Three Ravens

I'm teaching the Medieval Period.  One of my favorite days of the year is coming up tomorrow and Friday, when we discuss some medieval alehouse ballads.  Here's one of my favorites, "The Three Ravens," performed by Peter, Paul, and Mary:

I'll also be playing and singing "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall" by Bob Dylan.  It's a version this old alehouse ballad, "Lord Randall":

"O where ha you been, Lord Randal, my son! 
And where ha you been, my handsome young man!" 
"I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."

"An wha met ye there, Lord Randal, my son? 
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?" 
"O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."

"And what did she give you, Lord Randal, my son? 
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?" 
"Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down." 

"And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal, my son? 
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?" 
"My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down." 

"And what becam of them, Lord Randal, my son? 
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?" 
"They stretched their legs out and died; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down." 

"O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son! 
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!" 
"O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down." 

"What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?"
"Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?"
"My gold and my silver; ; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?"
"My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son?
What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?
"I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

Nice little thought for the day:

Whom, then, do I call educated? First, those who manage well the circumstances which they encounter day by day, who possess a judgement which is accurate in meeting occasions as they arise, and rarely miss the expedient course of action. Next, those who are decent and honourable in their relations with all men bearing easily and good-naturedly that which is unpleasant or offensive in others, and being themselves as agreeable and reasonable to their associates as is humanly possible to be. Furthermore, those who hold their pleasures always under control, bearing up under them bravely and in a manner worthy of our common nature. Finally, and most important of all, those who are not spoiled by their successes, who do not desert their true selves but hold their ground steadfastly, as wise and sober-minded men, rejoicing no more in the good things which have come to them through chance than those which through their own nature and intelligence are theirs since birth. Those who have character which is in accord, not with one of these things, but with all of them, these I maintain are educated and whole men, possessed of all the virtues of a man. 

I read this on the AP English teacher list-serve this morning.  It was surrounded by fierce debate over who said and/or wrote it.  Plato, Socrates, or Isocrates.  So far, some of the brightest English teachers in the nation can't seem to come to an agreement.  And when I looked for myself--mind you I did not spend much time looking--I cannot say for sure either, though my best guess would be that Socrates said it, and Isocrates wrote it down at some point.  I really don't know though.  Strike one, internet!  Regardless, it's a nice little meditation for the day.  

Open House

One of the real marathon days of the school year is over and done--for parents and for students. I was at work yesterday from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m. for Open House. And it's not the Open House your parents went to when you were growing up either. Open House doesn't mean the doors to the building are open from 4 to 6:30 and teachers are in their classrooms grading papers and available to meet and greet parents as they explore the school facilities at their own leisure. Oh no. It's a full-scale, theatre of the absurd-esque, dramatic production, complete with scary clowns "charading" the hallways and miming for money, an hour long public address in the auditorium to a captive audience of antsy observers, and followed by two complete cycles of the bell schedule where parents are forced to race around the building following their children's A day and then B day class schedules. Teachers give the parents ten-minute informational presentations, the bell rings, and then the parents race the clock across the building to the next class, hoping not to be tardy. Four hours later, not a single parent has met a teacher or administrator for any sort of meaningful conversation or introductions, and everyone involved, from the wonderful PTSA volunteer to Danny's poor little sister who is too young to stay home alone, is slam exhausted.

I used to wear a big-fake smile and dance around the room telling the parents all my credentials and qualifications and what they should expect out of their children and my rules and requirements and all about my philosophies and methodologies and assignments and reading. I hated it. I mean really--hated--it. Because you're good and comfortable with kids doesn't mean you like talking to their parents in a setting like that. If I'd wanted to talk to large rooms full of adults, I'd have been a preacher or a politician--or a principal. That's not what I do.

So this year, I continued something I started last year. I put William Carlos Williams's poem "This is Just to Say" on the Smartboard, and I taught it to them.

They signed in, had a seat, and when the bell rang, I walked in, said, "Okay let's get started. This is what we do in class....volunteer to read the poem?.......Mr. Z, thank you. Go ahead..."

