Can of Corn

If I get one more offer to receive a free iPod, I'm going to kill someone. The most infuriating part of it all is that somewhere there are people actually clicking on the link. If this were not the case, I'm sure whoever's churning this stuff out would quit. I heard on the radio a few days back that one out of six people (I may be off a bit) actually respond to junk email.

Who are these people and how do we stop them?

Extra credit and my undying respect to anyone who can explain why I titled this post "can of corn".

Dirty Rumor

An unknown teacher at school has been telling his students that I'm not coming back next year because I've been fired. According to him, I'm lying about the fact that I'll be attending law school next year. I haven't figured out who it is yet, but I'll let you know as soon as I do.

I don't really stick my neck out far enough to have any real enemies, so I'm baffled that someone would say this.

On the other hand, my department chair has dropped me from her email list, because I disagree with her regarding educational philosophy. So maybe I do rub some people the wrong way- it just strikes me as odd that those people who think independently are considers threats in a place of learning. What are we teaching students if those who are different are ostracized and made to leave?

I had an English teacher in high school named Mr. Avalon who changed my life. He smoked on the loading dock and cursed while teaching and taught me more than I ever knew possible. He's probably retired by now, his penchant for nicotine or vulgarity no longer acceptable in our politically correct world.

I'm just a pretender, but I do know this- when education effectively clears out and pushes away the mavericks of the profession, there is no hope left. With only cookie-cutter educators, the only possible output are cookie-cutter students and citizens. Brave New World, anyone?

Our society needs radical thinkers to advance the debate and force issues to the breaking point, or we will stagnate and never move forward.

Thirty-Eight Days to Sweet Blessed Freedom

Thirty-seven if you add in the fact that I'll be missing Friday to attend Mississippi College's Acceptance Day. Of course, I'll have to create substitute lesson plans, which actually means more work for me.

The crazy thing is that now I actually feel as if I can teach the things I truly feel are important. I've already been observed three times, so they probably won't come back again.

So today I taught my eleventh grade students the importance of thinking. They had to sit and think for three minutes before they were allowed to write down a sentence. By the end of the class they had written down nine sentences. Some of the attempts were bland, others were wonderful. I could overhear some of the students grumbling about the pointlessness of the assignment. At the end of the lesson, I wrote the following on the board:

"If thinking is considered a waste of time, I fear for the future of our society."

No one grumbled after reading that, I assure you.

In other education news, my eleventh graders had to write a short story that they felt captured the themes of their generation, much as Fitzgerald zeroed in on the issues of his time. I glanced through them today, and many of them are quite good. I was impressed. I'll bring some home and quote a little out of them tomorrow.

My tenth graders, on the other hand, seem to have given up entirely. They had over eight days to prepare a FIVE-MINUTE presentation that counts as a test grade. That means they could have planned 37.5 seconds of the presentation a day and been fine. What happened instead involved lots of inane laughing.

They had to offer a summary of a text, a brief analysis, and an activity that related the text to the class. The summaries were snippets culled from the book, the analyses were rehashed summaries, and the activities were wholeheartedly pathetic. One group presented Frost's "Mending Wall". Their activity looked like this.

1. Have you ever climbed a wall?
2. Have you ever built a wall?
3. Is it tough to go through a wall?
4. Do you like walls?

I swear, when I read it, I would have gone the way of the Shawshank Redemption grocery bagger if a noose and rafter had been nearby. I wonder if I could carve my initials in cinder block if I tried hard enough.

The Curse of Having a Sense of Consciousness

Yesterday I inserted a five dollar bill into a snack machine, hoping to pick up a Big KitKat bar for my trouble. It took the money and didn't give it back, then informed me with LED letters that only exact change was permitted on the machine. I've used five dollar bills before on this particular device, and I usually have to stand around awkwardly while the excess quarters drop down like a small jackpot in Vegas. I always half expect some woman with an oxygen tank to move in and take my winnings. This time there was only silence- and no KitKat bar to speak of.

At this point anyone else in the school would have walked to the office, mentioned the incident, and retrieved their five dollars. But I just walked back to my classroom and didn't say a word. Why? The answer to that question is difficult, to say the least. I've always abhorred confrontation, and even imagined conflicts where none existed.

Case in point: I was observed a few weeks ago by the assistant principal and everything went well. She sent me an email a few days ago telling me to drop by at some point to pick up the observation results. I know it's going to be fine, but I don't want to face her. I'm not scared of her (she's really quite nice) but I don't like the tension that's created.

I think my curse is that I see too deeply how much we're all connected. I feel too intimately responsible for events that take place outside my realm of control. I constantly make my life a little more difficult so that everyone else's life will be easier. Modern society would call me a putz, a pushover. They'd probably be right.

Last case in point: A few days ago I walked into the teacher's lounge and was heading toward the restroom. A man I didn't recognize came out of nowhere and started walking right behind me. I knew he was going to the restroom as well, so I darted off to the left and began washing my hands so we both wouldn't walk into the restroom at the same time. I always do my best to avoid awkward moments.

Most of the people I encounter on a daily basis are practically oblivious to the future. For them, it only exists as a dream that's yet to be fulfilled, not as a reality that should be dealt with. They exist blithely in the moment, and I envy them for that feat. Sometimes I wish I could find a way to cut off the foresight switch, so I could just live for a moment too.

Brownie Update #2

Brownie (the dog I rescued) will be undergoing heartworm treatment tomorrow at 8:3o. She has to stay overnight but she should be fine. I'll let you know how it goes.

Thin Ice

I have hesitated to share my opinions on the Schiavo case for several reasons: I don't want to alienate readers; my ideas on the subject are vague and difficult to formulate; I felt the subject might be too weighty for such a lackadaisical affair as a blog.

That said, I've decided to share my opinion. This is, if anything, a hot-button issue, and I realize and accept that the majority of the country does not share my opinion. There is even a large chance that I am wrong myself, and too biased to see it. But for right now, it is there, and deserves to be shared.

As a future lawyer, I agree with the legal system totally and completely. The judges, whose job it is to follow the letter of the law, have done their job with honor and dignity. The tube should be removed. Court after court has upheld the statutes relating to the case and found that enough evidence exists to prove Mr. Schiavo is carrying out her wishes. Fair enough.

Spiritually and morally speaking, however, I can not come to terms with the decision in my soul. It doesn't sit right. Here is where my words fail me, for the feeling is not something that can be expressed through language. It is on the fringe, next to my hair raising on end at a surprise sound in the night and the dreams I can't remember. I feel like an old shed that's shifted off center, slowing waiting to collapse with the next new snow. The clouds are gathering and the wind's picking up.

And that's all I have, just a suspicion that all life is precious and deserves to be held onto with the strength of a god. I can't prove it with a syllogism or explain it to the Supreme Court, but it rings true within me. We should "rage, rage, against the dying of the light" until all our fight is gone. Our legacy on earth deserves it and our sense of honor demands it.

I've told my wife that if a machine is being used to make me breathe, pull the plug after the doctors say a chance at recovery is slim. I don't want to be taken over by a machine. For some archetypal reason I can't understand, I see a feeding tube in a different light entirely. I don't view "life support" as something you can stop for a day and then turn back on. Life support is constant and omnipresent, a not too gentle reminder that the body cannot survive on its own. But Schiavo right now is surviving- her breathing body is proof enough of that. Her body, like a warm engine, doesn't want to die. Right now, cells are burning whatever energy they can in a futile attempt to live. There is a primitive code in her genes that sings the song I hear- that life is dear and not to be thrown away. Our bodies were not designed with "kill-switches"; we run until we can't find fuel, are severely damaged, or we simply wear down.

I know I am young and that my ideas are sometimes ill-founded, but I hope this idealistic streak never fades completely away. And I hope that when I face death, I do so knowing that I did everything in my power to stave it off. There will be no welcoming party for death when I die.

