tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41186422011-04-21T12:00:31.096-07:00CrustyProfessorA writing teacher enters the milleniumMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.comBlogger1561100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1156443114488103892006-08-24T11:11:00.000-07:002006-08-29T10:54:59.196-07:00CrustyProfessorSomehow Blogger won't let me sign in normally. I'm back from China and eager to post, but I'm doing so from a "Blog This!" sign. Don't know what's going on.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1155305294838495942006-08-11T07:06:00.000-07:002006-08-11T20:12:52.233-07:00No bats last night. Slept the whole night through. Recharged my bat-tries, so to speak.Tomorrow morning Mom and I leave for China, terrorist plots, liquid/gel restrictions, long lines at airports notwithstanding.No blog entries until at least the 24th.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1155232298709810232006-08-10T10:41:00.000-07:002006-08-11T08:59:46.770-07:00Yesterday I went home at noon. As I walked into the living room I saw bat number six crawl out of the fireplace. As Mom had three old ladies and a priest coming by for lunch in a few minutes, I was a little more aggressive about catching this one. I actually "batted" it with my gloved hand a couple times until it flopped onto the floor. I picked it up and carried it, gently, outside. No Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1155134156498050782006-08-09T07:00:00.000-07:002006-08-11T05:35:21.830-07:00So at 2:30 this morning I get up to go pee. I stagger into the bathroom and sit on the john, much too sleepy to stand up. In the very dim light of the nightlight I notice a black smudge in one corner where the wall, floor and bathtub intersect. It moves, then begins to walk, slowly and awkwardly, along the base of the tub. I don't have my glasses on, so it's just a dark smudge in a dark room,Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1154793654288710152006-08-05T08:52:00.000-07:002006-08-06T12:25:24.110-07:00Today three other members of the Elks Club and I will be volunteering our time for a fundraiser. In order to support the local Adult Day Services chapter, we will be helping conduct a rubber duck race on the Mississippi. I am again astonished at the nonsense people will pay money for. I have sold something like forty, five dollar tickets to "buy" yellow, rubber ducks, which will be set loose Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1154539648080496402006-08-02T10:24:00.000-07:002006-08-04T17:55:52.340-07:00Thank the stars I have a trip to China to look forward to this month. Without that, the month would look eternal. I need to get back to teaching. I really need teaching. It's my mission.Meanwhile, I'm in the office catching up on mail by the half ton.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1154463913744619642006-08-01T13:22:00.000-07:002006-08-02T19:53:21.696-07:00Being the head honcho at the local Elks Lodge does have some negatives ( in addition to having to put up with the title "Exalted Ruler") that I would just as soon not have to face. Yesterday I had to fire an employee. He knew it was coming and even felt sorry for me that I had to do it, but it still wasn't fun. I'm sure that is at least part of the reason I couldn't sleep last night. Had to Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1154103158538219222006-07-28T09:06:00.000-07:002006-07-30T14:55:08.120-07:00I haven't been able to get on my blog Tuesday or Thursday. Blogger wouldn't let me on Tuesday and nothing worked Thursday at the time I tried.This week I'm rehearsing with thirteen to seventeen year olds for the Bemidji State Choral and Vocal Music Camp. They are fun. This gives me a dose of the age I love to work with. Final rehearsal tonight; concert tomorrow afternoon.My China trip Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1153601566431553892006-07-22T13:48:00.000-07:002006-07-24T08:27:16.446-07:00My office is incredible. I have spent six hours working to just to sort paper so I can fulfill obligations to students or former students. Some need papers read, responded to, and returned; some need recommendations written and mailed. Some of the recommendations need to be on forms that came in the mail and were tossed into the general pile when my office furniture was replaced. The volume isMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1153416164905847462006-07-20T10:18:00.000-07:002006-07-21T22:59:21.190-07:00Orlando was a blast. Blast furnace. I did learn of a new program the Elks are doing that I'm interested in, and that is to distribute dictionaries to third grade classrooms. That will be my next project.I got back to Minnesota to 98 degree heat during the Shriners parade in Detroit Lakes. Two guys collapsed. It felt wonderful compared to Orlando.Yesterday I went in to the office to find the Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1152289550080548812006-07-07T09:19:00.000-07:002006-07-07T11:07:48.313-07:00Today I entertain Mom's friends. Tomorrow I'm in a wedding. Early Sunday morning I leave for Orlando, where I will be trapped in a large hall with thousands of other people listening to the goings on at the national convention of Elks. A few moments of these