"This Is Just to Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold"

"Well read! Where might you find this piece of writing.........right! On the fridge........what is it?............ooooo, a confession, good analysis. Nice word..........this is a poetic form known as syncopated free verse--a HUGE little poem that just continues to bloom in the mind over time--in my case, it's been blooming for about 20 years now, unfolding more and more every year...........so you guys identify with this?.............you eat your wife's Ben and Jerry's?! I'd never do that lol...........is the plum an apple? Is the speaker Adam? Maybe. Is it virginity? gasp Innocence? better....maybe........Is it easier to get forgiveness than permission? Yes..........Will your child feed me a line like this at some point in the school year? lol. Yes...............Do ya'll see what's going on in here? Yes........rinnnnnnnnng.....Bye now! Thanks for coming! Call me if you need anything......don't forget your homework!!!!! lol." They shuffled out of the room just like their kids--smiling and joking. It was actually fun. Fast, furious, and fun.

My experience this time turned out to be positive--but only cause I just did what I do everyday instead of trying to kiss proverbial ass with a dog and pony show. The new and improved Open House definitely goes right along with every other aspect of the "more is better" American way. We're gonna force teachers to be transparent. We're gonna publish their test scores in the newspaper. We're gonna make them publish two grades a week on Edline. But the politicians, administrators and parents can run amuck. I heard there were teachers who got grilled about their AP scores. Parents openly challenged one master teacher's methods in this open-to-the-public, classroom setting. I observed it personally during my "prep" period (I sat in her room and saw it with my own two eyes). One teacher of juniors was asked by a parent--publicly, and in an accusatory tone I might add--if they would be exposing his child to rated "R" movies. The teacher had never done such a thing in her career--well maybe a not-rated-R scene from a rated R movie, just to make a point or introduce a lesson. The hallways are rated X. Heaven forbid a history teacher use a scene from Forrest Gump to make a teaching moment come alive a little.

I think, in the end, everyone involved would have been just as happy to mingle around the building, tour the beautiful campus, stand out by the reflection pool for a minute, and go introduce themselves to the teachers that Danny had written down on a scrap piece of paper, his favorites of course, for his parents to make sure and say hello to.

A Window Into My Classroom

The following blog is the most recent post from my English Lit class blog, Senior English. I thought some of my readers at Dirt Bombs might enjoy it. There's a link to my class blog on the sidebar if you're interested in reading more. Have a nice day.

That's Wyrd

I did a little research on the Old English, Anglo-Saxon concept of the wyrd. Simply put, it is most easily defined as a notion of "personal destiny" or fate. The word wyrd derives specifically from an old Germanic word and has cognates in ancient languages spanning from regions all across Europe, Central Asia, and all the way to northern India that date back to the Copper Age in the 5th and 4th millennia BC (5000-4000 BC). So this notion of a personal destiny runs deep in the blood and spirit of humanity.

What fascinates me the most, in the context of this course, is the collision between Christianity and personal fate on the British Isles during the Roman Empire. In the literature that you are reading right now, you can see how the monks embraced the notion of fate. After all, they would already have had both unconscious/subconscious and intellectual/academic exposure to the notion. But from what I can tell in my own reading, they saw it as the best avenue into the spiritual concerns of the "natives" of the lands that they conquered. As I said in class, in a world where it was highly likely on any given day that a child could die of sudden illness or a warrior could die in hand to hand combat, this notion of fate was just a matter of fact. Weather very directly affected survivability on a month to month basis. There were constant local battles for resources and security. Nothing was a given. Everything was hard. So if it was your time, it was your time. I don't mean to suggest that people only associate fate with death. It's just one of the most prominent associations that people make.

