around with some of your stuff. Respectfully of course, if you have waves to send. MP3s loose too much fidelity when opened and closed.  

At any rate, I'm writing from a hotel room in Soccoro right now. Dara and I are on our way back from Santa Fe, nine or ten days at her second cousin's two million dollar house back down to our trailer in Silver City. I think tonight we'll go the long way around to stop by the radio array and camp on the west side of the Gila mountains before we get back to SC. Dragging our feet. It was so easy to get work done in Santa Fe with all the space the house afforded so it's a bit of a come down to back to the hot box. 

Speaking of which, we weren't in Santa Fe proper but just north in a town called Tesuque, which is, according to wikipedia, where Cormac McCarthy lives. Didn't see him but reading the Border Trilogy for a second time around the area where they take place, is a multi-dimensional experience. Those books are so much about "nature" or place, or country side or god's indifference to us, or whatever one calls it, and so specific. I need to read Blood Meridian again. I think I was too young when I read it the first time and didn't really get it. But I remember it being a kind of surreal version of the southwest/mexico. What I love about the border trilogy are the monologues, especially in The Crossing. It's philosophy in the guise of a narrative, mostly concerning god and death. 

But it's tough down here, the weather the living and the people. I mean, I don't understand the people, not as people (people are people right?), but as an sociological ecosystem. California is sort of easy to get the hang of (slightly superficial, laid back, consistently late, good taste), but I have no idea where to start here. Apparently NM is one of the poorest states in the country and least populated. There's a kind of desert lifestyle that my body and my mind need a lot more time to get the hang of. Native peoples abound and everything is old. It makes a lot of sense to be thinking about death and eternity (see the border trilogy) in the low desert. Anywho, time to get on. Thanks for the songs and send me some waves if you can. About the play, it needs a lot more work before I put it out there. I miss the writing lab too. I actually miss teaching right now. Work. Yuck. Onward...

Last week in Silver City I went to pick up my mail at the post office. On my way in, I observed an older man, cowboy hat and button up shirt tucked over his belly into his jeans, pass an acquaintance coming out the front doors. They stopped, greeted each other and shook hands. One says to the other in a rancher's drawl, "Another day in paradise." And they parted. I couldn't tell if they were being serious, or sarcastic, or both. It was hot as hell that day.

This week Dara and I are staying in a house just north of Santa Fe. It's cooled down considerably and the last two days have brought some pretty serious afternoon thunderstorms. They call it monsoon season out here, July and August, and I wonder if it's been raining down in Silver City. I also wonder if the shade tarp we set up outside the trailer is still standing, or if it's been swept away.

Next Monday we head back down for another three weeks, and then we leave New Mexico all together. Half way through the summer I'm finally beginning to relax, though I wonder how much of that is because of this big house we're in. It's a little bit like Goldilocks, the trailer was too small and this place is too big. But it sure is comfortable, and stays cool during the day. Lots of space to spread out and work. Or idle.

Well, it's still pretty hot in Silver City. A high of ninety-three today says the weather report. Let me try that again: today the weather report says the high is ninety-three. Subject verb object. Of course it's a little bit hotter than that in the sun, or standing next to or inside of a big piece of sheet metal. Survival seems harder out there and the bugs are more aggressive. The lizards have it pretty good. Over the weekend D and I went to white sands for a night, camping on the dunes. For the first time in my life I'm able to identify more than just the big dipper and Orion. The night sky is full of objects now. Lots of sky here that isn't obscured by trees or light. "Light pollution" as my dad called it. In the meantime I've been rereading the Cormac McCarthy book "The Crossing" which takes place, or starts, right around here:

She wandered the eastern slope of the Sierra del Madera for a week. Her ancestors had hunted camels and primitive toy horses on these grounds. She found little to eat. Most of the game was slaughtered out of the country. Most of the forest cut to feed the boilers of the stampmills at the mines. The wolves in that country had been killing cattle for a long time but the ignorance of the animals was a puzzle to them. The cows bellowing and bleeding and stumbling through the mountain meadows with their shovel feet and their confusion, bawling and floundering through the fences and dragging post and wires behind. The ranchers said they brutalized the cattle in a way they did not the wild game. As if the cows evoked in them some anger. As if they were offended by some violation of an old order. Old ceremonies. Old Protocols.

