If you've never heard of Taylor Mali, you're missing something wonderful. He's a spoken word poet and teacher and has a bunch of You Tube pieces where he performs on stages like Def Poetry Jam and others much more formal where you can see the likes of former US poet laureate Billy Collins setting up for his turn at the mic (fascinating to watch Collins' facial expressions while Taylor does his thing).
One of my favorites, though they're all great, is the poem titled "I Could Be a Poet". Where was Mali when I needed him, when I thought all poetry had to be read out loud in that lilting and incredibly snobbish and stilted way as if to put a steel door up where only a chosen few were allowed to enter? I love that he's come along to stand poetry on its conventional and parched ear.
Let 'er rip, Taylor:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mnOrrknTxbI
Sunday, February 8, 2009
What teachers make
When I was in grad school, I spent a semester teaching a poetry workshop at Valhalla Prison to female inmates. It was one of the most gratifying things I've ever done.
Without question, every single one of my students was a teacher to me. Despite their situation - the inability to simply breathe fresh air (even the exercise yard was indoors), constant lights and alarms in the night, the "Ninja Turtles" assault troops ready to tear apart cells, strangers doing cavity checks, other humiliations - they taught me courage, optimism, the richness of a good laugh, the utter surprise to hear that I thought about them when I'd gone back out through the gates, past the razor wire, down the interstate to home. It seemed like the only thing they took for granted was their invisibility.
I like to think they don't feel invisible anymore because a bunch of us got together and they discovered they have a way with words. They have a voice.
And I discovered I have a way with teaching. I'm looking all over for a teaching job these days but, even with the MFA, I'm not certified and the private schools and colleges are full up, it seems, the colleges in particular looking for fresh young blood with books and a name. I can't do much about the years but I'm working on the rest thanks to the Dodge Foundation and some wonderful friends. And some of that optimism I take from my former students that there's always a chance to turn things around no matter how many years have gone by.
What could be a better calling?
For anyone who questions this most noble (and humbling) of professions, here's another great Taylor Mali poem:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxsOVK4syxU
Without question, every single one of my students was a teacher to me. Despite their situation - the inability to simply breathe fresh air (even the exercise yard was indoors), constant lights and alarms in the night, the "Ninja Turtles" assault troops ready to tear apart cells, strangers doing cavity checks, other humiliations - they taught me courage, optimism, the richness of a good laugh, the utter surprise to hear that I thought about them when I'd gone back out through the gates, past the razor wire, down the interstate to home. It seemed like the only thing they took for granted was their invisibility.
I like to think they don't feel invisible anymore because a bunch of us got together and they discovered they have a way with words. They have a voice.
And I discovered I have a way with teaching. I'm looking all over for a teaching job these days but, even with the MFA, I'm not certified and the private schools and colleges are full up, it seems, the colleges in particular looking for fresh young blood with books and a name. I can't do much about the years but I'm working on the rest thanks to the Dodge Foundation and some wonderful friends. And some of that optimism I take from my former students that there's always a chance to turn things around no matter how many years have gone by.
What could be a better calling?
For anyone who questions this most noble (and humbling) of professions, here's another great Taylor Mali poem:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxsOVK4syxU
The impotence of proofreading
I'll leave this up to Taylor Mali to offer this warning (and dig the expressions on former poet laureate Billy Collins' face)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OonDPGwAyfQ
THE THE IMPOTENCE OF PROOFREADING
Has this ever happened to you?
You work very very horde on a paper for English clash
And still get a very glow raid on it like a D or even a D=
and all because you are the word¹s liverwurst spoiler.
Proofreading your peppers is a matter of the the utmost impotence.
Now this is a problem that affects manly, manly students all over the world.
I myself was such a bed spiller once upon a term
that my English torturer in my sophomoric year,
Mrs. Myth, said I would never get into a good colleague.
And that¹s all I wanted, just to get into a good colleague.
Not just anal community colleague,
because I wouldn¹t be happy at anal community colleague.
I needed a place that would challenge me, challenge me menstrually,
I needed a place that would offer me intellectual simulation,
I know this makes me sound like a stereo,
but I really wanted to go to an ivory legal collegue.
So I needed to improvement or gone would be my dream
of going to Harvard, Jail, or Prison
(in Prison, New Jersey).
So I got myself a spell checker
and figured I was on Sleazy Street.
But there are several missed aches
that a spell chucker can¹t can¹t catch catch.
For instant, if you accidentally leave out word
your spell exchequer won¹t put it in you.