It seems that when the Roman Empire monks, who came from a much more "civilized" and secure place, picked up on the Anglo-Saxon locals' aforementioned spiritual, practical (and understandable) reliance on the concept of wyrd"ness" they ran with it, and the rest is history. Since then, as far as I can tell from both historical research and personal observation, the concepts of "personal destiny" and the God of Christianity have melted together more and more--to the point that we can observe it in popular American culture ranging from soap operas to politics (and yes that was a clever joke and yes it is sad). As I mentioned in class, I have a hard time accepting that some things are just meant to be--especially when they come from "religious" angles. Was 9/11 unavoidable? Was it predestined by God? That's not for me to answer for you, but I don't mind admitting that I have a hard time accepting it. Did God "kill" my mom with breast cancer when she was in her 40's? Was that divine fate? Maybe so. But I'd rather think of the fate end of it in more modern, scientific terms. She had genes that were more prone to cancer than other, healthier women. Yeah, God may have created those genes. Once again, it's not for me to say in this setting. But I don't mind saying that I don't think God gave her those genes In The Beginning. It just happened. My mom fought a valiant battle against a deadly disease, she contributed to research that has helped many women since survive breast cancer, but in the end, she "ran into a sword." If she'd have lived 5 years longer, they probably would have saved her. It was just wyrd, man. Those firefighters that heroically ran into those buildings trying to save lives and died--that was their personal destiny, and we will always venerate them for it. That's all I know to say.

I hope you will think about these types of things all year long on a deeper level than you have in the past. It's never my intention to "change" your belief system. But I do want you to question it so that it will grow stronger and more sound. This is why we read literature.

See you in class.

Here's the Letter I Would Write

August 19, 2011

To Whom It May Concern:

I am a dependable, conscientious, spirited teacher. There is plenty of data to back it up. Any given year, my students’ standardized test scores over my thirteen-year tenure with the school district have been comparable with or better than any other teachers in the state of Arkansas in my disciplines and subject areas. During that tenure, I have taught eighth grade, ninth grade, and twelfth grade Regular English. I have taught Pre-AP Physics to ninth graders and Pre-AP Biology to tenth graders. Now, I teach Creative Writing, a twelfth grade elective course, and I teach AP English Literature and Composition—the two highest-level English courses that our school district offers. Former students, many of which I wrote, and continue to write letters of recommendation for, are currently attending or have graduated from the finest universities in the nation. They have travelled the world on prestigious fellowships to study and to explore. They are graduate students, teachers, lawyers, popular culture celebrities, scientists, artists, and military officers. They are my tennis teammates, adopted family to my wife and three year old son, fellow band members, hiking partners, and confidantes. They have been featured in news publications for scholarships that they have received as a result of hard work, determination, and the stellar guidance and interdisciplinary instruction that they received at a fine high school with the finest administration.

This year, at the pre-school in-service sessions I was unimpressed by the organization, preparedness, and relevance of the professional growth seminars that were offered to the English teachers in the district. At the high school English meetings this year, my experience was a living nightmare—set in a circus. Day one was almost intolerable. But the most specific and apt proof I can give was the day two presentation for AP English teachers in the district. We were told in advance that we would receive training on the new textbooks we had adopted for the coming school year. I was eager to see the new materials and to learn how they could be utilized in my classroom. And this was important. Adopting a new textbook means extra preparation: new syllabi to prepare; new works of literature to annotate; page numbers to log; units of study to create; lectures to write; activities and assessments to design. In short, I needed this P.D. It was supposed to be valuable.

When I arrived at 8:15 for my 8:30 a.m. meeting, I was met at the door by a supervisor who informed me that I needed to behave in a more professional manner today than I had the previous one. I was cordially warned that I was being watched. (I must say here that day one, I listened to every piece of information that was presented, and I completed every task that was asked of me with due diligence, if not enthusiasm.) That was how my day started. When I reported to the classroom where AP teachers were to meet, I immediately learned that the presenter was there to provide a full, six-hour workshop on the textbook that the AP English Language and Composition teachers adopted this year. The presenter was disoriented, rattled even. She didn’t have the materials that she had been promised. There were NONE of the new English Language books or the new English Literature books to be found anywhere in the building! We searched; trust me. She had prepared for and was expecting a room full of AP Language teachers. In that room were ten AP English Literature teachers and two AP Language teachers. We were furious, disheartened, and deflated. The morning session was a two-hour, slow motion train wreck while we sorted out the confusion. The AP Language textbook expert apologized profusely and assured us that she had been told she was there to present to AP Language teachers. I felt horrible for her. What’s more, she was one of the authors of the textbook!!! There she stood, the supreme authority on the subject matter, and the district could not get its act together enough, pay her the professional courtesy to have the materials that she needed to present an effective, informative workshop?! I think I speak for everyone in that room, and I think it is an understatement, when I say that we, the teachers, were embarrassed and exasperated.

