Want a Project?

So, here’s the story; I’ve been given 100% free rein to do whatever I want in building, from scratch, an entire English department.  From scratch, People; I have absolutely no constraints – I can pick whatever books I want and teach them in whatever order I want using any projects and assessments I want and….

You get the idea.

While I’m in love with the idea that this is entirely mine to create – how many of my colleagues fantasize about being able to teach the books they love instead of the books they’re ordered to read by the administration or the state? – I’m also here to tell you that absolute freedom isn’t necessarily conducive to creativity.

I need edges.  I need guideposts.  I need something.

When I met with Mike the other day to talk about getting the planning started, I told him that I was almost paralyzed by all my freedom; I had no place to put in, I said, and I found myself staring at a blank computer screen, wondering just where the hell to start.

That’s when he suggested that we create a canon.  We’ll compose a list of books that we feel deserve a quasi-permanent place in the various curricula.  The idea is that we’ll have a list of books that we go to whenever we’re teaching, say, a freshman core class, and choose some anchoring texts from among that list that fit with whatever the school-wide theme is for that year (as opposed to teaching the same books every year – if it’s freshman, it must be Romeo and Juliet! – which, frankly, we teachers just don’t want to do).  That way, we figure, we’ll never teach a book to a junior class that already read it as freshmen and, in the process, we make sure we hit at least some of the more widely-read novels that colleges expect students will have some passing familiarity with (and that we either love or never got to ourselves in our own educations).

So, I’ve got this list.  It is by no means a complete list, and I’m leaving it entirely open to revision and/or suggestion, so that’s the first part of your project; if you see something on the list that shouldn’t be there – or there’s a book that is dear to you that you think should – speak up.

The second part of my request is a bit more involved, though; I’m going to ask you (especially you English teachers) where in the course of four years you’d place a book.  It’s pretty much decided that freshmen will get To Kill a Mockingbird and The Book Thief, and that seniors will get Frankenstein and Beloved – and there are a couple of other novels that will sort themselves out simply because of their subject matter or their voice – but I’m really interested in finding out what you all think about where the books should go.  You don’t even have to take on the whole four years; if you teach sophomores, for instance, tell me what books you either teach or wish you could teach to that bunch.  If you teach college, tell me which books you want your incoming freshman to know in order to have discourse about the novels that you teach at your level.  I’ll take any and all input any of you wants to offer up… and thanks!

To Kill a Mockingbird
The Book Thief
Native Son
Invisible Man
The Sunflower
Ender’s Game
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
Frankenstein
Hamlet
King Lear
MacBeth
Much Ado About Nothing
The Taming of the Shrew
Othello
The Great Gatsby
The Things They Carried
The Kite Runner
Night
Watership Down
1984
Fahrenheit 451
The Giver
The Color Purple
Beloved
A Christmas Carol
This Boy’s Life
The House on Mango Street
Oliver Twist
Catcher in the Rye
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
As I Lay Dying
A Farewell to Arms
Brave New World
A Member of the Wedding
The Bluest Eye
Cry the Beloved Country
Things Fall Apart
Pride and Prejudice
The Scarlet Letter
Lord of the Flies
A Clockwork Orange

Wordy Wednesday: Will

He’s doing his 24 hour reading!  Go here and check him out (and, if you can spare it, toss them a few bucks so they can fund their team’s trip to the national competitions)!

Film and Literature

I’ve been a busy girl lately.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been turning around in my head the courses I’m going to be teaching next term.  Since we’re essentially starting the English department from scratch, I’ve had a lot of freedom in putting together new syllabi and curricula for these courses.  With all that freedom comes an almost crippling absence of guidelines, though; I fear that, without boundaries, I’ll go too far afield.

That’s where you all come in, Dear Readers.  I’m planning to post the syllabi for each class I create here so that I can get your input, questions, comments, or suggestions before I print them up to submit to my director.  The fine print of each course is going to be the same – I have identical expectations for attention and productivity for each group of students – so I’m more interested in what you think about my content; am I missing something rich or vital or just fun?  Do you have any winner lesson plans to share that have worked for a course like this?  If you were taking this course, what would you expect to emerge from the other side knowing, having experienced, or understanding?

Aaaaannnnd, GO!

