Category Archives: Whatever

Books, From the classroom, Whatever

Questions we didn’t know we wanted to ask

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I don’t think I’ve mentioned that I’ve not been teaching for the last year or so. I miss my students at the community college, miss their stories, miss the chance to work so closely with a small group of (almost) eager learners.

I was digging around in the attic the other day and came across a lesson I’d liked to use in the mid-point of the semester on questioning techniques. It’s something we readers do automatically; question as we read, but it’s a skill that less-seasoned readers need help with.

I’ve always been a questioner; not ever satisfied with the surface answer, always intent on whatever lies beneath. I’m sure that as a child this drove the adults in my life half-nuts, and I know it drives my present-day students to distraction. I’m not the type of teacher who returns papers with plain check marks in the margins or terse comments in red ink; instead I’ve always hoped for my students to think a bit deeper and tend to ask questions that make them consider another viewpoint or angle… prodding at their laziness or inattentiveness. I like the chance to dangle speculation before them, or even wonder.

Imagine that! Wonder in the classroom!

So… while the course I teach is one of reading strategies, the writer in me tries to give back some of the kind of questioning that continues to be crucial to my own growth, as a writer (!) and as a person. I like to introduce the idea of questioning and speculation with the use of Pablo Neruda’s Book of Questions, wherein the poet asks a series of questions, without ever really caring if a response is likely, or even possible. Neruda’s questions invoke vivid images and tend to demonstrate a unique way of seeing and questioning… just as an example or two:

Why do the leaves kill themselves
as soon as they turn yellow?

How do the seasons discover
it’s time to change their shirts?

Some of the things I work on with my students during discussion are:

Which is more important: the question or the answer?
Which is more powerful?
Do all questions have answers? Is there only one right one?
Do we all ask the same questions? In the same way?

A part of what I’m hoping my students will discover with this exercise is that we all have a unique perspective and this *stance* is important to consider in our writing as well as in our reading of other authors.

My favorite part of the lesson is giving students the time to come up with their own questions, using Neruda’s as a model. There’s a fair amount of imitation, but the whimsy is palpable and fun! I encourage them to be playful with language and subject matter, like Neruda. Nothing is exempt from wonder, right?

Some favorites:

How come people say the moon is made of cheese and not waffles, for example?
Why do flowers bloom out and not in?
Who do we make mistakes?
How come there are more girls than boys in the world?
Where does Jimmy Buffet get his songs?
Why do cookies disappear faster when you’re not the one eating them?

😉

I love that last one!

Of course you know to expect this, but…

😉

What questions are you just dying to have answered?

What would you ask if no one dared laugh at your silly question?

Whatever

A crazy love of things

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I’m funny about pens; I prefer markers, actually, and they must have the finest of points that flow smoothly without skipping or stuttering ink across the page. They needn’t be expensive; for years I’ve favored a fine-tip marker made by Staples that costs $5.00 for a dozen.

There’s something wonderful those pens do for my handwriting; they make it look like practised calligraphy, almost.

😉

Pablo Neruda wrote a whole book of Odes to Common Things, but I’m not sure he ever wrote an ode to a pen…

I love
all
things,
not because they are
passionate
or sweet-smelling
but because,
I don’t know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine:
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers
love has scattered
its blossoms,
glasses, knives and
scissors-
all bear
the trace
of someone’s fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness.

From Ode to Things by Pablo Neruda

What are some of your favorite things, special forgotten treasures of your everyday life… hats, flower vases, compasses, the velvet feel of a particular chair…

Share, please!

BTW, Dave at Via Negativa wrote a series of Odes to Tools that is just delightful. Enjoy!

Birds, Whatever

Feathered fashionistas

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My brother shared this pic of a couple of his chickens on top of an old shed; he said with last week’s snow they just sort of poked their little heads out the coop and didn’t know what to make of it.

Silly chickens!

Not having much first hand experience, I’m not sure if I should believe those who say chickens are pretty smart or those who say they’re really dumb.

It’s pretty neat to see my brother understanding a bit more about bird behavior because of his chickens; he recognizes the peculiar sound the flock makes when they’ve spotted a hawk overhead and this winter he’s busy figuring out how to keep starlings out of the coop to steal the chickenfeed.

Anyone with suggestions on that?

He demonstrated some weird kind of chicken logic for me today. They react to particular colors he says… he called them “fashion police” actually, and brought out this shirt that he says they hate. Sure enough the flock scattered at the sight of it and were freaked out for the rest of the afternoon, clucking suspiciously at us from beneath the pine trees at the edge of the yard while we talked.