things are rewarding; the rest is tedium. Orlando in July. Wizard planning. I loathe hot weather.Sometimes I wonder why I consent to doMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1151773435684242742006-07-01T09:57:00.000-07:002006-07-08T19:52:48.396-07:00I am in another paroxysm of lawn-building. Something about the soil around my house does not love a lawn. I have just trucked in five loads of black dirt, spread it, leveled it, and seeded it. I am watering obsessively. I am tracking black dirt into the house, as is Mollie the Collie, who leaves many little black paw prints if I don't catch her and clean her feet before she has bounded into Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1151601993723743332006-06-29T10:24:00.000-07:002006-07-01T10:34:26.933-07:00Day before yesterday George called and asked me to take him to the hospital. Too much pain. Long waits. Waiting rooms. Emergency room cubicle. Transfer to regular room. Added diagnosis: throat cancer too. Holding his sister's hand. Drying tears.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1150994082276025192006-06-22T09:25:00.000-07:002006-06-25T06:16:44.123-07:00I had a fine time with my friend from high school days. In sending him a note to that effect I said something like sometimes the old friends are the most important ones. I'm also noticing a peculiar something about this blog: the comments and the e-mails that come to me in response to the blog have become important. I have a sense of connection with a few people that I just wouldn't have or Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1150820915840750192006-06-20T09:22:00.000-07:002006-06-22T06:38:07.363-07:00George goes for a test tomorrow to see whether the surgeon can cut out one lung and the ribs on one side of his chest in hopes of saving his life.Allan is in the Mayo complex today after suffering a heart attack. He awaits heart surgery this week.One of the accompaniments to reaching late middle age is that your friends start dropping.Meanwhile, I committed to doing a role in an opera this Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1150558303956361832006-06-17T08:18:00.000-07:002006-06-18T15:29:37.830-07:00I've been the social fellow this week. Old friends of the family came to visit for a few days and are leaving later today. Another old friend is coming this afternoon to visit for a couple of weeks while he looks for housing, as he is moving back to town.The friends that have been here this week are people who were my parents' friends long before I was born and have remained in close contact Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1150128983248899862006-06-12T09:12:00.000-07:002006-06-16T08:42:41.636-07:00I am trying to learn an aria from Gounod's Faust. I've learned the music; I am struggling mightily to learn the words. I can, with some effort, learn English or German songs. I can, with some greater effort, learn Italian ones. So far, with great effort, I'm failing to learn the French. I can pronounce it. I can't remember it. Two rehearsals a day most days for almost three weeks and I Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1149873383760318472006-06-09T10:07:00.000-07:002006-06-10T14:31:35.126-07:00Blogger wouldn't let me on yesterday.Miss Bishop requested that I be one of her pallbearers, a duty and privilege I will perform this afternoon. After the funeral I have a hospital visit to make.On Monday afternoon my friend of many years was diagnosed with lung cancer. He was told that it was localized, and scheduled to meet an oncologist on Wednesday. Immediately after that appointment he Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1149698262542759372006-06-07T09:20:00.000-07:002006-06-08T18:55:15.980-07:00My kindergarten teacher, Marie Bishop, died yesterday. In 1959 Miss Bishop was my first contact with the world of school, and she did that wonderfully. She made me feel important. She made all of us feel important, and that what we did in school was both serious work and delight. I still feel that way.An anecdote: My family moved away from Bemidji when I was ten. I returned to teach at Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1149447703363663752006-06-04T11:57:00.000-07:002006-06-05T23:42:30.303-07:00Yesterday I was in a fishing tournament. My dermatologist would hate the major result: I am now deeply tanned. I can't help it; I slobber on sun block and turn brown anyway.The lesser result: I finished in the same position I have finished in every golf tournament I've entered. The difference: yesterday I shared last place with many people who also didn't catch anything. In golf Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1149274900165658722006-06-02T11:45:00.000-07:002006-06-05T23:41:27.396-07:00I'm in the office today for a thesis defense. Starting last Friday I have been out at the resort my family goes to each year for holiday fishing and playing in the water with my nephews, now three and six. Back Tuesday night, Wednesday and Thursday catching up on homelife errands and Elks Club responsibilities.Today's thesis is by a student who started seven years ago and quit just before Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1148485673293138922006-05-24T08:27:00.000-07:002006-05-25T08:31:31.636-07:00External