It is hot in Silver City. I was told it hadn't rained since April and it seems like it. Feels like it. There is a big forest fire to the north of here in the Gila National Forest (pronounced HE-LA) and the good news is it's 65% contained. It will not be smoking me out of my spider hole. God. It almost rained the other day. Felt a few drops but our locale fell between rain storms. You could see them not too far away. Thunder and lightning too but not today. Not a cloud in the sky. At the library starting the second week of working on a play. If I ever get it done I'll tell you about it.

Sitting in my apartment with my cats is different from sitting in a laundromat on Hudson street with Dara. Last week I did everything including packing up the apartment, dropping off the cats, shipping things to Indiana, and leaving Oakland. We took five days and stopped frequently. The Sierra Nevada mountains, Death Valley, Las Vegas, The Grand Canyon, points in-between and now we're here, Silver City as of last evening. Settling in for three weeks and then to Santa Fe for two and then back here until the end of July. Today we're getting our ducks in a row (laundry, internet, food, post office) and easing back into a non-road trip like life. Instead of a fire we have a stove and running water. Almost. We're staying in a trailer in a gulch on a farm of a friend of Dara's. It's rugged, but livable, and I'm looking forward to getting some work done. Okay. Speaking of which. To errands. By the way, I'll be here: PO Box 1996, Silver City, NM 88062 until the end of July. Send me a post card.

On Saturday coming back from The City (San Francisco) to The Town (Oakland), a man sat down next to me on the BART with two large noisy shopping bags from Ross. As the train moved along he pulled pairs of shoes out of these bags, examining them, maybe admiring them, peeling the price reduction stickers off the price tags, and sticking these stickers to the back of the seat. About five minutes into this process he told me his story: he buys shoes from Ross at a discounted price and then resells them for a profit. Buy low sell high. It keeps me out of trouble, he said and continued to pull the stickers off the tags while talking to me. I didn't mind. He showed me how to carefully pull the stickers off the tag, and then revealed that in the store he would replace stickers with the ones he pulled off from other items. So instead of paying thirty dollars for a pair of shoes, he might only have to pay $9.98 once he covers up the old sticker. One of his stickers was for $.49 cents. "It's not stealing if you're paying something at the register." I told him I would think about that, and I did. 

**

Happy Memorial Day. Thank you soldiers/sailors/pilots etc. No thanks to the silly people and decisions that lead us there. This is my last week in the White House and don't want to make you uncomfortable with the sentimental details (too many goodbyes to mention) of what happened this last week and this upcoming one, but come June 5th, Dara and I are off for New Mexico to write and read and take a break from city living for a couple months before I head to Indiana for the next FIVE YEARS. Wonderful! But I'm not sure how much internet I will be doing over the summer, and want to let you know that this blog is not going to be on any kind of schedule. Posting will be sporadic and infrequent until September when school and my days get locked down. But don't worry, I will not stop. And now that I've said something I'll probably go and do the exact opposite. And besides, there's always the hawk cam (they are getting much bigger these days).

But I do want to say one thing about leaving, that this time, having lived in many places and left many places, this time the response has been different. Unlike say, leaving college or Portland or the east coast or wherever, instead of see you later, I'm getting a lot of, "have a nice life." Not flippantly or coldly, but without the illusion that I'm going to see many of these people ever again. Of course I hope I do but this set of goodbyes and good wishes feels much more final than it has in the past. Statements of gratitude in place of future plans. Maybe it's because we're all older, and at this point, we know better. A kind of wisdom that doesn't anxiously keep the window of possibility open and instead, accounts for our progress thus far. Or maybe it's because I know, and they know, that I won't be coming back. Of course I'm not going to admit that to myself, even if it's true. I can't bear that kind of finality and besides, it's silly to worry about life beyond Purdue at this point. Regardless, I will miss my friends, students, neighbors, occupiers, homeless people, gangsters, tourists, ballers, lake birds, meditators, foodies, card players, smokers, drivers, bikers, the 72R, the DMV, my landlord, record stores, book stores, happiness, Mt. Diablo, sunsets, ocean air, the Hetch Hetchy reservoir, biodiesel, stability, sunshine and all things California. Long live California! All hail California!

Wow! It's over! I leave Oakland on June 5th. In the meantime I have a long list of things that I need to get done to be ready to go. Packing and mailing and closing accounts and selling my bike, finishing grades, car stuff, and seeing people on my way out of town. On Friday I'm taking the cats to back to San Francisco for the summer, to be with their previous owner as I'm off gallivanting around the country. Come September, after settling in to my new place in Lafayette Indiana, Amy's going to put them on a plane and send them out to me. In theory. Of course they don't know this. Possibly, can't know this, but we have five more days together.