Silly chickens!

Garden, Whatever

Poinsettia Amnesty

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My favorite garden center is offering $10.00 off the purchase price of any plant you choose to replace your dead or dying poinsettia with… so long as you show your black thumb, admit defeat and bring the horrid thing along with you for trade-in.

Oh the embarrassment!

I wonder what they’ll do with them. Can a dying poinsettia be rehabilitated?

😉

I like to make lists, Whatever

Because it’s going around

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A meme from Mary:

1. Do you like blue cheese? I love it, especially in a salad with fruit.
2. Have you ever smoked? Only when I can’t help it.
3. Do you own a gun? No, but Luka has this toy that shoots tennis balls. That’s pretty dangerous, too.
4. What flavor Kool Aid is your favorite? Kool Aid is gross, unless it’s frozen in an ice cube tray and you’re 8.
5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments? Yeah, so I mostly avoid doctors.
6. What do you think of hot dogs? Mustard and ketchup, please.
7. Favorite Christmas movie? I can’t think of a single one… wait… I like Jimmy Stewart so whatever one that is that he’s in.
8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning? Coffee.
9. Can you do push-ups? I can, yeah… thanks to plank pose in yoga.
10. What’s your favorite piece of jewelry? Jewelry’s not my thing, but I do have a couple well-loved things that I’m really sentimental about.
11. Favorite hobby? Daydreaming.
12. Do you have A.D.D? Most certainly, yes. Only it wasn’t called that back when I was in school.
13. Do you wear glasses/contacts? I need glasses for distance, but only wear them to drive. I was cross-eyed as a kid and wore glasses (and a patch!) to correct that, so I’m a bit vain about glasses now.
14. Middle name? Claire, after my mom.
15. Name thoughts at this moment? Thinking I should buy some more songs by Amos Lee from iTunes.
16. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink? Coffee, seltzer, Blue Moon.
17. Current worry? That I’m not worried enough.
18. Current hate? I hate that I don’t have a sled, or a hill nearby, or snow.
19. Favorite place to be? Right now.
20. How did you bring in the New Year? At my brother’s; it was quiet except for the trumpet and pots.
21. Where would you like to go? Just about anywhere could be fun, I think.
22. Name three people who will complete this? Other lazy, brain-dead people.
23. Do you own slippers? No… I love to be barefoot.
24. What color shirt are you wearing? Black.
25. Do you like sleeping on satin sheets? I imagine them to be too slippery.
26. Can you whistle? Yes and do so absent-mindedly, annoying my coworkers.
27. Favorite color? Green.
28. What songs do you sing in the shower? None.
29. Would you be a pirate? Well… I have worn an eye patch.
30. Favorite Girl’s Name? Don’t have a favorite.
31. Favorite boy’s name? Don’t have a favorite.
32. What’s in your pocket right now? 37 cents and a bank receipt.
33. Last thing that made you laugh? I had a really good belly-laugh this afternoon listening to my voicemail messages at work. A client was making excuses for her late rent payment and blamed it on the snow here and the heat in Florida… nevermind, but it was hilarious!
34. What vehicle do you drive? Honda CRV.
35. Worst injury you’ve ever had? I had stitches in my chin once from a fall as a kid.
36. Do you love where you live? No, but the where doesn’t figure much in that.
37. How many TVs do you have in your house? Two too many.

Anyone else feel lazy?

Whatever

Today’s sharp sparkle

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I watched the inauguration today with my coworkers, each of us huddling around a couple computers, none of the broadcasts in sync, ringing phones adding to the din as if nothing monumental were happening.

My ears perked up at mention of a poem…

This was only the fourth time an *occasional* poem was commissioned for a presidential inauguration. What’s up with that?

(Anyone care to speculate what poem or poet the last administration might’ve selected had poetry even been a part of their consciousness?)

😉

The following is a transcipt of Elizabeth Alexander’s inaugural poem reprinted in the NY Times:

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others’ eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, “I need to see what’s on the other side; I know there’s something better down the road.”

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp — praise song for walking forward in that light.

I watched hours and hours of the ceremonies repeated this evening on C-SPAN and really enjoyed that poem at the second hearing. There is something about poetry read aloud that goes straight to my center. Most people seem to think it was awful.

Any thoughts of the day? The poem? The speech? The dress?

😉