studies papers today. Limit: three hours.In the last couple of days four people who I play golf with occasionally have either recommended to me that I give up the game or asked me why I don't give it up. They refer, I know, to the splendidly poor quality of play I exhibit. These people aren't being mean; it puzzles them to see someone who has played so many years (eight) so earnestlyMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1148394355790268822006-05-23T07:14:00.000-07:002006-05-23T08:10:18.423-07:00So I decided it was time to get out of school mode. Since my last post I've played golf three times, hit balls at the driving range two times, ridden my bike several times, including one effort that left me gasping and my legs rubbery, gotten my boat out of storage and hauled to the lake, gotten my motorhome parked, leveled, vacuumed, and hooked up, cleaned my flower garden, mowed my lawn and...Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1147881144254381602006-05-17T08:48:00.000-07:002006-05-18T23:44:18.003-07:00Yesterday I played golf. While I played I was thinking about a message I got from a teacher I know and love who relayed the terrible news that one of her students was killed in a car crash. She had to face grieving students, while dealing with her own grief, as I played golf. I didn't feel guilty, but I didn't gripe about any of many lousy shots either.A few things matter; the rest are Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1147705769027491722006-05-15T08:00:00.000-07:002006-05-16T06:54:34.723-07:00The deadline for turning in grades is Monday at 9:30. Today, Monday, at 9:30 I turned in the last of the grades. The effect of the last several days' work is that my body aches and I'm so stiff that moving is painful. A reader, Sherman, asked if I found any parts of my work tedious. I love teaching; I don't love having a body so locked up from many days of many hours of sitting at a desk Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1147621471041715172006-05-14T08:44:00.000-07:002006-05-14T18:01:35.433-07:00Sunday. Still reading papers.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1147535960920816992006-05-13T08:56:00.000-07:002006-05-13T15:36:41.903-07:00I'm supposed to be at the Elks Youth Camp helping to get it ready to open for the summer. I'm in my office reading a foot and a half of paper, instead. Sometimes one duty conflicts with another. The camp will open whether I'm there this year or not. Grades won't get turned in on Monday morning if I don't get them done.That distinction makes clear which responsibility I must meet.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1147445046730957242006-05-12T07:41:00.000-07:002006-05-12T10:55:28.906-07:00It's the morning of commencement, and I am suddenly up to my, um, ears in senior projects and honors theses. I will have to miss the ceremony to work on all this paper.So many people who work on independent projects wait until the deadline is upon them to do the work. Now I'm stuck with the results.Poor me.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1147293350812526332006-05-10T11:58:00.001-07:002006-05-11T15:22:36.203-07:00For some reason blogger has not been allowing me to post the past couple of days, though it has permitted me to publish comments. It has been cranky about letting me comment on other people's posts, too.End of the term: papers, portfolios, theses. Late papers, portfolios, theses. Whole sets of papers that come in on an afternoon during finals week and are accompanied by requests both that theMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1147293485369517942006-05-10T11:58:00.000-07:002006-05-10T13:38:05.406-07:00For some reason blogger has not been allowing me to post the past couple of days, though it has permitted me to publish comments. It has been cranky about letting me comment on other people's posts, too.End of the term: papers, portfolios, theses. Late papers, portfolios, theses. Whole sets of papers that come in on an afternoon during finals week and are accompanied by requests both that the Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1146854444925425802006-05-05T11:35:00.000-07:002006-05-09T23:28:23.636-07:00I've invited the methods class to my home for our final. My Mom took advantage of the opportunity to make many kinds of treats, which she likes doing but is a waste to do when I'm the only one around, since I don't eat sweets very much. Well, peppermint, but who bakes peppermint?We'll have a good time and share final collections of thinking--I have something prepared myself--and they will Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1146668619339589162006-05-03T07:54:00.000-07:002006-05-04T07:57:02.196-07:00I just had my final class meeting for the year. At noon I'll have my final choir rehearsal. At 7:30 I'll have my final choir performance. A lot of endings.I wrote a journal entry about the end of the school year and shared it with my methods class. They both liked it and found it depressing. Here it is:May 2, 2006My fountain pen's ink is now a mix of the former blue and the imminent black--Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1146485773329686662006-05-01T05:14:00.000-07:002006-05-02T05:06:06.500-07:00The Mozart Requiem performance was yesterday. Very exciting. The performers got together afterward and shared the afterglow. The singers were talking very loudly.I'm sorry it's over. Doing it was marvelous.