School ended well. My Thursday class was as usual, fun to be with and they did good work on their presentations. One of the best (most attentive, talkative, academically accomplished) classes I have had at the Academy, and it felt really good to be done with that class. On my way back to BART I sat in the Larry Halprin designed park just off the Embarcadero, smoked a few cigarettes and watched the sun disappear behind the buildings. Glowing. It really feels like I accomplished something in the last six plus years of teaching. Not as a teacher, (though that would be good, it's hard to know really how much or little I've impacted the lives of students,) but more so personally, that I've come a long way as a human.

Teaching was so hard for so long. Every class was exhausting and stressful. In the summer of 2010, after coming back from my second mediation course, I rewrote the rhetoric class, and ever since then teaching has been different. Something about the combination of being physically comfortable in the front of a class and the realization that students engage when they are challenged, just like everybody else. Being nice is nice but being consistent and holding people to expectations is better. For my Friday class, my official last class, I will have to fail four students when I do grades later this week. Speaking of which, I need to get on with things this morning. Happy Monday. Happy Summer.

It's the last week of school. Tensions are running high. This is the last week of my last semester. Five plus years. On Friday a student gave a presentation about using crystal meth to revitalize Las Vegas. It was an argument, and an obvious piece of satire coming from a former addict. Was it a good idea to let him present this in class? Maybe not. As is with all satire, the danger is that somebody might think you're serious, and one student did. Following the presentation she asked why he was allowed to make a joke of the proposal argument and she wasn't. I responded that he did good work, came to class on time, turned in all of his assignments, and spoke with me frequently about this project. Tensions are running high. She threatened to tell the Liberal Arts department. Teaching moments. I'm still learning.

Song

I wouldn't
embarrass you
ever.

If there were
not place
or time for it,

I would go,
go elsewhere,
remembering.

I would
sit in a
flower, a face, not

to embarrass
you, would
be unhappy

quietly, would
never
make a noise.

Simpler,
simpler you
deal with me. 


          -Robert Creeley

When does a person die? We know a person as a living organism, but when they die, their body is still alive, full of bacteria. The bacteria keeps going. Or when somebody is in a coma. The body keeps going. Of course it sounds like a silly question, because we know when a person is dead, and when a person is alive. But how? How do we know this? The medical definition is when a heart stops beating, yet that is not death either, as people come back from that condition all the time. And if they come back, where is it that they come back to?

When my dad was first sent to a care facility, for some reason at that moment it occurred to me that his condition is definitive proof that there is no heaven and by default, no afterlife at all. How could any creature, divine or otherwise, be able to make a distinction between optimal states of one's being? If I lose my hand in real life, does it come back to me in heaven? Or if I lose my marbles, does the afterlife put them back in? Of course not, as no divine force would work on a scale of human aesthetics. There is no way to separate the inner workings of a disease such as Pick's, and the expanse of one's personality. There is no dividing line. Biologist's mapped the entire brain of the incredibly simple roundworm, and found that even in a creature this stupid there is actually not one brain, but three brains in one, a network constantly modifying, responding to, and changing the neurons and synapses of the other two. Now imagine how complex our brains must be. How could anything know where to draw the line on a thing that never stop changing, and say, "Here. Here is where this creature was most perfect and from here they will live on."

Questions like these, questions that have no answers, point to problems not with divinity, but with how we think about ourselves. Specifically, that we are entities, distinct from each other and from the world around us. That we are special because we have a unique ability to articulate, observe, and control our surroundings in ways that are light years ahead of anything else on the planet. We are different from other creatures, and not only that, we are different from each other. It's a real skill and helps us divide the screws from the nuts so we can spend our lives putting together airplanes instead of searching for food. We are special because we exist on a plane once removed from the world of animals.We dwell in reason and abstraction, and because of this, we are different than cats or plants.

We don't know how or why the universe got started but we can trace it back to a single point. We can know how old the universe is by measuring the distance that light travels. We assume that life arose out of a primordial sludge. That this substance and that substance, carbon and water and maybe something else, banged against each other, randomly, and somehow, something came to life. In some pool, or pond, or crater or boulder, a microscopic spark leapt between two inanimate objects. Perhaps this happened on our planet, perhaps it happened somewhere else, and was delivered to our planet. We don't know. But we assume that we are made of the same things that stones are made of, though arranged differently.