The books were delivered around 10:30. We all agreed to take a short break, gather ourselves, and to come back and make the best of the situation. We did that, and no thanks to the planning and foresight and intentions of the powers that be, we had a reasonably good and productive afternoon. The author/presenter, bless her sweet, brilliant heart, gracefully answered questions we had about the AP Language curriculum. We learned some differences between what she teaches (Language and Comp) and what the vast majority of the people in the room teach (Literature and Comp). We discussed the differences and similarities between her experiences in private education and ours in public education and the commonalities and individuation between Arkansas teachers and New York teachers. (She had not experienced the same level of frustration and contention that we had with her school’s P.D. opportunities, by the way. She is given enormous freedom to fulfill her continuing education requirements as sees fit.) So the day wasn’t a complete waste. Mind you, that’s not what she had been hired and paid good money to do.

In my thirteen years with the district, there have been a dozen in-service, professional development training workshops like the one I have just described for every organized, appropriate, or illuminating district workshop in which I have participated. And the problem has only gotten worse. Ask. Any. Teacher. They will echo that sentiment. Simply put, this is unacceptable.

I am in a certification year. My licensure expires December 31^st. Because of the school district’s P.D. policies, I am being forced to prove to the ADE that I served as an AP Reader in 2007 and 2008. (I received credit with the the district for participating in 2006, before you changed your rules—therefore the ADE has a record of those hours.) The ADE and College Board and AP Central certify and endorse 42 hours of professional development for high school teachers and college professors who attend these ten-day, summer training and exam grading sessions. EVERYONE who participates agrees that it is the single most valuable professional growth opportunity that they have the honor and privilege to be a part of every year. But you, school district, don’t acknowledge this training as worthy and valuable, and as a result, I will have to go to great lengths to insure the security of my livelihood this fall. I have all of the documentation on file, and I should be recertified with little formal hassle from the ADE. But it should not have come to this. As a result of your P.D. policies, I will have to make appointments with state education officials, deliver documents to the capital, and hope that the powers that be there follow through and issue me the recertification that I have earned and that I deserve. I should have received an automatic renewal, but that is not what has happened.

It is my hope, my dream, that one day you will finally listen to the classroom teacher—the true expert—and allow her the professional courtesy and respect that she has given you for years. There has to be a change. We are dying out here. You are sucking out our souls every year, slowly, a little more and more and more. The highest ranking officials in the P.D. division, quite frankly, have been inaccessible and condescending. I do not charge any one individual with guilt or responsibility or ineptitude in these matters. The entire professional development system is fundamentally flawed—from the top, down.

I do appreciate your time and attention. I would never intentionally disrespect my authorities unless their behaviors and policies disrespected and threatened my professional abilities, my family’s financial security, my livelihood. This means too much to me to float idly in the eddy of organizational mediocrity any longer while a broken, archaic system ruins it for everyone involved. I am paddling.

There are new leaders in place this year. There is a new organizational structure in our administration. Now is the time to do something new and something better. It is never too late to acknowledge and identify our problems, make new priorities, find common ground, and chop away at our weaknesses—together. That is the essence and beauty of education. Do not let ignorance or blindness define you.

Sincerely,

Dirt Bombs

Sing a Song of Sixpence

Rome, Mama, and I have been reading nursery rhymes these last two days. We found a damaged (illustrated) book that's just FULL of great ones at the bookstore last weekend, and they sold it to us for three dollars. A poet-friend of mine had said recently that they are ominous and even frightening sometimes--especially when you're an adult and you understand the imputations. I had no idea what she was talking about until last night when the three of us sat down and started reading them together. Mama and I were shooting wide-eyed looks at each other over the cover of the book.