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1146485669547599102006-05-01T05:11:00.000-07:002006-05-02T14:08:19.270-07:00I notice these young people who were been hired only a short time ago and note with surprise that they've gone gray and think how can that be they are only about 35, right, I mean they were 32 when they were hired and that was what 3 or 4 or, come to think of it that was 12, no, 15 years ago and they have a right to be gray because they are almost fifty. Weird how these people who were younger Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1146169630798708842006-04-27T13:19:00.000-07:002006-04-30T20:37:32.313-07:00The day I came home to find that my wife had moved out, taking the dog and some furniture with her, began a period of unparalleled grief. Shock, sorrow, guilt, regret, grief. I've looked at my brother's and my father's corpses and not felt such pain. Working through that brought me some clarity and roesolve.I've committed myself to three women; all three have chosen to leave. One for another Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1146169066696241012006-04-27T13:14:00.000-07:002006-04-27T13:18:41.110-07:00Again from my paper journal, written during the poetry writing class a few minutes ago:He enters grades on the permanent records, with a tally of absences and tardies. He takes the posters off the walls. He stacks the textbooks on shelves, making sure the spines are perfectly parallel. He hears voices in the floors. He pulls files from the cabinet, classnotes, handouts, worksheets. He puts the Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1146054291185334852006-04-26T05:18:00.000-07:002006-04-28T09:39:21.143-07:00From my paper journal, written during poetry writing class yesterday:Crucifixiona nail is to wireas grief is to loneliness:something has been donea thing that is has been transformedinto something still itselfyet instrumentalthe wire now nail will penetrateas the loneliness now grief does.loneliness is an itch we feelwe can ease with a little gentle rubbing,a little more, there under the armaboveMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1145967634903324912006-04-25T05:12:00.000-07:002006-04-25T10:47:25.660-07:00Yesterday was crazy. Classes, a thesis defense, a recital, a reception. May is near.Saturday's Opera Night was great fun. I love to hear these young people I've been working with for four years show off how their training and practice has turned them into polished musicians.My aria went fine, too. In fact, it was funny to both hear and see reactions to it. There were many people in the Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1145632776040536582006-04-21T08:11:00.000-07:002006-04-30T20:42:20.383-07:00In the morning rain I spied a giant tire standing next to my head. It had huge treads, ridges wide as my hand and deep as my thigh. It looked ready to do serious work. It could move a whole lot of dirt in a hurry. I noticed it was connected by an axle to a very large machine that appeared to be of equally serious intent. Earth shaking stuff waiting to happen. The effect was muted as the engine Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1145470662283669182006-04-19T11:10:00.000-07:002006-04-19T17:49:30.646-07:00It's crazy around here with theses and setting up thesis defenses and people finishing papers and projects in order to graduate three weeks from now. Then there are the people who are just now trying to do a semester's work all at once in order to get through the term without blowing their grades. Then there's the usual work.Then there's rehearsing for tomorrow night's choir concert. Then Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1145364920101708782006-04-18T05:44:00.000-07:002006-04-18T20:23:12.520-07:00For about twenty years, perhaps longer, but more insistently in the last five, people who know me have been asking me to write a book about teaching. My sister asked me to when I was teaching in Cromwell. My methods students asked me to when I was teaching in Cromwell full time and at the University of Wisconsin-Superior part time. Several made the same request when I taught at Plymouth State Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1145286065052347882006-04-17T07:59:00.000-07:002006-04-23T09:23:39.630-07:00My computer crapped.No light. No sound. No blogs. The horror.It works now. Blessings on the nice people in the Computer Support office.