And God for billing purposes only
you should have serial problems with Tori Spelling
your spell Chekhov might use a word
that you had absolutely no detention of using.
Because what do you want it to douche?
It only does what you tell it to douche.
You¹re the one with your hand on the mouth going clit, clit, clit.
It just goes to show you how embargo
one careless clit of the mouth can be.
Which reminds me of this one time during my Junior Mint.
The teacher took the paper I had written on A Sale of Two Titties
I¹m not joking, I¹m totally cereal.
And read it out loud to all of my assmates.
It was the most humidifying experience of my life,
being laughed at pubically.
So do yourself a flavor and follow these two Pisces of advice:
One: There is no prostitute for careful editing of your own work,
no prostitute whatsoever.
And three: When it comes to proofreading,
the red penis your friend.
Spank you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OonDPGwAyfQ
THE THE IMPOTENCE OF PROOFREADING
Has this ever happened to you?
You work very very horde on a paper for English clash
And still get a very glow raid on it like a D or even a D=
and all because you are the word¹s liverwurst spoiler.
Proofreading your peppers is a matter of the the utmost impotence.
Now this is a problem that affects manly, manly students all over the world.
I myself was such a bed spiller once upon a term
that my English torturer in my sophomoric year,
Mrs. Myth, said I would never get into a good colleague.
And that¹s all I wanted, just to get into a good colleague.
Not just anal community colleague,
because I wouldn¹t be happy at anal community colleague.
I needed a place that would challenge me, challenge me menstrually,
I needed a place that would offer me intellectual simulation,
I know this makes me sound like a stereo,
but I really wanted to go to an ivory legal collegue.
So I needed to improvement or gone would be my dream
of going to Harvard, Jail, or Prison
(in Prison, New Jersey).
So I got myself a spell checker
and figured I was on Sleazy Street.
But there are several missed aches
that a spell chucker can¹t can¹t catch catch.
For instant, if you accidentally leave out word
your spell exchequer won¹t put it in you.
And God for billing purposes only
you should have serial problems with Tori Spelling
your spell Chekhov might use a word
that you had absolutely no detention of using.
Because what do you want it to douche?
It only does what you tell it to douche.
You¹re the one with your hand on the mouth going clit, clit, clit.
It just goes to show you how embargo
one careless clit of the mouth can be.
Which reminds me of this one time during my Junior Mint.
The teacher took the paper I had written on A Sale of Two Titties
I¹m not joking, I¹m totally cereal.
And read it out loud to all of my assmates.
It was the most humidifying experience of my life,
being laughed at pubically.
So do yourself a flavor and follow these two Pisces of advice:
One: There is no prostitute for careful editing of your own work,
no prostitute whatsoever.
And three: When it comes to proofreading,
the red penis your friend.
Spank you.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Warning: a love story with graphic content (no, not that kind)
Storm, in the lineup of The Usual Suspects I posted awhile back, suddenly began to drop off noticeable weight a couple of weeks ago. The next day he couldn't keep food down. The day after that he stopped eating altogether. Having to attend a funeral followed by the vet's day off, I got the next available appointment.
That morning I took Storm out back to get a stool sample. The poop that emerged got stuck leaving Storm tearing around the yard trying to shake it loose, the clump smacking against his hind legs and tail making an awful mess. I ran inside to get gloves, grabbed his collar and gently pulled on the poop. A clump about two feet long came sliding out like on those National Geographic calving videos and I stood there horrified that he'd pooped out his intestines.
Between sobs, I cleaned us both up, put the whole clump in a plastic bag, grabbed a leash, and headed for the car, expecting the worst.
The waiting room was filled. I left the bag with the receptionist and we worked our way to a bench in the corner. At least there was the distraction of chatter about the dogs, cats and one goat there with ailments or injuries or needing a checkup.
Then the vet tech called out, "Skye? Are you missing a rug or a really long stuffed toy?"
It turned out that all my rugs were present and accounted for but, blood work, x-rays, a ravenous but exhausted dog and $206 later, an inventory count back home noted a missing two-foot-long furry.
It could have been worse. Even if he'd made it through a second such surgery (a couple of years ago he was cut open from stomach to butt to recover a very long knotted up strand of used gauze he'd swiped from the garbage), it would have cost me a (so to speak) shitload of money if he hadn't pooped it out in the nick of time.
Not quite funny yet, the blood work came back that his body isn't absorbing protein. A case of special canned food, liquid triglycerides, Prednizone and a vet check in two weeks, the jury's still out.