Like Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, who had a wife but couldn't keep her. So he put her in a pumpkin shell and there he kept her very well. What the heck's going on here? Seriously. Did he, like, dice her up and stuff her in there or something? (My first thought.) I read that she was unfaithful so he improvised a chastity belt out of a pumpkin. Makes perfect sense. No, Mommy, that's siiiiiiilly.

Look at the old man that went to bed and snored through some rainy weather. He bumped his head and couldn't get up in the morning. He's dead right? (I didn't find any analysis or history of this one. Tell me, please.)

I guess I haven't thought about these stories since I was Rome's age. Do they teach us the tough lessons that no one else really wants to talk about? They're just another form of myth or something like that--cautionary tales--morality plays? I mean, what were Jack and Jill doin' on a hilltop looking for water? Shouldn't they have been in a low spot somewhere? And why did they fall? It's just a hill. They weren't climbing a cliff. Are Jack and Jill Adam and Eve? Or maybe they were gettin' it on and got caught. So if you're somewhere you shouldn't be, doin' something you shouldn't be doin', you're gonna fall too? Supposedly the earliest, Scandinavian versions were about Jack and his buddy Gill--both boys. That really throws me for a loop.

I just don't know. This is probably old news to most of you. Please, tell me what these stories are about. Anyone?

I'll sign off tonight with my favorite one in the book. I don't think I read or heard this one more than a couple of times when I was a kid. I just LOVE it.

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds,

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing;

Now wasn't that a dainty dish,

to set before the king.

The king was in the counting house,

Counting out his money;

The queen was in the parlour,

Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,

Hanging out the clothes;

When down came a blackbird,

And pecked off her nose.

They send for the king's doctor,

Who sewed it on again;

He sewed it on so neatly,

The seem was never seen.

Analyze that.

I'm gonna have to include a few of these nursery rhymes in one of my first lessons this year on literary analysis. I need to hear what my brilliant, new seniors can do with some of this stuff. I can't wait.

Oh the lessons of parenthood. They keep coming and coming and coming.

I'm a Teacher, man?!

McCourt's memoir Teacher Man is a great read. I blew through it in about 3 sittings. Anyone who wants an unblushingly frank, funny, and heartwarming look at the teaching life should check it out.

For the last two weeks, I've been attending professional development classes, working in my classroom, reading, organizing, despairing and praying in preparation for the school year. It's one of the strangest times every year. I'm well-rested, relaxed. I feel optimistic and hopeful and inspired, determined to attack some weak spots, holes in my repertoire. Then we go to these meetings--these meetings that I describe as soul-sucking meetings--and in about 12, maybe 15 hours, it's as if they try to kill any ingenuity, passion, or motivation that we might have cached away over the summer. I'm positive that this is not any one person's intention or motivation. But these meetings rarely fail and just to be frank, they are excruciating more often than not. Some years, I've had a horrible attitude. I've sat through these things grumbling expletives, fidgeting hot-faced and teetering on the cusp of mental breakdown, cardiac arrest. I tried calling-in well, saying, "I feel entirely too good to come to work today! Doh!" Other years, I've tried getting involved in order to control some of my own destiny--presenting little workshops for my colleagues. I've usurped other workshops, standing to proclaim in front of anyone who would listen that what we were doing was not a valuable use of our time--and that I intended to use my valuable time in a way that was productive. It only took once or twice to learn that these were both bad ideas.

I'm not here this morning to write an expose on professional development in public education. Maybe later. Probably never.

I'm just saying that this year I'm trying yet another mindset: it is what it is. And to use one of my colleague's lines, this is what we do. And so far, it's gotten me through cleaner than any other methodology to date. As a result, it seems as if all I have to do now is make it through 3 hours of "Nuts and Bolts" this morning and I'll be home free. I got this afternoon after lunch and tomorrow in my classroom to do everything I really need to do, and then the kids arrive Monday. I'll close my door and teach and everything will be fine.

Hey, I'm a teacher, man! It's what I do.