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1144860404530079022006-04-12T09:30:00.000-07:002006-04-12T20:18:42.963-07:00As is to be expected at this time of year, my morning so far has meant reading one senior project/honors thesis and two M.A. theses, all three of them creative theses combined with scholarly commentary. Thank heaven they are good. A hundred eighty pages of close reading would really suck if the papers weren't good.This afternoon I will host a poetry reading by a few students in my Poetry Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1144672602173032762006-04-10T05:23:00.000-07:002006-04-11T02:26:03.406-07:00Saturday I played the accompaniment to "My Man's Gone Now" from Porgy and Bess. I was calm when we walked out and started and then I got nervous. Strange pattern. I settled down though, and was actually having fun until I noticed my soprano was having memory trouble. She sang one phrase three times. Two of them she was supposed to do, the third is for a chorus, which we didn't have, so the Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1144426203958672472006-04-07T09:07:00.000-07:002006-04-10T04:38:30.936-07:00A couple of days ago a voice major here asked me to be her accompanist as she performs for the annual vocal major scholarship competition. The performance is tomorrow.I haven't played the piano in a performance of any kind since 1987. During most of the years in between I've played only a few times per year.I'm trying desperately to get the keys back in my fingers.Yike.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1144326372002107852006-04-06T05:14:00.000-07:002006-04-06T22:05:35.256-07:00At the reading:Five of us were to read, each with an eight minute allotment, leaving a moment for an introduction and transition between. After three people had read, there were twelve minutes left. I was fourth. I read for four to five minutes, leaving room for the fifth. The fifth then chose not to read.I read five short pieces. Three serious: "In January," "The end of March...," and "Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1144239477649068262006-04-05T05:16:00.000-07:002006-04-05T14:51:31.450-07:00The faculty reading is today. This morning I read my "Shawn" piece aloud into a recorder. It takes more time to read than I have. Now I have to re-think my part in the reading.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1144239384128466532006-04-05T05:12:00.000-07:002006-04-05T06:39:36.013-07:00I am Peabody.A student, Alexis, hereafter to be known as Sherman, decided that I reminded her of Mr. Peabody from the cartoon featured on the old Rocky and Bullwinkle program. She gave me a necktie, a very busy necktie, of Peabody & Sherman.And so, I am a dog. A wise dog. Utterly appropriate. How better to epitomize a learned but not very frightening fellow than to make him a wise dog? You might Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1144182360339908302006-04-04T13:25:00.000-07:002006-04-04T16:40:40.580-07:00CriticDoubting suicide:is the page improvedwhen the poem's erased?Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1144168927316540742006-04-04T09:26:00.000-07:002006-04-05T06:43:06.600-07:00Today my methods class went mad.They went away. I couldn't find them any more. They were laughing so hard and for so long that meaningful work was impossible. At the end a student tried to read her paper aloud but was unable to, as each of her first two sentences provoked such hilarity that any further thinking was, well, unthinkable. Each time I tried to return us to work another bout of Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1143905468833450962006-04-01T07:27:00.000-08:002006-04-03T12:53:44.376-07:00I noticed my name in the paper this morning.I'm one of the creative writing faculty giving a reading on April 5. I knew that but long ago forgot about it. It's an annual event. When I mentioned this to Mom, who was sitting across the table as I read the paper, she suggested that this time I read from my blog, as that has been a new creative effort this year.I'm borrowing an idea from Loralee Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1143754918083348682006-03-30T13:21:00.000-08:002006-03-30T22:53:59.850-08:00The end of March means spring is inevitable. Randy is dead of ruined kidney, then rotten lung, then thirty-five years friendship gone, three months silent. No rites of spring sing in mud season, fitting mud damping sounds, muting music of spring melt.He lived for music, the medium of energy, essence of emotion, yet love is silence, silence of men quiet with corpses, still brothers and soil and Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1143650476514627382006-03-29T08:25:00.000-08:002006-03-30T22:52:08.400-08:00The arts reveal us.In that we run the risks of silly melodrama, self-centeredness, self-importance. In the arts, self is the center of the artist's work. William Stafford, among the best of the 20th Century American poets, wrote about his own writing "I know that back of my activity there will be the coherence of my self, and that indulgence of my impulses will bring recurrent patterns and Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1143567148660323752006-03-28T09:26:00.000-08:002006-04-04T07:27:37.856-07:00I get up early in the morning and turn on a light. I get ready for work looking forward to more, to greater seeing. In this I have never been disappointed. My work is a privilege, the gift of greater knowing, of more light.My students don't know how I feel about their work. There is no reason for them to know. They need me to do my job.They don't know that I feel privileged. To the extent Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1143477008228251142006-03-27T07:59:00.000-08:002006-03-28T08:49:04.223-08:00I'm back from the choir tour. It was such a rush that I'm punch drunk. I intended to write all about it, but I had to check in on the four blogs I read every day and one of them was so powerful that now I'm stoned in a completely different way. Loralee is a stunning person, with more courage than I'll ever have. It's distracting to read things that powerful. My choir experience feels really Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1142977087657178022006-03-21T13:36:00.000-08:002006-03-22T05:10:33.670-08:00Blogger is doing bad things to me. My last posting didn't post. Some of the comments I tried to post disappeared into the ether.I'm off tomorrow morning for the annual choir tour--my last one. Won't be back to the blog until Monday.