Film and Literature
Charter High School
Fall, 2010

Course Description: Stories are an essential part of every human culture; they help us to make meaning and to understand ourselves, each other, and our place in the world.  The means by which these stories are told – whether they are written, spoken, or acted on stage or screen – influences the way we approach and interpret them.  Film, while it may be influenced by written work, should always be considered an entirely unique piece of art for the purposes of critique and analysis. This course explores the complex interplay between film and literature. Selected novels, short stories and plays are analyzed in relation to film versions of the same works in order to gain an understanding of the possibilities—and problems—involved in the transposition to film.  We will also investigate films that do not have written work as their inspiration to discover the ways in which these stories work in terms of our understanding of the nature of literature and the role it plays in our lives.

*Students are cautioned that this course requires extensive reading and writing in addition to viewing films and taking part in class discussions. Students not prepared to read (up to 150 pages/week) and to write on a regular basis and to take an active part in class discussions should not consider taking this course.*

Objectives: In this class, students will;

• Enhance their ability to understand, appreciate, and discuss works of literature through extensive reading and discussion of short stories, novels and plays.

• Analyze works of fiction and drama for plot structure, setting, characterization, theme, and narrative point of view.

• Develop an understanding of critical analysis of film through careful examination of  adaptations of literary texts, focusing on character development, dramatic structure, and performance.

•  Learn and utilize the terminology of film analysis, both those terms shared with literary discussion (character, plot, theme, setting) and those specific to cinema (lighting, dialogue, special effects, etc.).

•  Demonstrate an understanding of the possibilities and problems involved in the transposition of literature to film, applying terminology and critical skills acquired during the semester to analyze a cinematic adaptation of a text not discussed in class.

Texts, Materials & Films:
Required Texts:
•  Monk Kidd, Sue.  The Secret Life of Bees
•  Lewis, C.S.  The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
• Grisham, John.  The Client
• Rowling, J.K.  Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Access to a good dictionary (online is fine)

*A note about texts: I have no investment whatsoever in how you access these texts; you may buy them (new or used), you may borrow them from friends or the library, or you may obtain them online or as e-books.  If you choose to go the electronic route, however, please understand that you must – must! – have the text with you in class; excuses about computer or printer problems will not be accepted.*

Films:

•  The Secret Life of Bees. 2008; Gina Prince-Blythwood, dir.
• The Kite Runner. 2007, Mark Forster, dir.
•  The Sixth Sense. 1999, M. Night Shyamalan, dir.
•  Willow. 1988, Ron Howard, dir.
• Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. 2007, David Yates, dir.
• The Chronicles of Narnia; The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. 2005, Andrew Adamson, dir.
• Empire of the Sun. 1987, Stephen Speilberg, dir.
• The Client. 1994, Joel Schumacher, dir.
•  Finding Nemo. 2003, Andrew Stanton and Lee Unkrich, dirs.
•  Karate Kid. 1984, John Avildsen, dir.
•  Hook. 1991, Stephen Speilberg, dir.
* this film list is subject to change and/or addition.

Expectations: There are certain things that I will expect from you and, likewise, there are a number of things that you can expect from me. First and foremost is respect. As a community of writers and thinkers, we must be able to trust one another. Writing (and thinking) is a process that most often involves missteps and risk-taking. We need to create an environment where it’s okay to express half-developed ideas, where we won’t feel ridiculous if the thought we started chasing turns out to be silly or unsupportable, and where we challenge each other to expand thinking beyond the safe and expected. To that end, it is vital that we approach this class – and each other – with a high level of respect. We’ll learn a lot from each other – this class is not about me imparting learning on you, but rather is a collaborative effort on all our parts – and we’ve got to be able to trust that we’ll support one another in the process of learning. Everything else that we do at a community of writers and thinkers will expand from that sense of trust and respect; without it, we’ll get no where.

Beyond that, there are certain day-to-day expectations that need to be made clear. You can expect me to be in class every day on time and prepared. You can expect me to take you seriously and to be entirely supportive of your own learning process. You can expect me to be clear about what I want from you in terms of work, both in class an out of it, and you can expect me to assess your work according to those standards. You can expect me to respond to your questions and concerns (whether they be class related or not) in a timely and respectful way. In short, you can expect me to be present and mindful and wholly engaged.