That said, as far as we know, life comes from life. That's the only way we've gotten to it. As much as we've accomplished in the realm of science, we haven't come up with a way to create a living cell out of something that was not already alive. What's so mysterious to me about even the simplest (compared to us) organism, such as a tree, is the impulse to grow. If it really is a biochemical reaction of proteins triggering DNA triggering proteins triggering growth, why aren't we able to replicate this? Even if we are complex machines, built out of matter, what is this strange will to be alive that everything living thing has? Is it just the result of a chemical equation playing itself out? An algorithm to gather nutrients? To say nothing of our experience of being (which is more of a philosophical question), more so than reason, I feel like this "will to live" is something I have in common with everything that is also alive. We want to be here. Perhaps this is the most fundamental thing we can know about who we are.

Counter intuitive as it might seem, it makes more sense to think of ourselves as blips in a river a consciousness rather than blips in the void of space. That we appear and disappear not from nothing, but from something that is already there. It's a Buddhist idea, and most definitely something that I cannot speak to with any kind of authority. However it answers questions like what happens after death and where did we come from and what is our purpose by short circuiting the logic: we never die. I mean, we die yes, our individual consciousnesses die, but parts of us live on. The sperm and the zygote growing up and replicating times a zillion billion. And even when the last human disappears, life continues. We only die if "we" are what we think, our intellect and personality and reason. A cat pays as close attention to the world as we do, as does a single celled organism. It's just that they pay attention to different things. 

What is this thing called attention and what is the will that keeps us afloat? I've quoted it before, George Oppen and the poem "World, World--": "The self is no mystery, the mystery is/ That there is something for us to stand on." Yeah. How strange it is to be anything at all (to quote Jeff Magnum). And so ideas of the soul and the self, ridiculous as they sound now to our cynical and scientific ears, a glowing ball leaving one's body and haunting a closet or finding it's way into a new born, seem completely couched in dead end ideas of who and what we are. I'd venture to say that much of western science comes from the presumption that things, including ourselves, are distinct and separate from each other. A worldview that is wonderful for sorting and working methodically, but is not so helpful when it comes to being with other living things. Instead of stars punched out of nothingness, alone in the night sky, what if the night sky is just another way for the stars to be? What if the answers to our questions have been with us the entire time?

Warm and sunny in Oakland. Yesterday Bill and I went for a hike in the Redwoods, came back to Oakland and had a burrito. A good day. Today is Monday and I don't have to go to work and in fact, it sort of feels like the semester is already over. The fifth round of a papers is finished (though I have a few stragglers to read in the next couple days) and all that's left is collecting the final drafts and the presentations. No more deadlines, progress grades, lesson planning or student wrangling, and I can just sit back more or less and enjoy the next couple weeks. I told my Friday class, that since they're my last class at my current institution, they better do a good job on their presentations, that I don't want to go out on a bad note. As they say, the quality of your last thought determines the first thought of your new life. I'll let you know if it works.

My apologies for lack of context for last week's posting of a Ted Berrigan poem. For some reason I've always liked that sonnet. Don't know what it means but I'm 18 so why are my hands shaking? It came to mind two weekends ago during Buddyfest, but I'm not going to go into that. Instead I need to register for classes in the fall and pay some bills. The total damage of my fractured thumb (won't be able to softly pinch for three months or fully use my left hand for six months) has come to be about 1,800 dollars, which, not having much of an insurance plan is kind of a bummer. That said, my hand doctor has been really great, and has cut me a break on payment because of my limited insurance. It seems important that my left (opposable) thumb heal correctly, bi-pedal descendent of the ape and all.

On the front page of the Sunday paper was a longer article about frontotemporal dementia, which is something I know a little bit about as my dad has had it since 1999 (and probably many years previous to that). The article does a pretty good job explaining the specific characteristics of the disease (that it changes personality, language, social interactions), as well as injecting lots of narrative to "show and not tell" about the disease. Most articles about dementia are about Alzheimer's, so it's nice to read something in the mainstream about "Pick's Disease." I miss my dad.

II

Dear Margie, hello. It is 5:15 a.m
dear Berrigan. He died
Back to books. I read
It's 8:30 p.m. in New York and I've been running around all day
old come-all-ye's streel into the streets. Yes, it is now,
How Much Longer Shall I Be Able To Inhabit the Divine
and the day a bright gray turning green
feminine marvelous and tough
watching the sun come up over the Navy Yard
to write scotch-tape body in a notebook
had 17 and 1/2 milligrams
Dear Margie, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.
fucked til 7 now she's late to work and I'm
18 so why are my hands shaking I should know better


                        -Ted Berrigan, from The Sonnets