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1142861469667436802006-03-20T05:29:00.000-08:002006-03-20T22:27:36.630-08:00Day Twenty-two. Late Friday afternoon I finally saw my doctor. He said that I had a splendid infection and needed antibiotics in large doses for a long time. I told him that a week earlier.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1142631100983382712006-03-17T13:31:00.000-08:002006-03-18T08:47:20.523-08:00Coughing. Day Nineteen.The guy from Utah wants to see me, hear me in person. How am I going to arrange that? Little problems.Doctor appointment in half an hour. Finally.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1142439686513217332006-03-15T08:14:00.000-08:002006-03-15T16:13:33.706-08:00Somebody asked me what I'm reading. In the last week I've read a novel by Patrick McManus (the humor writer from Outdoor Life, for all you who wouldn't dream of touching such a magazine), Beloved by Toni Morrison (again. Terrible, wretched, wonderful book.). Something in the Wind by somebody I can't remember who is from Spain. The Amalgamation Waltz by Stephen Wright (stunning, so good I couldn'tMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1142360744216472202006-03-14T10:24:00.000-08:002006-03-15T16:19:03.373-08:00This deep voiced whore is still coughing. Coughing. It's hard to think of interesting things to write when all I really want is a good, deep breath.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1141911926459422172006-03-09T05:42:00.000-08:002006-03-12T15:44:10.540-08:00I had to do the audition last night. My voice teacher said there just wasn't enough time for me to get healthy again before the production company opening would close. So I did it. My lungs are so congested that I couldn't hold on long enough to finish the long phrases. The voice itself seemed healthy enough, so the tone quality came through. Guess that's all I can do.We'll send out the CD Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1141823734278377652006-03-08T05:14:00.000-08:002006-03-09T07:49:02.766-08:00Still coughing.Amazing how exhausting it is not to be able to take a deep breath.Just discovered a blog by Loralee by reading my other favorites. I would link that, but I've forgotten how. Anyway, she's an opera singer in Logan, Utah. The audition I'm supposed to be doing is for a summer opera program in Logan, Utah. Weird coincidence.Judging by my progress so far, the summer will be over before Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1141663319556038622006-03-06T08:36:00.000-08:002006-03-06T16:24:15.163-08:00Here's a draft of a new poem:summer resort sunsetsmatter more thancity settingslog cabins reflect lightin gradationssidings or shakes are too shallowto allow orto containdocks and shores sharechildhood musing, middle age'sknowing, old age'srememberingsmore gentlythan sidewalks and curbs,more gentlythan lights too bright to seethe day's end approachingsummer resort sunsetsare shaded with Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1141662597995276352006-03-06T08:28:00.000-08:002006-03-07T17:28:34.133-08:00The bug is still reproducing. No audition until I can breathe without coughing.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1141404940824931652006-03-03T08:20:00.000-08:002006-03-04T10:39:21.060-08:00From adolescence on I've been frightened of public performance as a solo singer. I've been afraid of public speaking, too, and still am to some degree, but thirty years of teaching has lessened that somewhat. Part of the fear is a long, odd relationship with my own voice. Sometimes I think of it as separate from me; sometimes it's expressive of me. The first is clinical; the other is intimateMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1141402576238220412006-03-03T08:09:00.000-08:002006-03-03T18:06:29.396-08:00I've been sticken by a bug, a mean little bug that crept into my nose during the night and began reproducing. Offspring have traveled to my eyes, ears, throat, and lungs. Yesterday I coughed up bugs every minute or so. Today every five minutes.Odd that while I was at home yesterday, bored because coughing isn't very interesting, daytime television is unthinkable, and the tears running due to Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1141050449846754592006-02-27T06:18:00.000-08:002006-03-01T08:09:25.523-08:00Over the weekend I went to International Falls with a group of members of the St. Cloud Elks Lodge, where I participated in a curling bonspiel. None of us had ever curled before. We won the first game, got thoroughly drubbed in the two following.This experience reminded me of something I've noticed in other physical endeavors. Sometimes the first attempt works