Proud Tigers

Mario and I attended the Arkansas Tennis Association's annual awards banquet last night. He is a student in my Senior English class and an occasional doubles partner. My men's tennis team was recognized for winning the Southern Sectional Championship and finishing second in the nation. Mario won the Herschel Friday Outstanding Junior Award, in recognition of "ability and excellence in junior tennis, and achievements in sportsmanship, character and citizenship."

When asked about his most memorable match (at the podium in front of 300-400 people) Mario said something like, "My most memorable match was the finals of the high school state championships. It was an honor to carry on the 11 year winning tradition at Central High." Can you say dynasty?

Good job Mario. All of us at Central are very proud of you. You got me wanting to coach the team again...

All four of these poems are fabulous! We're discussing the tribe of Ben in my literature classes this week.

"Out Upon It" by Sir John Suckling

"Why So Pale and Wan" by Sir John Suckling

"To Althea From Prison" by Richard Lovelace

"To Lucasta on Going to the Wars" by Richard Lovelace

Carpe diem quam credula postera.

--Horace

Creative Writing at Central High

Jasmine is in my Creative Writing class. Last week, she performed on BET. This is a video of her performance.

Paradise Lost Quiz Key

A) The speaker is Satan.

B) He has just fallen from Heaven and is making lemonade out of lemons.

C) See photo.

(Click here to see the original quiz.)

Volunteer!

A service club I sponsor at Central, Project 10, is going to the Arkansas Rice Depot this morning to do some volunteer work. H, RL, and I are gonna go chaperone and help out too. Should be a fun experience.

Many of my students are devout volunteers, yet too often I'm guilty of overlooking their efforts. From what I can tell, most do regular community service projects. It is heartening to see Little Rock's youth habitually reading to sick patients at Arkansas Children's Hospital, bagging rice to send to Haiti, or tutoring at-risk 2nd graders in after-school programs. These kids are doing it for the right reasons too. Yes, it helps them with college apps and scholarships, but they get it on a deeper level than that. I'm gonna join them today and report back. I think the kids have a lesson to teach me this morning. I'm embarrassed to admit that it's been too long since I've given my time freely for a greater purpose. I'll let you know how it goes soon.

In the meantime, I challenge you to think of things you can do to make your community and world a better place. Get busy--with stuff that matters.

Paradise Lost Quiz

1. The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

A) Speaker:

B) Significance:

C) Diagram it:

John Milton's Cosmos

Today in class, I get to talk about John Milton and Paradise Lost. We only read a few famous passages from the work, but I take some time to put the piece in an historical and philosophical context. The setting of the story is what fascinates me the most.

Milton's Heaven surrounds a fountain of indestructible, fiery light, out of which everything in Heaven is created. Angels swirl around, appearing as rainbows, and clouds veil the fountain of God to protect the angels' eyes. If they were to look directly into the light, they would be blinded. It's interesting that Milton claimed that much of the work came to him directly from God--in the form of a blinding light--in strange fits in the middle of the night. Much of it was written down by his daughter/slave after he went blind as an older man. I secretly hope she changed a few words here and there.

Directly below Heaven, as if it were hanging on a chain, is the fledgling Universe--God's comfort-food creation for Himself after the notorious revolt on His throne. In relation to the whole Cosmos, the Universe is tiny , and at the geometrical center is Planet Earth--the Garden of Eden--a mere spec of sand on a vast beach compared with the rest of the Universe. Extraterrestrial life is possible, even likely. In Book XIII, an angel tells Adam that on another planet, "clouds may rain, and rain produce/Fruits in her soften'd soil, for some to eat/Alloted there." Angels can leave Heaven and visit Adam and Eve. They disclose little secrets of the Universe and of God, but they don't tell too much.

Engulfing everything below Heaven is a realm Milton called Chaos. Chaos is simply an infinite "womb of space," swirling matter out of which the Universe and Hell are created. The place is described as "warring atoms." Milton was an accomplished astronomer (a composer too by the way); he had many stellar secrets figured out on his own. He missed a few important ones too though, like Earth being the center of the Universe.