Feel free to share your opinions- I'm not a whacked out fundamentalist or someone who thinks he's always right. I promise I won't jump down your throat.

Horse Tale

There's a model horse sitting on our guest room nightstand. It's a little bigger than a shoebox but smaller than a cat carrier. She is standing on three legs with the left hoof raised in a moment of frozen glory, forever awaiting the order to march.

I bought her from a rundown mall in my hometown, at one of the many stores that open and close in the final death spasms of shopping centers. It was a gift for my wife. I think it cost ten dollars, but it's been a while so I'm not sure.

Originally she was covered in intricate leatherwork that simulated the bridle and saddle; it was the kind of material and craftmanship that only appears noteworthy when it is new and unblemished.

About a month ago I ripped off the leather. It had grown ragged on the noble beast and I felt that it should go. It was hard work- the person or machine that had attached it felt it necessary to drive half-inch tacks into the model to hold the stuff in place. I had to use my keys- and at one point my teeth- to pull them all out.

She is unbridled now, and looks much better. I hope one day to see her run free in my dreams.

Rain And Other Assorted Observations

We've gotten a lot of rain lately... there's a little courtyard dotted with picnic tables behind our townhome that floods everytime more than a couple of inches decide to fall. The water is coffee brown and swirls from the creek that's too small to hold it. Even now, if I look out the back window, I can see the light of the moon reflecting off the surface of the water.

My wife and I watched Garden State tonight. It's kinda slow at first, but in the end it all makes sense. Kinda like life, I suppose. Regardless of whether or not you watch the movie, get the soundtrack- it's really good.

Time went really slow this weekend. I've always heard that time goes faster the older you get but lately it seems like everything's been slowing down. I feel like a Salvadori watch, melting away into everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure what that last sentence means, but I believe it with every fiber of my being.

Thanks

I think I received more comments yesterday than ever before. Even better, they were from a mixture of familiar visitors and ones I'd never seen before. It's taken a while, but I'm really starting to get the distinct feeling that this place is becoming a community of sorts, which is nice.

Mr. Montgomery, thanks for finding out the title to the song. I owe you one. I must admit though, I feel infinitely less cool now that I realize you knew the title and I didn't- you've only been teaching ten years more than me. You must do a good job of keeping up with the current music scene.

Danielle- I'm so glad to find out that another teacher is visiting the site. This blog needs a sense of perspective if it's going to flourish. I'm just one person in a very specific situation, so any ideas you can contribute would be greatly appreciated. If you think I'm worth it, do me a favor and tell your other like-minded educator friends about the site. I can't tell any of my friends at school because then administration will catch wind of it and that's a headache I don't need right now. I'm planning on telling everybody the last day of school, however.

Kelly- thanks for helping to sharpen my focus regarding Peck's theory; you helped me see it from a different angle.

Thanks again, everybody.

Snack of the Damned

For the last three days, I've been administering the Georgia High School Graduation Test. Each day the district has thoughtfully provided snacks for the students to enjoy. (I find it curious that while they seem to ignore the past decade of educational research, they grab hold of one measly nutritional tenet and walk around like they're on the cutting edge of test-taking strategy.)

On Tuesday it was pudding and bottles of Dasani water. Fair enough. The kids seemed to enjoy it. On Wednesday, it was a bag of animal crackers and a bottle of Dasani water. This time a few of the kids declined the offer of crackers but glady accepted the water.

Today- well, today was different. I walked into the room and found the bottles of water just like the days before and the bag of snacks. I opened the bags and found the following: a piece of unwrapped cheese and a pack of saltine crackers had been placed together in a small plastic sandwich bag. This really must be imagined for someone to understand how pathetic this offering was. It gave the distinct impression that the school was on welfare. And it didn't take much imagination to realize that someone had touched every single piece on its way to the bag.

It looked so disgusting that only five or six of the kids were brave enough to take it. Most of them steered clear of the cheese. Out of curiousity, I grabbed a piece of cheese and smelled it. Just as I suspected- it was a "cheese-like" substance. Solidified vegetable oil, if I had to guess.

I hate fake cheese. The college I attended had fake cheese on their salad bar, which ruined every salad I ever ate there. The stuff tastes like spoiled plastic. I know real cheese is more expensive, but maybe there's a reason cheese should be made from milk. Maybe because it's CHEESE.

The students quickly fell into a game of trying to decide what the school district would come up with for Friday, since it was likely to be worse than today. One of them said that he wouldn't be surprised if they didn't receive IOUs from the school board- or a spoonful of peanut butter.

In short, the district would have been better off giving the students nothing, because what they did serve was more of an insult than anything else. Don't worry- I'll be sure to let you know what they come up with tomorrow.

A spoonful of peanut butter might not be too far off the mark.

Halfway Home

Forty-two days left. About eight weeks.

Today I woke up at 7:00, went to work, proctored the Georgia High School Mathematics Test, taught two class periods, left at 4:00, drove to Sylvan, and tutored for three hours. I finally made it home at 8:30, thanks to traffic.

I'm tired.

I bought Garden State on DVD but I can't watch it because I took the DVD player to school to show The Great Gatsby. It's supposed to be about the lack of direction and purpose for those in their mid to late twenties. I think I could relate.

I heard some lyrics today on the ride home that I need someone to identify for me so I can buy the CD. They go like this:

"I'm a twenty-first century digital boy,
I can't read but I have a lot of toys-
My dad's a lazy, middle-class intellectual,
My mom's on Valium, so ineffectual."

It had a punkish metal sound to it, if that helps. Thanks in advance.

I promise I'll write more tomorrow.

I Should Have Known

This is something I wrote after reading Mark Twain's "The Human Animal" for the first time. I have a bad habit of adopting other writer's diction and mannerisms immediately after reading their works. The ideas, however, are all mine. This little piece probably should have tipped me off that education as a career wasn't in the cards- I wrote it during my first year as a teacher.

I believe that I have made a discovery that will be of considerable value to both biologists and psychologists worldwide. I have, in short, found a new animal. As one might predict, this animal exhibits unique characteristics indigenous to its taxonomy.

The animal looks oddly human and even wears clothes. Like humans, it too comes in shades both light and dark. It is there, I’m afraid, that the comparisons end.

Take the clothing for example. Although it is worn in the same fashion as humans, it is cut and modified until it pushes the bounds of decency. It is not uncommon to see the males wearing human pants around the knees. I have not yet ascertained why this habit is so common to this animal. As of now, I suspect it is some sort of masculine trumpeting ritual, such as the ones that the peacocks of the world adhere too. I am amazed that a natural disaster has not yet destroyed this animal; certainly they cannot move any quicker than a slow walk with such a hindrance.

Another disturbing quality of this particular animal is that it appears to have no innate desire to improve its lot on this planet. I have observed wrens painstakingly build and rebuild a nest. I have seen a mother turtle dig a nest for her young and struggle through delivery. I have seen an ape use a twig as a tool to gather ants. I have seen these animals do nothing. They are only interested in eating, humor, and complaining.

I have done studies with these animals to see exactly what they are capable of. I managed to catch one in an effort to teach him the rudiments of logical thought. He stared at me blankly until I produced some sort of food product, at which point he began to drool openly and freely on the laboratory floor. After handing him the food, I was frightened by the ferocity with which he devoured the food. Immediately afterwards, he sank back into his hypnotic gaze. I can only deduce that he is related to the brown bear, for his activity is related most closely with the effects of hibernation.

Laughing is another thing. They find everything to be hysterical, even if it is something they have heard or done a hundred times. It is dumbfounding. I have handed one of the animals a sheet of paper and a pencil over a hundred times. I have done this with the intention of getting the animal to write. Every time the animal has frustrated my efforts with the same procedure. It takes the paper, balls it up, and throws it across the cage. After it has done this, it sticks the pencil in its ear and laughs hysterically. Needless to say, I gave up on the writing.