I expect you to be in class every day on time and prepared; that includes having completed any assigned reading and having all necessary materials with you in class. I expect you to be present and engaged in class and to take the time we have together seriously. I expect you to complete all the assignments I give, to participate in group activities, and to be a careful and conscientious participant in workshops with your classmates. I expect you to ask questions, to stretch beyond what you think are the “safe” answers, and to take full responsibility for your own learning. I expect you to come to me with any questions, problems, or concerns you have and, if your concerns are about an assignment, I expect you to come to me well before that assignment is due. I expect you to behave in a mature and respectful way toward the material, yourself, your classmates, and me. In short, I expect you to be present and mindful and wholly engaged.

*A word about participation: please be aware that my definition of participation does not include hiding behind a computer screen or a doodle pad.  Unless we are actively working on a writing or research project, computers are to be completely closed and put away altogether.  There will never be a time during class discussion that it’s okay to have earphones in your ears.  Finally, while I understand that some people are able to focus better on what they’re hearing if they’re drawing or doodling, if I feel that your participation while you do such things is suffering, I will ask you to put them away.*

Assignments: As a practice, I don’t map out an entire course on a syllabus; I feel that limits the class too much and stifles our ability to follow fruitful tangents that may come up as a result of our thinking. That does not mean, however, that you won’t know about assignments in plenty of time to complete them. For day-to-day work, I will usually write the assignment on the board or simply tell you what we’re doing for the class. All homework is always posted on our class Haiku page. For major projects, I will print out an assignment sheet with detailed instructions and the assessment standards I will use to grade the work. These things will also be posted on the class webpage. It is your responsibility to understand the assignment completely before you begin; telling me that you “didn’t get it” is not an acceptable excuse for not having completed an assignment or for doing it poorly.

Unless you are absent from school, work not handed in on the due date will not be accepted and will count as a zero in your grade. If you are absent from class, it is your responsibility to find out what, if any, homework was assigned that day and to have it ready when you return to school. I do not offer make-up or extra credit work; I do, however, negotiate due dates with students who have legitimate reasons for not being able to complete an assignment on time. If you think you’re going to run into trouble getting something in when it’s due, let me know and we’ll come to an agreement that meets both of our needs. I will make every effort to have your work graded and returned to you in a timely fashion. Please keep in mind, however, that you only had to write one paper; I’ll have to read and assess everyone’s work.

Books and Permission Forms: All students must have all required texts by the second week of class.  Failure to obtain the texts will result in your being administratively dropped from the course.  Permission forms for the entire semester’s film schedule must be signed by a parent or guardian and returned before the first scheduled screening (likely the third class of the term).  Failure to return the permission slip will result in your being administratively dropped from the course.  Please email me directly if there are any questions or concerns about the films we’ll be viewing; I’ll be happy to address specific goals and objectives for the film(s) in question.

Support the Arts!

I’m going to sacrifice a little anonymity here, but I promise you that permission was asked for and given.

Beau (aka Will), my beloved former student and now-TA, is a very accomplished poet. He’s earned himself a spot on the team going to the national competition, and he and his crew have devised an incredibly ambitious method of fund raising. If you’re so inclined, please help them out – and check them out; I think you’ll understand pretty quickly why I’m so proud of him…

On Wednesday, July 7 at 7am the 2010 Slam Free or Die team will attempt a never-before-achieved marathon of wordplay. Each reading in 24 hour shifts, the 5 team members and the coach and assistant coach will read for 7 days straight. This will be, as far as Google can tell, the longest continuous reading of poetry, prose, and fiction ever attempted! THIS ENTIRE EVENT WILL BE BROADCAST LIVE ON THE INTERNET, SO EVEN IF YOU LIFE FAR AWAY YOU CAN STILL TUNE IN AND PARTICIPATE! We will post the url of the stream the day of the event. (Chili’s note; I’ll make sure to post that here as soon as I get it!)

Our love of poetry aside, this event is a fundraiser for the 2010 team. For different donation amounts, viewers and audience members can make requests or even decide what will be read next. We love the poetry and spoken word community that has supported us from our humble beginnings and want you guys to be as involved as possible in this event!

You can either watch online or show up at The Colonel’s kitchen and watch any or all of the event in person!