The poor receptionist whose job was to sort through the two-foot-long poop cheerfully told me about her own nut job dog. She said he ate a basketball but nobody knew for sure (as long as he kept eating they weren't going to cut him open) while he pooped and spit up pieces of rubber until one big piece came out with the word SPAULDING printed across it.
These "kids" as I call them really know how to pull our heartstrings or none of us would be pulling poop out of their butts or cleaning up after they puked all over the Oriental rug just back from the cleaners, again.
My big kids, two Siberian Huskies and six German Shepherds I've had over the years, are giving way to smaller ones, my daughter's introduction of the Japanese Shiba Inu that looks like a fox or a German Shepherd pup that never grows up. I like that they can be bathed in the sink and don't take up the whole bed. But they're an even more primitive breed than Huskies and very pack oriented. Instead of pulling poop, I'm pulling them off each other. Good thing they have curled tails for handles.
I've been fostering Shibas for the past year and adopted two of the fosters from the NYC Shiba Rescue, http://nycshibarescue.org/ These two are also in The Usual Suspects lineup, but I've been feeling a bit misty-eyed today and wanted to get this on the blog.
My latest addition, Dylan.
And the joyfulness of two buddies sharing some quality time:
That morning I took Storm out back to get a stool sample. The poop that emerged got stuck leaving Storm tearing around the yard trying to shake it loose, the clump smacking against his hind legs and tail making an awful mess. I ran inside to get gloves, grabbed his collar and gently pulled on the poop. A clump about two feet long came sliding out like on those National Geographic calving videos and I stood there horrified that he'd pooped out his intestines.
Between sobs, I cleaned us both up, put the whole clump in a plastic bag, grabbed a leash, and headed for the car, expecting the worst.
The waiting room was filled. I left the bag with the receptionist and we worked our way to a bench in the corner. At least there was the distraction of chatter about the dogs, cats and one goat there with ailments or injuries or needing a checkup.
Then the vet tech called out, "Skye? Are you missing a rug or a really long stuffed toy?"
It turned out that all my rugs were present and accounted for but, blood work, x-rays, a ravenous but exhausted dog and $206 later, an inventory count back home noted a missing two-foot-long furry.
It could have been worse. Even if he'd made it through a second such surgery (a couple of years ago he was cut open from stomach to butt to recover a very long knotted up strand of used gauze he'd swiped from the garbage), it would have cost me a (so to speak) shitload of money if he hadn't pooped it out in the nick of time.
Not quite funny yet, the blood work came back that his body isn't absorbing protein. A case of special canned food, liquid triglycerides, Prednizone and a vet check in two weeks, the jury's still out.
The poor receptionist whose job was to sort through the two-foot-long poop cheerfully told me about her own nut job dog. She said he ate a basketball but nobody knew for sure (as long as he kept eating they weren't going to cut him open) while he pooped and spit up pieces of rubber until one big piece came out with the word SPAULDING printed across it.
These "kids" as I call them really know how to pull our heartstrings or none of us would be pulling poop out of their butts or cleaning up after they puked all over the Oriental rug just back from the cleaners, again.
My big kids, two Siberian Huskies and six German Shepherds I've had over the years, are giving way to smaller ones, my daughter's introduction of the Japanese Shiba Inu that looks like a fox or a German Shepherd pup that never grows up. I like that they can be bathed in the sink and don't take up the whole bed. But they're an even more primitive breed than Huskies and very pack oriented. Instead of pulling poop, I'm pulling them off each other. Good thing they have curled tails for handles.
I've been fostering Shibas for the past year and adopted two of the fosters from the NYC Shiba Rescue, http://nycshibarescue.org/ These two are also in The Usual Suspects lineup, but I've been feeling a bit misty-eyed today and wanted to get this on the blog.
My latest addition, Dylan.
And the joyfulness of two buddies sharing some quality time:
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Poison ivy on my butt and other concerns
A subject on the guitar forum: List "odd" things that bother you. My off-the-cuff response:
- The little pieces of toilet paper on the floor of public bathrooms that stick to my shoes when I leave.
- When peeing in the woods, worrying about getting poison ivy on my butt.
- Having to maintain strong thigh muscles to squat in public bathrooms and to prevent poison ivy on my butt.
- Old people who buy enormous cars and can't see over the steering wheel. (Maybe it's for the really wide rear window to show off their hat collection.)
- People who don't know the difference between "their" and "there".
- Ice cream containers that have all been sneakily shrunken in size (other products, too.)