Perhaps it is a more complex animal than I had previously thought. I think this now because whenever the animal is not laughing at the air around it, it quickly turns to moaning and complaining endlessly. I have made the cage warm; it quickly throws off its cover and fans itself. I have made it cool; it quickly covers up and shivers more than it should. I have made the cage an average temperature; it has sat there and done nothing. I have fed the animal apples; apparently they were too hard. I have fed the animal bananas; apparently they were too soft. Once, in desperation, I even freed the animal- it walked back into its cell. Upon my shutting the door, it once again began to beat on the bars and howl for freedom. I will need further research to suggest why this is the case.

Although this new animal is endlessly interesting, it produces rather nothing of value. It is merely a consumer of the resources that it is either given or that it happens to come across. It works less for its food than the buzzard of North America. This animal seems to expect the corpse to come to it.

The largest danger that this animal poses to humanity is in its close appearance to humans. If intoxicated or mentally ill, a human could perhaps mistake this animal for a human and attempt to procreate with it. The effects of such an effort would be disastrous for the march of human evolution.

I have named them highschoolus studentus.

There's Something Happenin' Here

For some unknown reason, the blog received almost 100 hits today (by the time I go to bed, it may surpass that landmark). That's about two and a half times normal volume. And Adsense data tells me that it's largely individual surfers, rather than one person checking obsessively- not that I mind that.

Either a) something I typed triggered a lot of Google searches, b) word of mouth may actually be working, or c) it's just serendipity.

My sister actually published an entry earlier about the fact that the internet has devolved into a place where we check our mail, the weather, and the latest headlines. It's basically become a TV with a really cool remote. On a basic "surfing" trip, I may visit four or five sites and then sign off.

I submit that we change that with a two-front offensive. First, there are blogs, which foster and spread the healthy exchange of ideas. This in and of itself will go a long way to cure the problem. Can you imagine for a moment a blog that literally everyone with an internet connection visited once a day to discuss ideas? Together, we'd be unstoppable.

The other half of the equation is to use the internet for a truly constructive purpose. In that vein, I'm going to become a world-renowned expert on something. I don't know what yet, but one day I will be. You'll see me on the Discovery Channel with a bad tie blathering on about the mating cycles of seahorses or the use of seven-inch bayonets during the Spanish-American war.

In short, I'm going to know as much as possible about something, even if it's totally meaningless.

I'm open to suggestions.

Confessional

It's no big secret that my family reads this blog from time to time, so I find that I have to censor when I write. It's not like I've killed a man or anything, but some things are better left unsaid, I suppose.

That said, I'm going to admit two things I didn't think I'd have the guts for, here for the world to see.

Confession #1: I smoked a cigar last Friday. A Swisher Sweet, to be exact. I know that doesn't sound like much but it's a pretty big deal to me, since I'd never had one before. I haven't had one since and I probably won't smoke one again. But I figured it was legal and smoking one wouldn't kill me.

Confession #2: I went out to the woods about a month back and sat by the creek. As I was sitting there, I began to think about the Native Americans who lived in this area before me and how they must have lived. I imagined them cleaning their clothes in the creek and splashing around. Then I thought about Adam and Eve. One thing led to another, and I decided to see what it would be like going without clothes in the woods. So I climbed down to the water (so the bank would protect me from surprise visitors) and disrobed. It took longer than possible, because I was nervous, even though no one was looking. But I did it.

You can't imagine how weird it feels to be completely naked in the middle of the woods unless you try it. I even took off my wedding ring (not to offend the wife, I promise) because I wanted to be exactly as I was when I was brought into the world. Had it been warmer, I might have attempted to wade in the water. If you're brave enough, I suggest you try it.

Note: I'm really very much a prude, and never would have done it if I wasn't sure no one would see me. The ground was dry, and as such I could have heard someone coming from a mile away. Also, my clothes were nearby, so I knew I could get dressed quickly if I had to.

The Second Coming

W.B Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

This is, in my humble opinion, one of the greatest works of English literature ever written. I could write volumes about it, but I want to focus on the quote that says, "the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity". This line is lived out everyday in the hallways of the high school where I teach. You have two kinds of students- those that chat and walk quietly from room to room and those who yell and scream as they travel down the halls. They don't look where they're going and get mad when people get in their way.

This is the way of the world, Yeat tells us- the nice guys keep their mouths shut and let those who are violent get away with everything. What I wouldn't give to see a quiet kid, just once, stand up for what's right. A Tiananmen Squaresque moment where the nerd stood up to a pack of bullies built like tanks. He would surely be defeated, but in his defeat he would garner glory the bullies could only dream of.

When I was in high school, I was a chameleon, able to blend seamlessly into different groups. But I felt for those less fortunate souls who couldn't, and had to live in a state of constant ridicule. I dedicate this entry to them, and hope they've found a place where insults are more rare than two dollar bills.

Blog Minutiae

The 'ol blog is over 2000 hits. It took roughly 51 days to reach that milestone, which translates to about 40 hits a day. Based on Google data, I can deduce that there must be several people who check it more than once daily, sense page impression numbers are much higher.

As far as updates go, I finally figured out how to add links to the side. If you're curious and HTML challenged like myself let me know and I'll help; there's no sense in us both wasting our time. I hope to add more links soon but I was so excited that I succeeded I decided to bask in my victory a while before pressing the issue.

Monetarily speaking, this site has generated revenue of $2.59, which averages out to five cents a day. I only mention this because I count myself among the financially morbid- I like to know how much everything costs, even if I'll never get a chance to buy it.

Nipple Rings and Office Supplies

A few days ago during first period I was sitting at my desk as the students worked on their presentations. They had to pick a work out of the book we hadn't discussed, summarize it, analyze it, and create an assignment for the class to do based on the text. I was impressed, because most of them were taking it seriously for once.

Then, almost as if the universe sensed it had to disrupt the normalcy that flowed from the room, all hell broke loose.

First a couple of guys began playing bloody knuckles. If you're not familiar with said game, the object is to hit another person's knuckles with your knuckles and cause them inordinate amounts of pain. Then they take a turn and the cycle continues until one of them quits.

While I was breaking up this little display of misdirected machismo a boy decided to staple his arm. Staple his arm. I looked up just in time to watch him press the stapler against his arm. He didn't even wince. Of course, everyone got up and oohed and aahed as if Moses himself had parted the sea.

All I could think was "What does a teacher these days have to do? Do I remove all sharp objects from the room and pad the walls in rubber? If a student chooses to gouge their eyes out with a pair of scissors am I liable? Do I give a student that wields office supplies on himself detention or a free pass to therapy? Something tells me the counselors aren't quite ready for this."

Anyway, I retrieve the stapler as the boy shows off his wound, staple still embedded in his skin. To be honest, I'm baffled at this point and have no idea how to react. I never in a thousand years thought someone in class would be dumb enough to literally staple their arm. So shell-shocked, I walk back to my desk and attempt to breathe.

Right as I'm calming down, a boy announces that the self-stapling was nothing. He says, "a nipple ring hurts a whole lot more." He then proceeds to begin lifting up his shirt, but I am able to stop him before I see that which will surely blind my eyes a la Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Fourty-four days left. Keep me in your prayers.

Avocado Dreamin'

Today I went to a Mexican restaurant called On The Border with my wife and one of our friends. On a whim, I tried something on the menu called "Guacamole Live!". Unbeknownst to me, the waitress actually came out and made it in front of us.

I strongly suggest that if you ever eat at said restaurant you order it. It was the best guacamole I ever had.

To show you how great I think it is, I've changed the font for this post- something I've never done.

Capitalist Pig

I think I've found a way to make a lot of money while in law school. I'm going to organize and hold 8-hour ACT workshops at local high schools once a month. The price will be $100, which is a lot less than what Kaplan charges for the same service. Even after rental fees, I could easily make $2000 a day. And I feel that my credentials (which I won't go into here) are substantial enough to make it work.