Poets will have a break every 2 hours for 15 minutes; during these breaks, anyone can sign up to read so the event will remain continuous. You will need to be there in person and you can read anything you want (please, nothing intentionally offensive) during your 15 minutes. And yes, you can sign up for more than one slot if you wish. Slots that fall between 7am and 6pm require a donation of $1, slots that fall between 6pm and midnight are $2, and between midnight and 7am are free! You can sign up by emailing bridgepoetry@gmail.com. We will update the schedule accordingly.

Donations can be made at: http://bit.ly/sfod2010
Menu of Donations:
$1 a page – poet will read whatever you present to them either in person or via email
$.50 – to have a poem repeated that has already been read
$10 – have a chapbook, yours or anyone else’s, read cover to cover
$100 – in the first 12 hours for a poet to go ‘no repeat’ for the remainder for their section
$50 – in the second 12 hours for a poet to go ‘no repeat’ for the remainder for their section
$500 – at any time to have the reading from that point on to be entirely poetry
$1,000 – at any time to have the reading from that point to be ‘no repeat’
$1,500 – at any time to have the reading from that point on be ‘no repeat’ and entirely poetry
$50 – Beau will do his entire 24 hours shirtless, with your chapbook or local business or organization name written on his chest
$10 per hour – for “this hour brought to you by” your business or organization name, location, and info
$100 – for a full day “brought to you by” your business or organization name, location, and info
$20 – The Colonel will perform a full hour of Chuck Norris facts
$25 – for one hour, any of the following: Beau will not smile. JeFF will not move his arms. Tim will not do a funny poem. Mckendy will read in a falsetto. Krista will read only ‘male’ persona poems. Sam will read in a British accent. The Colonel will dance while reading.
*and we are open to other ideas and donation suggestions. Just let us know.

Reflection

How to Attend a Writing Workshop in New England in the Summer:

Come unprepared,
because nothing that you could write
before you get there will make
you ready for what you’ll learn,
and nothing you can
imagine will tell you
what it will be like,
but for God’s sake,
bring a sweater.

Don’t imagine for a second
that you’re going to have
a decent shower,
so if a decent shower
is something you need
to be a writer,
(or a decent human being)
for God’s sake,
rent a hotel room.

You’ve got to be willing;
to eat brown food,
to trust that the strangers
on day one will be
respected peers
on day six, and
thank God,
that you aren’t
nearly as sucky
a writer
as you think you are.

Don’t ever
make it about the money
you paid,
or the hassle
of the train schedule,
or the brown food.
If you come at it right,
you’ll see that you
would have gotten a bargain
at twice the price,
that you got where you needed
to be in the end,
and that salad
thank God,
was always an option.

Open up.
Let go of the fact
that you think you always
write about,
dear God,
dead people
and ruined relationships.
That you write at all
is what really matters;
the rest, as they say,
is fussy details.

Finally,
for the love of God,
keep at it.
Do whatever you’ve got
to do,
call whoever you’ve got
to call,
run in the woods
or walk on the beach,
or hide in the library
or sit in your car,
just keep writing.

First Draft; The Phone Call

The first draft of a piece inspired by this prompt…

Filled with apprehension, he picked up the telephone and, with shaking fingers, he dialed…

Her number hadn’t changed in decades – he’d double-checked, again, just to be sure – and as he heard the clicking of the call connecting, he resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to hang up.  This was at least the sixth time he’d dialed this number – maybe it was more, he didn’t know – but this was the first time he actually let the call go through; in fact, more than once he’d left the last “3” off the sequence of seven and put the phone back in its cradle, lit another cigarette, and told himself that he was being an asshole.

There was nothing he had to say that she wanted to hear – he knew that and, more importantly, he finally understood why – but that wasn’t enough to keep him from coming back to the phone – what was it now?  Seven?  Maybe eight times – to dial the number he kept on a scrap of paper even though he knew it by heart.  As he tapped the ashes off the end of his Winston and waited to hear the first ring through the receiver, he looked at the number written on an old library book slip, the kind they used to keep in the backs of books to stamp the due date on before the whole system went electronic.  He hadn’t gone electronic, though – he had to go to the library to use the public computers to look up her number (did they even print phone books anymore?),  had written it on the card kept in a neat pile with its fellow castoffs on the desks next to stubby pencils so the patrons could jot down notes from their work at the old terminals.  He noticed, idly, that the last date stamped on his slip was June 3rd, 1999.  That’s about right, he thought ruefully; that was just about then that he’d last laid eyes on her.