fairly well because I haven't Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1140787968638025152006-02-24T05:24:00.000-08:002006-02-24T09:05:32.486-08:00Sharon asks how the recital went. To quote my teacher in an e-mail later that evening, "Fine singing today. Excellent technique." The audience response was warm. I discovered that putting myself inside a character covered the nervousness to the point that it was no longer an issue. Just enough to keep me sharp, not so much as to interfere. That was another lesson from that teacher, given Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1140730307172378062006-02-23T13:23:00.000-08:002006-02-23T20:21:13.000-08:00The study of singing is the study of breathing. This is useful in the rest of life. A new teacher has brought me to renewed consciousness of this breathing business. I used to study it as a meditation technique. Recently I've returned to that, too. Imagine a life built around breath. Physical breath; metaphorical breath.Imagine writing for the sake of breathing easily. Imagine a first Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1140615733192877672006-02-22T05:13:00.000-08:002006-02-23T11:48:27.436-08:00Late this afternoon I will perform an aria in the role of Zorastro, the high priest bass in Mozart's The Magic Flute, for the assembled music majors and faculty. This will be my first solo performance using the techniques of my new teacher. It will be my first formal solo performance in a long time--two years, I think.I'm reminded of other first performances. My very first as a teacher was in Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1140529302997572152006-02-21T05:36:00.000-08:002006-02-21T13:53:55.476-08:00I am about to go to class. Tuesday morning. Nothing unusual planned. Three papers to talk over, which is the norm for this workshop.And yet I'm excited. Anticipating. Hoping.I woke up at 4:30 with 8:00 in mind. That's weird, but wonderful.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1140441727964551572006-02-20T05:02:00.000-08:002006-02-20T10:54:48.006-08:00I had the pleasure of watching a master teacher at his finest during the warm-up and then the actual concert we, the Bemidji Choir, gave at the Minneapolis Convention Center for an audience of music teachers. Curiously, it was during the warm-up that he really got us. We had a half hour period on the stage, before they opened the hall to the audience, when we could try brief starts and get a Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1140013525656435802006-02-15T06:08:00.000-08:002006-02-19T18:36:40.746-08:00Tomorrow morning I leave with the choir for a performance at the Minneapolis Convention Center. Our choir has won the honor of giving the opening concert at the annual convention of the Midwest Music Educators Association. This is the fourth time in as many years that our director has brought us to one prestigious venue or another (Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, Rothenburg International Choral Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1139931514629581052006-02-14T07:33:00.000-08:002006-02-15T19:54:50.793-08:00My sister, a teacher in a rural Minnesota high school, can't read my blog. Her school blocks them, and she doesn't have net access at home. I'm not enough of a computer guy to know how the school district does that, but I'm interested that administrators choose to put up the blocks.People like me must be dangerous, or maybe it's the high school teachers that the administrators don't trust.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1139594152240261102006-02-10T09:50:00.000-08:002006-02-10T15:33:58.320-08:00An observation I made while walking through our university's industrial technology building:On this hallway's wallsare intricately etched designsof classic cars future and past,lovingly wrought drawingsof guitars and saxophonesso detailed that rock and jazz echo,do you hear? and seethe glass cases displayingmodels of carsand guitars and buildingsand even whole townsin three dimensional wonderand Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1139514654157811862006-02-09T11:39:00.000-08:002006-02-10T08:43:20.556-08:00In this morning's writing class I had them write about a location and a sound that they remembered sharply. This is what came out of me.On helplessness:At sixteen he had a stroke. By nineteen he'd had six. He was in a nursing home by then. His father built a ramp at the farmhouse, bought an old van and rigged it with a lift, and each weekend drove the twelve miles to the nursing home, put him in Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1139408951594073172006-02-08T06:27:00.000-08:002006-02-08T14:27:18.310-08:00"Can you hear me knocking?"You were writing a poem of loveand loneliness and questionas you courted your final lovethe love you gave your last bestbreath the final breathof deathSo tell me nowin your airless fashionof how it is for you,this breathless loving.