Test Prep is a passion of mine. I feel that most teachers don't do a good enough job of telling students how important standardized college tests are. Every senior at my high school that works at all has a 3.5+ GPA. What will separate them from the pack is a great ACT or SAT score. Most schools even have "triggers", which means a student gets a scholarship instantly if their test score is high enough.

Right now I'm teaching an ACT class in the morning for free to a couple of volunteers. They are my academic guinea pigs in the sense that I throw everything I can think of at them to see what works. Then, when I go to make my program, I can use the good stuff.

As far as I see, my biggest expense will be marketing and finding a place to hold my workshop. And if I do a great job, word of mouth will take it from there. We'll see how it works out, I guess.

Wish me luck.

All The World's A Stage...

A few days ago I picked up a book by M. Scott Peck entitled The Different Drummer; I was familiar with his acclaimed effort The Road Not Taken and thought it would be a good read. I was wrong. Most of it was dry and ineffectual but there is a section in the middle that for me, explains a lot. I'm going to try and share it below, but if you can, find a copy of the book and read p. 188-196. Note: All quotes belong to the author.

According to Peck, there are four stages of spirituality that a person travels through. They are:

STAGE 1: Chaotic, antisocial- "Most all young children and perhaps one in five adults fall into Stage 1. It is essentially a stage of undeveloped spirituality. I call it antisocial because those adults who are in it seem generally incapable of loving others... I call the stage chaotic because these people are basically unprincipled. Being unprincipled, there is nothing that governs them except their own will...there is a lack of integrity to their being."

Hello, first period.

STAGE 2: Formal, institutional- This "is the stage of the majority of churchgoers and believers. One is their attachment to the forms (as opposed to the essence) of their religion...it is no wonder that people at this stage of their spiritual development become so threatened when someone seems to be playing footloose and fancy-free with the rules."

STAGE 3: Skeptic, individual- "people in Stage III are generally more spiritually developed than many content to remain in Stage II. Although individualistic, they are not the least bit antisocial...They make up their own minds about things...They make loving, intensely dedicated parents...active truth seekers."

Hello, older sister.

STAGE 4: Mystical, communal- these individuals see the "underlying connectedness between things: between men and women, between us and the other creatures and even inanimate matter as well, a fitting together according to an ordinarily invisible fabric underlying the cosmos.

I like to think that I am at stage IV, if only because I feel like I've passed through the skeptical phase and see the essence of my faith, instead of the forms. In other words, I don't believe in God because my parents told me to.

Peck goes on to mention that it is impossible to help people if you are two stages above them. What this means, in theory, is that the best teacher for my first period class (Stage One) would be a strong Stage Two. You know the kind- the basketball coach who demands complete silence and doesn't take any crap. Now that I think about it, most of the teachers I had growing up were Stage Two. The only ones that truly helped me in my journey were Stage Threes and Fours, of which there weren't many. So as a Stage Four, I have nothing to offer them. They are unprincipled and unreligious, which means we have nothing in common. With Stage Two people, at least, we share a sense of religion. This is why I have some success with my other classes.

I feel as if this theory is effective because I can easily place anyone I know into one of the four categories. But maybe I'm biased. My question to you is this- does this make sense? If so, where do you think you fall on the scale?

For What It's Worth...

Below is the entire transcript of an email sent to me by one of my former students. He is currently a senior at the high school I taught at last year. The italics are mine- nothing else has been changed, unless you count names. Students like him are the reason I began teaching in the first place- sadly, they are few and far between. The "trash" that he refers to at the beginning is the fact that I'm a poor disciplinarian (which I've discussed before) and that I don't mind if the students talk, as long as they're learning. After a while, you hear so much criticism that you almost begin to believe it- getting a letter like this makes it all okay.

Hello, from an old friend. I do miss you terribly. As much trash as people talk about you being a teacher, I actually despise them. I don't care what people think of me. If these people have no lives of their own and have to talk bad about others just to make them feel like they indeed have one, well that is not much of a life to begin with. I'm a senior. That means I not have three months left until I am face to face with the wide open world. I do feel extremely excited, because I'm leaving the prologue stage of my life and moving to chapter one. I feel happy, yet I feel another emotion at the same time. I'm scared. I don't want to make a mistake that will cause future problems. I have many priorities already set. Everyone tells me that my priorities I have now are nothing, because they will be completely different in a few years. I am the type of guy who, no matter what, sticks firmly and strongly to his goals and beliefs. I am determined to do whatever it takes in order to achieve what it is I desire. I'm looking at colleges now. I have managed to procrastinate this year regarding SATs, college admissions and preparation. What I want to do is to stay home and go to Clayton State for a few years and achieve my CORE curriculum, then it is time to look at film schools. I want to take it one step at a time, but I see long leaps reaching out for me. Everyone I know is really excited for me, but for some reason I just see it in two different ways. First, I see it as me starting a new life and getting ready for the new world with new people and new standards. But secondly, I see it as leaving the life I was living. For some reason I look at that as maturing. Life is not exactly how we want it, am I right? The ideal, perfect life we all want exists in our heads, but it is our job to make what is in our heads reality. I look to you for advice for several reasons. One being, you are one of the most knoledgable people I have ever met. In our class you would always talk. The subjects you tackled and the leassons you taught were outstanding. Your morals and beliefs are sorted and well thought out. You taught me to think for myself, which no one really does anymore. Everyone is out to seek the strongest group or crowd, whether they believe or agree with the crowd or not. I am open-minded for several reasons. I think that not too many people stop and use their brain when certain matters occur. I want to knoe more. I will listen to as much advise as you have to offer to me. You are a very smart man, and I would be stupid not to listen to you. Thank you so much for everything you have taught me. I will use what you have given me wisely. Tell your wife that I said hello and hope that she is doing well. The same for you. I hope that maybe we can all get toget together sometime. You, Mrs. XXXXXX, XXXX and myself. Well I guess there is nothing more I can say now.

I consider the lines I italicized to be literary, if only because they tell the truth. They have a ring to them louder than church bells.

Tired

I've been going nonstop since Wednesday, I think- after a while, all of the days start to blur together. I can't believe it's been over a week since Grandpa died.

Today there was a multicultural fair at the school. This means that there were booths set up representing different countries. Most of the students attending used it as a buffet, since many of the displays contained food from their respective country.

In theory, only English teachers were supposed to attend, which meant that every student would go once. Well, that didn't happen. Math teachers let their students go, then NJROTC. It devolved into a situation where students were going four out of six periods.

To top it off, there was entertainment. By "entertainment", I mean that one of the assistant principals was playing his guitar and singing. I was not there to witness it, but several people swear that he played "Purple Rain". If you knew this guy, you would understand why that's funny. He might be the most straightlaced person in the world. It would be like Hitler doing the polka.

Yesterday I began showing the 1974 version of The Great Gatsby- the one starring Robert Redford and Mia Farrow. It follows the book pretty closely, and it's just interesting enough that the students don't fall asleep.

I promise I'll write more tomorrow- I just wanted to announce my return to the blog.

Thanks for all the comments.

Ides

My favorite part of Julius Caesar is when the soon-to-be deceased caesar mocks the soothsayer by saying "The ides of March has come." The soothsayer responds with a short and simple "Aye, but not passed." I don't know why, but that part has always reverberated with me. Either I enjoy rooting for the underdog or I just love the excellent use of foreshadowing.

I was observed today in class by one of the assistant principals. We were reading a nonfiction piece on the Titanic. Everything went well, but I was irked that they would observe me the same day I returned from my grandfather's funeral. I think maybe they were trying to trip me up, or either she didn't know I was going to be out Monday. I don't know why they'd bother with harassing me, since I've already turned in my letter of resignation.