She had been irredeemably angry then, strangely cool and resigned, but he didn’t know that then, hadn’t been able to see that through his own rage and indignation to really understand what was happening.  He sat there, on a green plastic chair at a green plastic picnic table, listening to her tell him that she was done.  SHE was done!  What the fuck did SHE know about being done?  What the fuck did she know about ANYTHING?  Everything in him raged at the nerve of the kid; what the hell makes you think that you can just tell me to fuck off and be done with it? For the longest time, he could remember nothing about that afternoon but the blinding rage, the look on her face, and the way the heat of the afternoon had made the green plastic chair leave his shirt sticking to his back in a lattice pattern as he walked away for the last time.

But the truth of the matter – the truth that he couldn’t see until it broke over him a week ago like a car crash – sudden and unexpected, completely unintended, wrenchingly violent and instantly, heartbreakingly clear – was that she had been right.  There was nothing that he was offering her then that she needed, and certainly nothing she wanted, though she had something he had wanted so badly that he wasn’t even able to even think about her for months after that afternoon.  He could easily have reached across that cheap, plastic table and strangled her that afternoon – or at least cracked her a good one -  and as he imagined her phone ringing in her kitchen, it occurred to him, for the first time, that that had to be one of the reasons why she had wanted nothing to do with him.  How could he begin to explain to her that he knew now; that he saw and understood and that he sometimes wanted to kill himself for being so pigheadedly fucking stupid?

In that moment, at the third ring, he realized couldn’t do this; he wasn’t ready; he understood, just as he heard the click of the call being answered, that he didn’t understand enough.  Shit; maybe he didn’t understand anything.

As he moved the phone away from his ear toward the hook, he caught his daughter’s voice, at the same time familiar and eerie, like a long-lost memory or a phantom that he wasn’t quite sure he heard; not “hello,” but the scripted outgoing message from her answering machine.  “We can’t come to the phone right now.  Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”  But there would be no getting back, and he knew that now.

First Draft; Daddy

This was inspired by Girl by Jamaica Kinkaid.

*************************
Do you see that man there?  Of course you do, he has been a part of you like the air you breathe, like the warm blanket lending its comforting weight on your body on cold nights when the dark comes early and I’m not tired yet but you fall asleep almost immediately, anyway; this man who randomly bursts into song with disembodied lines from every musical he’s ever heard, who makes up lyrics when he doesn’t know the words, and who takes the entire song completely out of context, but still you understand it; this man who puts you to bed with a magic spell – go to bed with a 1, 2, 3 - and wakes you with a sing-song invitation to come to the faire; this man who needs only to crook his index finger to send you into peals of hysterical laughter and who lulls you into forgetting, while you’re watching that finger, that he’s got another one just like it circling around out of your vision to find the tickle spot just under your ribs; this man who turns compliant black cats into Russian ushankas and stiffly demands your papers; this quiet man who yells for those same cats from the back door at dusk in a voice that can be heard far beyond the neighborhood and that rattles the glasses in the cabinet, but that never fails to result in little black lawn lions emerging from the veld eager for their supper; this man who demands of you your very best work because that’s what he demands of himself; this man who allows you, even at your advanced ages, to sit on his lap or to sock-ski around the kitchen while hanging on, at both your peril, to the pockets of his jeans as he runs laps around the linoleum; this man who does not flinch at nail polish or tampons, and who is better at keeping your birthday parties running than your mother could ever be; this man who works at a job he doesn’t love because it gives him the freedom to be home in 7 minutes if that’s what’s required – or wanted – and which lets him sit in the bleachers for band concerts and climb on the bus to chaperone field trips; this man who does laundry and vacuums and changes sheets with the same kind of ease with which he wields a wrench in service to a fussy washing machine or swings a hammer to build a shed; this man who grills a killer steak and can whip a cheese soufflé that his girls almost beat one another with their spoons to get to first; this man who gives up his baseball game on ESPN for a couple of episodes of Phineas and Ferb on the Disney Channel; this man who carried you around like a tiny, wriggling footballs and perfected his interpretation of the baby burrito and bathed you every single night in a cloud of bubbles don’t poach the baby; this man who has taught you how to climb the stairs and ride a bike and tie a knot and who will teach you how to pack for school and pay your bills and work a clutch – though mom will cover parallel parking; this man who plans vacations that balance perfectly staid historical tours with noisy water parks; this man who teaches you what love looks like as he sweeps your mother into a music-less dance in the dining room or hands her a book after supper – go to bed; I’ll clean the kitchen; this man who has set the bar for your definition of manhood so impossibly high that your mother wonders whether he has ruined every boy in your futures because none of them could ever measure up, but you will love them, anyway.