- The strange phenomenon that young guys can wear pants halfway down their boxers that stay put and older guys with beer guts and butt cracks can't keep their pants up when the waistline is up to their necks. (Both bother me.)
- The little hard brown shells in popcorn that get stuck between my teeth and gums.
- The societal impression that only men fart or belch or that men have such an excess of saliva, they must spit on a regular basis.
- Being afraid the suction thingy at the dentist's will suck up my tongue (and embarrassed by the awful sound it makes, like my mouth is farting.)
- Having men as total strangers come up and tell me I shouldn't "chew" my fingernails but let them grow long and beautiful and have nail polish on them when, first, it's none of their friggin' business and, second, I TRIM my nails to be able to play the friggin' guitar.
- Super pointy shoes by male designers when I've yet to find a similar pointy foot in all humanity.
- When I've been talking rather colorfully all night and my date takes me to a bar - someone says one little four-letter-word and my date yells back, "Hey buddy, knock it off! Can't you see there's a lady present?"
- When people in the audience shout "PLAY FREE BIRD!!" I hate Free Bird.
- The little pieces of toilet paper on the floor of public bathrooms that stick to my shoes when I leave.
- When peeing in the woods, worrying about getting poison ivy on my butt.
- Having to maintain strong thigh muscles to squat in public bathrooms and to prevent poison ivy on my butt.
- Old people who buy enormous cars and can't see over the steering wheel. (Maybe it's for the really wide rear window to show off their hat collection.)
- People who don't know the difference between "their" and "there".
- Ice cream containers that have all been sneakily shrunken in size (other products, too.)
- The strange phenomenon that young guys can wear pants halfway down their boxers that stay put and older guys with beer guts and butt cracks can't keep their pants up when the waistline is up to their necks. (Both bother me.)
- The little hard brown shells in popcorn that get stuck between my teeth and gums.
- The societal impression that only men fart or belch or that men have such an excess of saliva, they must spit on a regular basis.
- Being afraid the suction thingy at the dentist's will suck up my tongue (and embarrassed by the awful sound it makes, like my mouth is farting.)
- Having men as total strangers come up and tell me I shouldn't "chew" my fingernails but let them grow long and beautiful and have nail polish on them when, first, it's none of their friggin' business and, second, I TRIM my nails to be able to play the friggin' guitar.
- Super pointy shoes by male designers when I've yet to find a similar pointy foot in all humanity.
- When I've been talking rather colorfully all night and my date takes me to a bar - someone says one little four-letter-word and my date yells back, "Hey buddy, knock it off! Can't you see there's a lady present?"
- When people in the audience shout "PLAY FREE BIRD!!" I hate Free Bird.
Monday, January 12, 2009
And a grande time was had by all
There's something really wrong about this. From the souvenir shop of the Woodstock Museum at Bethel Woods, the site of the 1969 Woodstock Festival:
A "mini-latte make-love-not-war mug"
http://www.shopbethelwoods.com/store/product/17866/MUG---MINI-LATTE-MAKE-LOVE-NOT-WAR-PHOTO-MUG/
I grew up in the Sixties. I went to Woodstock - the original (who would have thought I'd have to clarify that.) Lattes? WTF? Next they'll be warning us about the bad brown antacid.
Just to be clear:
There was no merchandise for sale at Woodstock (or Coke or Pepsi for that matter.)
Few people even thought to bring a camera.
There was no valet parking.
No "seating".
Few porta-johns.
Plenty of trees.
No showers.
Plenty of rain (and lakes.)
No gourmet food.
No health food.
No food in general.
No bottled water.
Plenty of drugs.
A fair amount of people.
Some pretty spectacular bands.
That's about all I remember.
A "mini-latte make-love-not-war mug"
http://www.shopbethelwoods.com/store/product/17866/MUG---MINI-LATTE-MAKE-LOVE-NOT-WAR-PHOTO-MUG/
I grew up in the Sixties. I went to Woodstock - the original (who would have thought I'd have to clarify that.) Lattes? WTF? Next they'll be warning us about the bad brown antacid.
Just to be clear:
There was no merchandise for sale at Woodstock (or Coke or Pepsi for that matter.)
Few people even thought to bring a camera.
There was no valet parking.
No "seating".
Few porta-johns.
Plenty of trees.
No showers.
Plenty of rain (and lakes.)
No gourmet food.
No health food.
No food in general.
No bottled water.
Plenty of drugs.
A fair amount of people.
Some pretty spectacular bands.
That's about all I remember.
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