Which leads me to my next point- a disturbing amount of teachers and administrators today seem to be in the profession not to teach, but to lord their power over other people. It's ridiculous. You can actually see the look of pleasure in their eyes when they catch a kid doing something wrong. It makes me sick. Sometime I think I'm the only person in the world who disdains emotional conflict. I doubt that's normal, but feeding off of it certainly isn't healthy, either.

There's a legend about Alexander the Great that I like to think is true, if only because I'm a romantic. Apparently he was leading his army of men across a desert and there was no water to be found anywhere. Everyone was close to dying of thirst. Out of nowhere, one of Alexander's servants pushed through the ranks with a single glass of water. Then he kneeled and offered it solemnly to his leader. Alexander took it, lifted it up for the men to see- and then poured it into the hot sand. The men stood up straighter and marched out of that hell alive.

That's the kind of leader I want to be. Walt Disney (or Antoine de Saint- Exupery, I'm not sure) said, "If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea.

Whether or not I was the greatest teacher or the worst, I think almost all of my students (even first period) would admit that I sincerely longed for them to learn.

For me, that's enough.

Pedestrians Have Right-Of-Way, But Trucks Have Bad Brakes

I've always wanted to make money writing country songs. In reality, I'd love to sing them, but I don't have the voice for it.

I think that I'm going to go to New Orleans this summer and draw caricatures for free- I think it would be a neat story to tell the grandkids one day.

I think anyone who uses steroids in baseball deserves a fate worse than Sisyphus.

I want to plant a tomato garden- and maybe a few pumpkins.

I may have officially given up teaching first period- I'll let you know tomorrow. Today, I just sat there and read while they wasted time. (Maybe I'll write a country song with the extra free time.)

House is officially my new favorite TV show. Ed used to be before it became predictable and was cancelled.

I've never tasted rhubarb pie.

Dan Marino should have won at least one Super Bowl ring, but they never gave him anyone who could run the ball.

I have forty-eight days left in education. I might just make it.

Purpose

I wish I could do something grand. But everytime I get started, I find an excuse to stop. I wish some artistic fervor would grip me and not let go, forcing me to obsessively splay out my genius for all to see.

I used to think literature was my passion, but now I'm not sure. I think my love for it was childlike; such love, while ideal for gaining admittance into heaven, is a pitiful thing when it comes to writing.

I remember when I fell in love with writing. I was reading a book at South Hills Municipal Library in South Jackson about a boy who was walking by a creek. Well, in the creek he finds the largest rainbow trout he's ever seen. He doesn't have a fishing pole with him so he wades into the river and grabs it with his bare hands. It sounds silly now, but I was so enthralled with that passage that I must have read it eight or nine times on the spot. I could smell the fish and see the creek where it took place. I wanted to be the boy in the story, and as I read the shelves melted away and I was there. I didn't want it to end.

Even now, I'll read something that plucks the strings of the human heart and moves me to hold back tears. These are good moments, for they remind me I am alive. And there's a little nudge to write, but that's it.

Somewhere I've lost the drive. I used to have it, but now she's gone. I don't know how to call her back to me- I don't even know if she'd hear. I can see her, though, wandering through the autumn woods in a blazing white dress, fingers brushing across the branches.

My biggest fear in life is dying without fulfilling my potential. I don't want to have a great talent and keep it bottled up inside. But if I don't have the talent, then I don't want to waste my time.

Somewhere along the way I fell out of love with writing and pushed her away. If I'm serious about the craft, I need to find a way to entice her back into my arms. Hopefully this time the connection will be more powerful.

Fear the Reaper

I've been doing a lot of thinking about death lately and I've come to the conclusion that I don't like it- I don't like it at all. It's not the event itself that gets to me, but the slow decay and rust of the body. I don't want to fall apart.

In a few years I'll have a kid and get older- eventually my dad will pass and I'll become the grandpa of the family. I picture all of us as packages on a conveyor belt and we're slowly moving toward the end. I understand this is unavoidable but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

I've been reading Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" and it has never made more sense. Death, although unavoidable, should be fought to the bitter end.

Right now I'm 25- that's the good news. But I need to start now so I'll live a long, long time (and be healthy while I'm at it). I don't think I'd mind being 80 or 85 as long as I could still walk around and take care of myself.

So here's my self-improvement list:

1. Take a multivitamin everyday- I need to research this because I hear the organic stuff is better, but Centrum will do for now.

2. Exercise at least three days a week thirty minutes a day- even if it's just walking. (I used to jog, but my knees started complaining- maybe I'll buy a bike.)

3. Cut out my addiction to caffeine and soda. The websites I've read on the stuff is disheartening, to say the least.

4. Eat healthier- more fruits and vegetables and less refined sugar.

I know this won't happen overnight but my goal is to move in this general direction. Since #1 is the easiest, I'll start there. If I don't do it, I'll confess it here for the world to see.

Wish me luck.

Summer Heat

I felt the first tinge of a Mississippi summer today. The sun was out, the birds were singing, and I actually started to sweat a little bit after walking around outside.

I missed it.

The air is much cleaner here than it is in Georgia, and time goes by much slower.

My parents found a trailer they liked out in the country yesterday, and if all goes well, I'm going to rent it from them while I'm at law school. I'll move out and they'll move in after Dad retires, which should happen in about three years. That way I have a place to stay and they'll have someone paying the mortgage.

It looks like things are slowly starting to fall into place.

I hope to begin posting more regularly, now that all of the events surrounding grandpa's death are beginning to wane.

Right now my wife is pilfering her mom's cupboard for things to take back home- right now she's scored some Wheat Thins, Oatmeal Creme Pies, and some Easy Mac.

Right now, life is good.

Tribute

Grandpa was always painfully honest, so to honor that trait I’ll begin by admitting I didn’t know him as well as I should have. When an hour might have meant the world, I found more fleeting things to occupy my time. So all that I am left with is a collection of hazy childhood memories: late night Rook games where he would "shoot the moon" with impunity, the moment when I watched in awe as he unveiled his latest invention, or the image of his slim frame walking between the tallest tomato plants I’d ever seen.

So for me to say much about his life would be disingenuous and do him a terrible injustice. What I can do, however, is attempt to supply some historical context, so that we might have a better understanding of the world in which he lived.

He was born on Christmas Day 1912, less than a year after the sinking of the Titanic. William Taft was president. The average life expectancy for males in this country back then was less than fifty- my grandfather managed to best that statistic by four decades. As he learned to walk, World War One raged in Europe. There is a good chance he talked with aging Civil War veterans while attending school. Then, just as he reached adulthood, America was plunged into the Great Depression and World War Two. He lived almost sixty years after the last shots were fired. His life encompassed seventeen presidents; he outlived all but five of them. He predated the television, radio tuners, and traffic signals.

Truth be told, Grandpa would be bored to tears by this history lesson. He’d rather be playing a game of pool, telling a story, or making a birdhouse out of a gourd. One of his most admirable qualities is that he loved life. He turned everyday life into an adventure. He found a girl, fell in love, and got married. Their marriage lasted sixty-nine years. My mind boggles at the number.
The success of his philosophy is evident today in the people who have gathered to remember him. We are all the proof he needed. I think that he would want us to honor his life by living ours to the fullest- in this way, we carry on his tradition.

These Are Strange Times

Today, two things happened that I like to think are at least remotely connected:

1. My wife found a dog on the side of the road.
2. My grandfather passed away.


My grandfather was 92, so it wasn't totally unexpected. Still, I was shocked when I heard the news. He'd survived two World Wars, the Great Depression, and more things than I will ever be able to remember, so it never struck me that I'd learn the news on a random Wednesday night. I've always been one to agree with the Caribbean philosophy that funerals are meant to be celebrated; this earth is not made for us, at least not on a permanent basis.