Adding On

Here’s where I went with the rest stop prompt:

Two people meet at a rest stop…

She’s driving a dark blue Kawasaki Ninja, and he’s intrigued by the way she guides the thing, like a missile, into the narrow space he left between his rusting Toyota pickup and the Coke machine.  He watches, holding the end of Steinway’s leash, as she feeds five quarters into the machine and jabs with a closed fist the button for Diet, listens as the can makes its way through the chute and falls to the door.  She lifts the can, pops the top, and takes a sip before she notices him standing there.  She nods at him, a faint smile, and says “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a dog that big.”

“Steinway’s a handful,” he said.  “I’m not exactly sure how he happened, but I suspect that he’s a mix between a St. Bernard and Sasquatch.”

She snorted a little giggle, took another sip of her Coke, and put her helmet, sparkling the same dark blue as her bike, on the ground to ruffle Steinway’s ears.  Whether in sympathy for his owner or his own laziness, the enormous dog immediately flopped to the ground and rolled over, begging to have his belly rubbed.  “Not exactly a dangerous pooch, I see,” she said as she set the can next to the helmet to dig in with both hands.  Steinway’s left rear leg twitched as his enormous tail swept a wide arc in the grass beneath him.

“Nice bike,” he said.  “How fast have you managed to get it going?”

“Well, that depends,” she said, “if you’re a cop, my answer is ‘65, officer.’  If you’re an accountant or something, that number changes to 140.”

“I’m a teacher,” he said, “so you’re safe.  Where are you heading in such a hurry” he joked, though he could tell, as soon as the words were out, that it was the wrong thing to say.  She clouded over, stood up, and tried to shake Steinway fur from between her fingers.  “I’m not really going anywhere in particular,” she said.  “It’s a good afternoon for a ride on the highway, that’s all.”

“I’m coming back from visiting my parents,” he offered, a hint of awkward apology in his voice, though he had no idea what he was sorry for.  “They don’t  have grandkids, so I like to bring Steinway by every couple of months.  I’m pretty sure he has more fun than they do; Mom doesn’t complain much about the drool, but I see her wiping up when she thinks I’m not looking.  He loves it, though; he can’t get enough of riding in the car.”

“I’m surprised he fits,” she said, eyeing the little truck next to her bike.  “Though I suppose you have an easier time moving him around than I would.”

”I don’t know,” he said, glancing down at the still lounging mass of fur and slobber at his feet, “I’m not sure he wouldn’t try to go home with you if you asked him.”

She tipped back the last of the Coke, then crouched to give Steinway one last scritch before scooping up her helmet and turning back to the parking lot.  “It was great talking to you,” she said.  “Maybe I’ll see you again; it’s not like you’d be hard to miss with that traveling companion of yours.”  She tossed the can in the trash, donned the helmet, and swung her leg over the bike.  A quick kick and a rev of engine, and she was gone.  He waited until he couldn’t hear the whine of her bike anymore before he nudged Steinway back to his giant feet and led him to his seat in the truck.

Three Minute Prompts

This afternoon was spent with a pile of writing prompts we generated, and here’s what I came up with. I think there are a number of these I can work with (we were only given three minutes for each idea, after all).

Two people meet at a rest stop…

She’s driving a dark blue Kawasaki Ninja, and he’s intrigued by the way she guides the thing, like a missile, into the narrow space he left between his rusting Toyota pickup and the Coke machine. He watches, holding the end of Steinway’s leash, as she feeds five quarters into the machine and jabs with a closed fist the button for Diet, listens as the can makes its way through the chute, and falls to the door. She lifts the can, pops the top, and takes a sip before she notices him standing there.