Below everything is Hell. Hell was created for Lucifer and his army long, long ago. When God kicked them out of Heaven, they fell through Chaos for 9 days--so far and so fast that their rainbows were melted into grotesque lizard skins. Hell is not only a physical place, burning lakes of sulfurous darkness. It is also a psychological place, at the heart of Satan when he cries. Hell, like the Garden of Eden, can be fun though. Demons lounge around at Pandemonium, Satan's castle, and sing sentimental songs of self-pity, wax philosophic, have tournaments. Satan comes out on the balcony every so often and rallies his men. The demons can leave Hell too and fly around the Universe creating havoc, which has always puzzled me.

It's fun stuff to think about and say aloud. We really believe this stuff a lot of us.

The Teachers' Lounge on Second Semester

"Alright?"

"Seven years of plenty, seven years of famine."

"Five days for Thanksgiving, review for exams."

"Four half-days."

"Christmas Break, and then The Dark Ages begin."

"You know that's right."

"Better gas up now Son cause then it's forty years in the desert to the land of milk and honey."

Snow Daze

1

Mr. Babbitt awoke before the alarm sounded. Like any day, he took his morning coffee, shaved, showered, then walked to the window. Dawn light broadcast a sugaring of snow on the back deck. Enough to dust the roadway, he thought, but not to halt the busses. Babbitt whistled in the mirror and cinched the tie snug, then loosed it and unfastened the top button. The furnace roared and echoed in the steamy little Aqua Velva bathroom. His favorite time of day. His students would be a wee bit rumbustious with the weather; he planned he’d get a lecture in.

2

People just can’t understand how profoundly political a decision like this one is. Debra had to move to the guest bed he was so lathered up. What did he care about typhoons in Taekwondo? The Weather Channel was horseshit anymore. It seemed his patience was failing him. “Settle down,” he spoke, “you’ll make the right call.” The Superintendent regarded himself a man of God. Finally, 4 o’clock. Lyle would be in the driveway waiting to evaluate the county roads, bridges. It’s hard to say no, and Lyle was a tough cookie. This was a good day for ear muffs.

3

The morning blog post on the parent wall was titled: No School? Gimme a BREAK. Do these people have a CLUE? BTW, I’ve been having trouble accessing Bobby’s History grade. Anyone else? She didn’t see any need for a snow day and planned on having some folks hear about it. Loretta hadn't the foggiest that her Bobby had been labeled “tittybaby” by the special ed counselor just before the last 504 review conference. Bobby snagged the keys and split for Tucker’s. They rolled by the Wishy Wash on Broadway and lit a doobie to The Strokes’ “Fear of Sleep.”

Grits

I don't care who you are.  Read the directions when you cook grits.

S.T.C.

Every school year, I look to the spring and the Romantic poets for academic, professional, and spiritual rejuvenation.  I bounce around the room and sing lessons about rainbows and the revolutionary spirit, moon phases and intuition, Nature and non-conformity--wild flowers that grow in the cracks of the sidewalk.  I urge my students (and remind myself) to listen to the morning, to ignore the commercials, to talk to themselves while they walk somewhere they would normally drive.  We examine the works and the lives of the big 5:  Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, and Keats.  Samuel Taylor Coleridge is my favorite.

But this year, I've started to turn on my old friend.  I don't so much get it anymore.  Maybe cause I'm a father?  Maybe cause I'm getting older?  Coleridge (crazy crazy) is just not as much fun as he used to be.

from "Dejection: An Ode"

There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man - 
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

I love the man, and I hate him too.  He probably wouldn't have had it any other way.  

from "Here is a Lesson in Creative Writing"

by Kurt Vonnegut

"FIRST RULE:  Do not use semicolons.  They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing.  All they do is show you've been to college."

Dolor

I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils,
Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper weight,
All the misery of manilla folders and mucilage,
Desolation in immaculate public places,
Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard,
The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher,
Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma,
Endless duplicaton of lives and objects.
And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions,
Finer than flour, alive, more dangerous than silica,
Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium,
Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows,
Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces. 

Theodore Roethke