Death to me has always been like a train; it makes us stop and realize just how powerless we are. Minutes after getting the phone call, I was juggling schedules and making substitute lesson plans. I did so, however, with the clear realization that everything paled in comparison to the funeral on Friday. As I mentioned in a previous blog, death reminds us all of what is really important.

But a part of me thinks he lives on in the dog we found. Judy found him just hours before we learned the news, and he is male. So I think we're going to call him Sherman, after my grandfather.

He seems to like the name.

So to the man who was born on Christmas Day, I say this- there's a dog named after you living in my guest bedroom. I hope he makes you proud.

Site (and Personal) Update

Page impressions are way down for some reason- either my posts are growing boring or people disagree with some of my statements. Or both. They're so low, in fact, that they're comparable to January 31- the day I started this little online experiment.

Which is fine- it's taken me a while, but I've come to the point where I realize that for me, blogging is a form of therapy. It allows me to sort out my ideas and clear the mental palate. Just knowing that someone could read my writing produces enough of a catharsis for me.

Don't get me wrong- I'm always glad to hear from people who visit often, but I don't think that's the overall impetus anymore. Even if no one visited, I'd still continue to post, because it's personally helpful and psychologically healthy. As my wife commented earlier, it's become my "routine".

In school news, today I read The Sword and the Stone to my students and none of them cared. I remember sitting on the edge of my seat and rereading it again and again as the young King Arthur pulled the sword out, thus (unwittingly) proving he was the rightful heir to the throne. I was entranced and enchanted by the old legend. My kids could have cared less.

Something in or around my students has managed to destroy almost every shred of humanity they have- part of me hopes I never find out what it is, for fear that it will do the same thing to me.

Eighty-Four Squares

Back when I realized that attending law school during the day was a possibility, the teaching days began to drag. Once I found out that I would definitely become a 1L this fall, every second turned into an hour.

To combat the time and celebrate each day I make it through, I created a grid of eighty-four squares. For the math inclined, it was 12 X 7, with some columns being wider than others. My thought was that the small boxes would represent easy days and the larger boxes would represent harder days, but in practice my plan has devolved to random bubbling in order to create a cool pattern.

I especially like how each box tells a little story. Today, for example, I forgot to fill in the box until I got to Sylvan, so I used a yellow highlighter to celebrate the occasion. Another time a green colored pencil had to suffice. What has resulted is a kaleidoscope of colors that quite resembles a Kandinsky painting.

Eventually I plan to take the finished piece and have it framed to hang in my law office. Then (if I ever have time) I can look back at my creation and reminisce about all of the experiences I've recorded.

Topical Depression

I don't usually write about items in the national or local news because I'm too busy. I do feel, however, that the Michael Jackson case warrants some attention, if only for the sheer and grandiose stupidity that he has displayed over the last decade.

America is largely a forgiving people. We look the other way when our Presidents cheat on their wives (Clinton, I assure you, was not the first) and when our sports heroes commit indiscretions. Perhaps by absolving our heroes of their sins we are able to connect with them on a more realistic level. Perhaps it helps us to see ourselves in them.

There are very few things we will not forgive. Harming women and children has to the be the top two on a very short list.

I honestly don't know if Michael Jackson is guilty or not- as I've mentioned earlier, that's for the courts to decide. What I want to focus on is the sheer stupidity, because that alone should be enough to incarcerate someone.

How can someone almost be convicted of molesting a child and then continue to share a bed with little kids? Why put yourself in a situation that is rife with controversy? Why not install cameras to record the "sleep-overs" or hire people to share the room and serve as witnesses that nothing happened? He had to be smarter than this, didn't he? There are really only two logical explanations for this behavior- either he's delusional (read: nuts) or he's guilty.

Does anyone smell a defense strategy?

Secondly, what human being on this planet allows their child to spend the night with this man? To me, the parents in this case are worse than Michael, for they knowingly put their children in the bed of an alleged child molester. I can tell you right now, even if I though Jackson were innocent, I wouldn't let my child sleep in his bed. That's a definite one-percent rule, where even if there's a one-percent chance he's guilty, you don't chance it.

Some things just aren't worth it.

This was taken while driving through Birmingham, Alabama at night. I increased the exposure time and let loose a silent prayer before pressing the button. Taking ten shots and picking the best one didn't hurt my chances, either. 

My Theory on Criminal Defense

The first question I always hear when I tell people I'm going to law school is this:

"Are you going to defend people you know are guilty?"

The answer is yes- and as vigorously as I can.

I've given this a lot of thought, believe it or not. And I've come to the conclusion that everyone, regardless of whether or not they committed the crime, deserves a fair trial. Everyone. This is the hallmark of our justice system. A society where this does not occur will quickly revert back to Jim Crow era justice, which enslaves the powerless through courtroom shenanigans.

Furthermore, as a criminal defense lawyer, my job is to have my client found "not guilty". Period. The prosecutor's job is to thwart my every attempt to make this happen. The jury's job is to determine the case on its merits. If there is enough evidence to prove the case, then nothing I can do can keep the convicted out of jail. To put it another way, if a guilty client I'm defending walks, the blame rests entirely on the prosecutor and the jury who decided his fate. To summarize, if there isn't enough evidence to prove guilt "beyond a reasonable doubt", then the guilty man should walk free, regardless of the truth.

Why? Because our court system is set up in such a way to ensure that innocent people are rarely arrested and placed in jail. In other words, the court system would rather see 100 guilty people go free than one innocent man land up in jail. This is why the court demands such a high level of proof.

This is all very nice and logical, but I recognize that there is an emotional and moral element that has been deftly sidestepped. What we must remember (especially as lawyers) is that the law is not emotional or ethical, only legal. We can only enforce what's on the books. If it gives you any comfort however, various religions hold that there is another "court" where everyone will be weighed in turn.

So just because a person walks free doesn't mean it didn't happen. And I like to think that somehow, someway, everything equals out. We can all take our medicine sooner or later- good defense lawyers only delay the inevitable.

Fifty-Four Days To Sweet Blessed Freedom...

Today has gone by quickly for a Monday due to a Mock Bench Mark Assessment Test (BMA) given to my eleventh graders. Even as I type this, they are sitting quietly and working diligently- something my tenth graders could never accomplish.

Speaking of tenth graders, today I attempted to discuss Zen parables with them. I think they liked them but I'm not sure they "got" it. They definitely couldn't relate when I told them that Buddhist monks tried to eschew pleasure.

I began teaching an ACT prep course in the mornings for the fun of it, because I think that most students don't understand the importance of college tests. A few points here and there can make the difference between an acceptance and an acceptance with scholarship money. In a high school like this, grades are so inflated that 4.0's are commonplace; thus, the only way to differentiate yourself from the crowd is a high SAT or ACT score. I chose to teach ACT prep because I'm more comfortable with it, and I feel that it's the easier test for most people. Also, the new writing section is optional, and most colleges don't yet require it.

My greatest fear- and the one I've fought hardest to combat- is that schools are ceasing to teach people how to think. Most teachers are content to simply pump their students full of knowledge, which only serves to cause a mess when it slowly oozes back out in poorly constructed phrases combined with a total lack of understanding. It's high time that the school system focus its energies on providing the student with a quality learning experience, not one that skips over every issue like a rock flung across a lake.

Knowledge without meaning or the ability to connect it to one's experience is worthless.

This is one of my favorite success stories. This guy found his way to our back deck and decided he had found a home. A classic tomcat in every sense, he often engaged in fights and wandered off for days at a time.

I knew, however, that I would soon be moving from the townhouse to return to Mississippi. So something had to be done. I asked around my classes and asked if anyone needed a ratter. One girl said that her parents had tried everything (even bought a snake!) in an effort to keep the mice out of their barn. Apparently it's a big problem among people who keep horses. So she asked her parents, and they said they'd try him out.