Pick your favorite cartoon character and don the person:

(I came up with nothing for this one; I tried to write like Hobbes, and then I thought about trying to write like Mushu from Mulan, but I still came up with nothing…)

Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans…

Before they knew it, they’d been married 14 years. Of course, they’d planned that – they didn’t go into this exercise thinking it’d be a short-term thing – but it seemed like all of a sudden they looked up and had two teenage daughters and were nearly halfway through their mortgage. Not bad, when they stopped to think about it , which they almost never did. Neither of them longed for any other view out their window, in fact, they joked that their marriage had a fifteen year warranty and that they needed to renew that sucker next year. Oil change and tune up, they’d say, new spark plugs and tires.

This is where I want to go…

“Life isn’t the destination, it’s the journey,” they say. Yeah, whatever. After so many years of setting goals – finish high school, get into college, Master’s degree – after so many years of working toward something, it’s nice to, you know, finally BE here. I can appreciate that everything that happened before leads us to our places – whatever those places are – but I don’t get the people who can’t be happy. Why do we use the word “settle” like it’s a bad thing; “you get what you settle for.” Settling for what you want is kind of the point, isn’t it? If you can’t do that, you’re always waiting for the next thing, always hoping it will be better after the next milestone, always seeing greener grass. I like my lawn just fine, thank you very much.

Write about a fear….

I fear the monster that may or may not be in my closet. I fear whatever it is that sends my heart rate racing and my insides clenching at something stupid and trivial; something that doesn’t matter a bit in any scheme of things, grand or not. I fear the day when I go to the door, expecting a Girl Scout or the kid across the street, and come face to face with my biological mother, unprepared for whatever she comes bearing, olive branch or club. I fear that my words won’t be sufficient to convey the enormity of my feeling, that my message won’t get through, that I won’t be enough.

It was a cold fall, and the wind came down from the mountains…

As he pulled the cord that hauled the garage door closed, he saw the kitchen light turn off. She had finished the dishes while he cleaned up the leavings of the long overdue oil change, and as he walked in rubbing grease from his fingers on a rag that used to be his favorite shirt, she called to him from upstairs, “don’t forget to latch the screen door; it’s going to be a windy night.” The downstairs smelled faintly of smoke blown back through the stove pipe, the black hulk in the corner merrily radiating waves of comforting heat that were just intense enough to keep the cats at bay. One of them, the orange tiger, got up, stretched, and followed him as he left his coat on the hook by the door and made his way up the stairs.

Eating…

I don’t understand people who eat to live. I mean, sure; I get the idea of healthy diets and balanced meals, but it seems to me that the people who are most concerned about those things miss out on the sheer joy of eating. I remember the scene in Ratatouille where Remy is trying to explain to his brother what real eating is; the mixture of taste and texture, the subtlety of the perfect flavor, and I wonder how people can live on salad and energy bars. I wonder at my children in this way, too; glorious little gluttons, I’m often amazed that they can taste anything, and I’ve spent most of their whole lives trying to teach them the meaning of “savor.” I don’t waste the good chocolate on the kids; Hershey Kisses will do until they learn to really appreciate their food.

First Draft: Falling Apples

Driving to school this morning, I listened as a neuroscientist
told the world that he has the brain of a psychopath.
There are biological components
to how we behave, he explained, and he discovered that killer’s brains
make different patterns of light and color in the PET scanner
than those of people who keep their hands to themselves.

His mother, whatever her motives but with a knowing certainty,
spurred him to shake
his father’s family tree
to see what fell out.
Cousin Lizzie Borden, she of the famous Fall River Axe,
lurks among the branches,
along with no fewer than seven
other decidedly rotten apples.
Looking at the colorful map of his own brain,
our intrepid scientist learns that, but for the grace
of parents who loved him well as a child,
he could have been rotten, too.

In defense of our dreams, we are the kings and queens of promise.
Nature and nurture vie for supremacy
in a never ending push and pull of aspiration and desire,
and what wins out depends on an astonishingly delicate balance,
razor thin and just as sharp.

At what moment did our neuroscientist murder
the psychopath he has all the markers for being?

At what point did I brick off
the path that led,
with clear certainty,
to bitter desperation?

It is said that, until the moment of choice,
all possibilities exist in the same span
of time and space;
that it is not until the coin actually lands
heads up
that the tails becomes an impossibility.