I was worried as I drove him over but my worries ceased as I saw their place. They easily had three acres, so he had plenty of places to wander around. Her mother had even built a memorial for a horse they had buried, so I wasn't too concerned. Every now and then, I get updates from the student, and everything is going fine. It's a lot of trouble helping animals (read the article below about buying new carpet) but it's worth it when they find a home.

For some strange reason, I've always been fascinated by black and white pictures. They just seem more forceful. The swan above actually tried to swim out of the picture but I snapped it just in time- a great example of how serendipity aids the photographer. 

Queen of my Trailer

Well, my goal of writing at least one entry a day didn’t happen. Oh, well. Life marches on, I suppose.

Saturday flew by, thanks to work and volunteering with the Humane Society. Then, after dealing with the drama of my neighbor’s marital fiasco (read: divorce) the night had melted away.

I spent this afternoon researching possible homes to buy once I move back to Mississippi. Right now, I'm leaning toward buying a new Fleetwood trailer for around 18k and buying about an acre of land to put it on. The house note would be around $200 a month, which would help during law school.

But first we have to sell the townhome. I priced laminate flooring and carpet today at Lowes and discovered that laminate on sale is actually the cheapest option. Now I just have to figure out how to install it. Once I buy it (in about two months) I'm hoping the process will only take about a week. We have to replace the old carpet because we have pets, and- well, use your imagination.

I'm hoping that it won't take long to sell the townhome. I've heard horror stories of houses taking years to sell. To be honest, I just want to break even on the deal. I would rent it out, but I really want to sever all ties with Georgia. It would just be too much of a hassle. I don't want to be studying for an exam that determines my entire grade and get a phone call about a broken sink.

Personal Statement

This is the personal statement that accompanied my law school applications. According to everything I've read, it probably played a very small role in my eventual acceptance, but I like to think it helped.

Seven hundred dollars. That’s how much money I paid for my first car- money earned from working at a fast food restaurant where the smell of grilled steak seeped into my clothes with a tenacity that no detergent could ever hope to match. It was a 1982 Toyota Corolla hatchback. The parts not covered in rust were a dull battleship gray. The windshield sported numerous cracks and there was a hole in the gas tank.

Needless to say, I loved it.

I quickly found myself ordering repair manuals and learning as much as I could about my car. I changed my own oil and tried to camouflage the rust spots with a poorly matched silver spray paint- aesthetically hideous, yet somewhat effective. Whole afternoons were spent cleaning and waxing, then cleaning and waxing again. I happily and proudly drove it to school until someone blindsided me and I found myself in a ditch. I wanted to try and repair it, but my father suggested that I find something more reliable.

My first semester in college was marked by an abundance of eagerness- and a sore lack of direction. In my immaturity, I equated wealth with happiness and success and pursued a degree in biology, intent on becoming a physician. After a few weeks of classes, the only thing I learned is that I would rather swallow hot nails than become a doctor. Academically, I could do the work; emotionally, I felt drained. So I switched to a major in English, and I have never regretted the decision. Given the choice, I will choose passion over power every time.

By the time I enter law school, I will have taught high school English for three years. A great parallel exists between education and the legal field. Whether I am teaching the fundamentals of reading to remedial students or the major themes of Shakespeare’s Hamlet to twelfth graders, my goal remains the same- to foster the acquisition and application of knowledge. Every case in the legal world, no matter how simple or complex, boils down to a similar archetypal search for the truth.

I will treat law school the same way I treated my first car, my first ill-planned college schedule, and every teaching assignment I have ever received. When I make a mistake, I will quickly realize my error and find an appropriate remedy. I will not blame my parents or the latest pseudo-psychological ailment. Perhaps most importantly, I will never give up or allow my goals to wither away in the setting sun.

Don’t get me wrong- I’m not a terribly idealistic person. Life for me has been too difficult and my perception too clear to make the mistake of harboring beliefs that do not function in a pragmatic world. When I say that I want to be a lawyer, I do so with open eyes. I can see the 14-hour days and the overbearing amounts of stress that sometimes come with the profession. And still I say- give me my chance.

It is a dangerous fallacy to assume that imperfect beings can create a perfect system. As such, I realize there are flaws in the legal system that need to be addressed. Complaining endlessly about these problems, however, will not help the situation. The rust spots on my Corolla were not repaired that way. They were corrected with determination, hard work, and ingenuity. Grumbling played no part in the process.

I enjoy teaching, yet at the same time I feel compelled to become a lawyer. It is the same compulsion I felt before proposing to my wife and while writing my first novel- a feeling of desire and destiny culminating into a fixed point. For this reason, I urge and implore you to grant me the opportunity to join your program- and one day become a full-fledged caretaker of the law.

Lucidity

Has anyone out there ever experienced a lucid dream? For the uninitiated, lucid dreaming occurs when the person sleeping realizes they are dreaming. From that point on, they are slowly able to control the dream to greater and greater degrees.

For some people, this appears to be almost a natural state; others have to work on it for the ability to manifest itself.

I've had a few, so I know it's possible. But they did not last long enough for me to fully enjoy them.

The one I remember the most involves me sitting in a meadow next to a red tricycle. Suddenly I realized that I was dreaming. At that moment they typical haziness of the dream vanished and everything appeared remarkably clear. It was as if a bomb of clarity spread out over the whole scene. Not content to enjoy the lucidity (my first mistake; the first time you're just supposed to enjoy the feeling) I decided to test my new found powers. So I chose to turn the tricycle into a pony. I don't know why, exactly, but I'm a very random person.

Well, upon seeing the tricycle actually begin transforming into a pony, I freaked out, the scene started spinning, and I woke up. I think that if I had just tried to push or ride the tricycle, I would have been okay. But I tried to do too much at once.

For those who are curious, one way to encourage lucid dreaming is to wear a wrist watch. During the day, look at the watch constantly and imagine the hands going backwards. Eventually, this will become such a pattern in your life that you will do it in your dreams. In your dreams, however, the hands actually will go backwards, which will trigger the realization that you are dreaming. This will then trigger lucidity.

The ramifications of lucid dreaming are mind boggling; one is allowed complete control of any situation one can imagine. Any situation. Think the Holodeck from Star Trek, only while you're sleeping.

My description is probably not terribly exciting- for more information visit the site www.lucidity.com. It is exhaustive and truly the gateway to amazing things. Truth be told, I'm a skeptic at heart- but take my word for it- this is possible, and worth the effort.

If any one out there has had a lucid dream, please share the experience. I'm interested in learning how others use this incredible skill.

Hopeful Parallel

I've decided to resume working on my novel.

Reading Fitzgerald's biography in preparation for class really influenced me a great deal. Turns out his first novel (the name of which escapes me) was rejected by Scribner's at least three times. Not to mention he worked on it for three years before submitting it once.

As great a writer as Fitzgerald was, I'm amazed he was rejected at all. Sometimes his prose appears so poetical I'm forced to stop and reread the sentence out of sheer pleasure. At any rate, such rejection gives me hope, because it helps me to hold out hope (whether fallaciously or not) that sometimes editors miss a good thing when they see it. I'm in no way comparing my writing to Fitzgerald (I'm not that bold), but I am hoping that the publishing process might share certain similarities.

My novel, which is tentatively titled And the Earth Lay Upon Them, is actually somewhat finished, at least from a plot-related perspective. But I still need to rewrite and edit and rewrite and edit again for it to be satisfactory. Six months ago, I "finished" writing it and whipped off twenty-five queries to potential agents in an amateurish fervor. All of them were rejections, which though expected, still managed to sting a little. But as I looked over the first chapter tonight, I saw a lot of little things that I wanted to change. It's amazing how a little time and distance can lend so much perspective.

The bad news is that Fitzgerald died of a heart attack at the age of forty-four, so let's hope the parallels only carry so far.

Mental note: I need to take up jogging again.

Mirror Mirror

One of my students figured out how to beat Bess. Bess, for those of you used to total freedom while surfing the internet, is site-blocking software that determines what parts of the internet a surfer will be able to reach. It is also the bane of my workday existence.

Put in place for the noble reason of keeping students from viewing pornography and playing games, it has since degenerated into a catch-all that blocks mostly harmless sites. It appears that Bess' logic follows the "safety in numbers" rule- namely, if we're not sure, we'll block it.

I understand this but in the past I had always wished there was a way for administrators and teachers to bypass the system. On several occasions I've been blocked out from sites that I know for a fact would help me plan a better lesson. In the world of technology, this is indeed a sad thing.

For those who are curious, the actual website is
www3.beijing999.com. From what I gather, it's either a proxy or a mirror- those might be the same thing, but I'm not sure. All I know is that it works. You will, as you might suspect, see a page filled with Asian characters. In the middle is a white box where you can enter text. This sends you to the website, but Bess thinks you're still on the original site.

The pages take just a little longer to load, but I think they're being routed through a server in Asia, so this is understandable.

Mark N. (or someone with a technological background), please visit the site when you get a chance and explain precisely how I'm able to beat the system. This will serve to satisfy my idle curiosity. Thanks.

Unexpected Boon

Today, unbeknownst to me, is advisement day for tenth graders. This means, in simple terms, that the counselors come to the class and grab your students, haul them down to the office, and help them plan their schedule.

So I was given a rare and unexpected break from first and third period.

In second period, I had the students map out the different relationships between the characters in The Great Gatsby, which they're reading. I wanted them to see the veritable cornucopia of possibilities that Fitzgerald had created with the exposition.

Then they used selected sentences from Chapter III to create sentences of their own that modeled the original's structure. I wanted them to realize that if they combine their creative ideas with a little structure, then they can really create something special. I think they were proud of their creations, because they repeatedly asked me to read them.

On days such as this, I truly don't mind teaching. If all of my classes acted like this, I could do it forever.

I'm not tutoring tonight, so the faithful few who visit regularly can expect more posts later today. Thanks everyone for the comments and the visits, whether planned or erstwhile. It helps to know someone's reading.

Hump Day

Well, I've made it through Wednesday. The rest of the week should go much easier.

Sometimes I can't help but feel like the character Boxer from Orwell's Animal Farm. For those who don't remember, he's the dumb, strong horse that worked endlessly until he died and was sent off to the glue factory.

If it were not for law school, I don't know how I'd make it. Right now, the only thing sustaining my drive is knowing that I only have eleven and a half weeks of teaching left. In truth, I don't see how some people can slave away for years for next to nothing and still retain a sense of hope. Such persistence in the face of adversity might be both the greatest and worst trait humanity has to offer.

I've always felt that my intelligence was more a curse than a blessing, to be honest. I think I'm just smart enough to realize my plight but too dumb to do anything about it. There are many instances when I look at the students in my first period class and think, "Boy, I wish I could just play a video game for two hours and find happiness." Sometimes, ignorance truly is bliss.

The people who I think are really intelligent are the innovators and entrepreneurs in our society; my intelligence, on the other hand, is nothing more than a heightened sense of everyday perception. In other words, I'm smart enough to get the gold star but not rise above the system that awards said gold star.

There's one more thing that binds me to mediocrity; I think I'm afraid of pushing myself to the limit artistically because if I fail, I'll have nothing left. I wrote a novel and sent it to twenty different publishers (it was rejected) and then I just dropped it. I haven't touched it in months. I think that if I just retreat and give up then I can use that as an excuse. But writing- this thing that I love so- is also the only thing that torments me and dances on the edge of my brain.

A writing career is the only thing I really want professionally, and the only thing in my life I'm desperately trying to avoid. I can't count how many empty Sundays I've sat and told myself that today will be the day I sit down and write for three straight hours without interruption- but I let other things get in the way and make only ineffectual protests as the time dwindles away. And I tell myself, "I'll do it next week."

Yet it never happens.

I'm beginning to think the future doesn't exist- only the undiscovered present.

Fifty-Eight Days Until Sweet Blessed Freedom

No one in my first period class has a GPA over 2.0; one of them has a GPA of .45 (not a typo) and is ranked 551 out of 559.

What eternally perturbs me is that in high school I didn't even know such students existed; now I'm teaching them.

Hence, onward to law school.

Granted, she doesn't look like much- just an old muddied creek that winds behind my townhome development. But I've claimed her just the same. Legally, the city owns her, but I doubt they'll ever know I've planted an old adirondack chair on her north bank to observe her as she goes along her way.

I've spent hours there, just sitting and writing and resting. It's wonderful. Once, when the creek flooded and carried the chair into the stream, I found it beached against a sand bar a few yards downstream. So, left with no choice, I rolled up my pants and waded into the chilly autumn waters.

My poor ability to describe fails me when I tell you how I felt when my legs sank knee-deep into the all too willing mud. The gasp that escaped my lips, the tingling of incessant fear, the chill down the spine- all of it was profoundly human. In that moment, at that place in time, I was closer to who I was than I have been in a long time.

Nature is where I find myself, where I am able to return to that childlike state that time so cruelly steals away in such a deft manner that one scarcely realizes it's gone until it's too late. I believe that somewhere between the winter branches a part of me lingers, and if I look hard enough, I'll be rewarded with a piece. It doesn't happen every time I make the sojourn, but more often than not, I'm struck by the grandeur of nature.

There are probably those of you who read this blog who haven't set foot in the woods in years- I urge you, go. Just stand and stare and be in awe. Listen and be still long enough for the woods to come alive around you. We live our whole lives with the false notion that mankind is the greatest thing on the planet. To risk sounding trite, we are but a thread in the tapestry. To gain such perspective makes the troubles and petty trifles of the day fade into the background.

I like to think that if we all lived in treehouses, we'd be a hell of a lot happier.

I know I would.

A grand view of Cloudland Canyon State Park in Northwest Georgia. 

Twenty-Dollar Door

Today when I walked outside to start my car, the door wouldn't open. I assumed that this was happening since it was frozen. So I pulled harder. Finally, with a loud crack, the door decided to concede the point.

What it did next, however, befuddled me to a great extent. I climbed in, started the car, and shut the door- only the door didn't close. It just bounced off the car like it was in a cartoon and swung back out, teasing me from just out of reach. So I tried again. It bounced again, this time harder. So I sighed, turned off the engine, and climbed out into the cold. (I did remember to roll down the window in case it shut and refused to open.)

I tried shutting it from the outside- no luck. By now neighbors were coming out to leave for work and watching as I slammed the door against the car to no avail. No one offered to help. I discovered that the catch was jammed down, as if the door was already closed. I tried to pull it open with a shoe string, pry it open with a screwdriver, and chisel it open with a hammer. No luck. (Looking back, I think I tried to use brute force because I was in a hurry and didn't want to think about the problem.)

Since I was going to be late, I decided to drive it to school the way it was. It was fine, except for right turns, because the centrifugal force threatened to pull the door- and my arm with it. But I made it. I parked like normal, and gently nudged my dilapidated door against the car. The dome light went off at least, thank goodness.

So now, while trying to teach, I found myself worrying about the car. It's seven years old, but if someone were to steal it I'd be out about $2000 I don't have right now. So I checked on it between classes but I was uneasy most of the morning.

Finally, during fourth period, I found a solution. There's a kid in my class who's handy with cars. I told him what the problem was and that if he could fix it I'd give him $20. He said he'd take a look. He comes back five minutes later and Presto it's shut. He didn't want to take the money but I told him he'd done me a favor because I was going crazy worrying about it. Also, I'm sure a mechanic would have charged me at least $45. He said that the plastic coating on the catch was caught up in the mechanism and he had to remove part of it with his keys.

I guess there are some fringe benefits to teaching, after all.