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1139341919549037052006-02-07T07:43:00.000-08:002006-02-07T18:12:26.386-08:00A couple of years ago while reading a blog written by a student I particularly admire I encountered an entry about a teacher she couldn't stand. The teacher she was announcing her dislike for was me. I was startled, in part because I thought (and still think) so highly of her, but then I also realized that my regard is no guarantee of reciprocation. Teachers need to invest in students; the Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1139231600540398732006-02-06T05:05:00.000-08:002006-02-06T11:19:34.703-08:00Some team won the Super Bowl yesterday.I don't know which; even though I like football, I only watched the first half. I was with people from the choir who were invited to a former choir member's home. Other former members showed up--a couple even brought their two little boys--and our director and another voice teacher came. It was fun and I would have stayed, but Sunday evenings my thoughts Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1138975423641928132006-02-03T05:49:00.000-08:002006-02-05T03:30:15.590-08:00An exposition of writing teacher knowledge:Denim clad students slouched in a circle, solemn faced except for Becky, whose slouch is even closer to horizontal than usual and who laughed at the writing prompt, which is unlike her--she usually stares at me when I offer a prompt as though I am a creature foreign to her expeerience--these students stare into nowhere, which means looking vacant on the Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1138893904765180792006-02-02T07:09:00.000-08:002006-02-03T05:30:30.096-08:00I'm taking singing lessons from a new teacher this term. I've had three lessons and they must be working because I now can hardly sing at all. The things I've learned in previous years from previous teachers are no longer of use except in certain specialized situations. I am being taught to produce my basic tone in a new way, so all the physical and mental markers I associate with producing pitchMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1138811332949034822006-02-01T07:56:00.000-08:002006-02-01T09:22:36.326-08:00I don't know how to iron. I don't own an iron, other than a set of golf clubs which I also don't know how to use very well. My clothes handling method is to fold, or hang and tug. My mother ironed; my father didn't. Ironing is for girls.But I teach, as did my father. That's women's work too. Even now, teaching is overwhelmingly dominated by women. What's more, I seem to remember reading Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1138715159369279982006-01-31T05:25:00.000-08:002006-01-31T19:19:29.573-08:00The emperor of Thief River Falls, Kurt the Great, envies prospective teachers' idealism. I envy them the careers they have in front of them, if they so choose. Idealism can be refreshed, regardless of age; youth can't.I have often believed that new teachers can do better work than the very practiced teachers working just next door. The most important quality associated with teacher success is Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1138371235264663732006-01-27T06:13:00.000-08:002006-01-27T15:23:33.280-08:00Here's what made me sad yesterday. Strange how a memory of over forty years still can sting.When I was young, second third and fourth grade young, my family moved to what was then the outskirts of Bemidji. Out our front door to the east, across the dirt road and through perhaps two acres of woods, began Bemidji proper. Out our back door to the west was open field of several acres and then Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1138281175639569842006-01-26T04:58:00.000-08:002006-01-27T05:19:33.843-08:00I wrote a post here this morning that made me so sad I took it down.It is hard for me to think about little boys growing up without their fathers.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1138198690858623862006-01-25T06:07:00.000-08:002006-01-25T11:31:59.790-08:00What selfishness I display in my work.When student writers are given free rein in their choices of subject matter, they write of a three year old girl so struck by her first nursing home meeting with her great-grandmother that upon returning home thirteen hundred miles away, she laboriously, with crayons and Sesame Street instruction, wrote cards to "Lucy" regularly until Lucy died a year and a Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1138110379757258092006-01-24T05:36:00.000-08:002006-01-25T17:06:51.743-08:00On my desk is the watch my father wore when he died. That was nearly fifteen years ago. Next to it is a rock one of my high school students picked out of Cass Lake. She stopped on her way past because she remembered that I went there during summers and she wanted me to have a sign of it during the school year. On it she painted "Cass Lake 1986." I put it on my desk at the high school. Some young Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1138027829645886232006-01-23T06:46:00.000-08:002006-01-23T06:50:29.656-08:00Last night a very small audience at the Elks club was entertained by singers from Bemidji State. These roughnecks listened to Renaissance singing for an hour, and they loved it. When I passed the hat (literally, it was my hat) after the performance, fifteen people donated 358 dollars for the Bemidji Elks Vocal Scholarship.It is amazing what the actual physical presence of the people you are Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1137762590657907132006-01-20T05:04:00.000-08:002006-01-20T05:09:50.666-08:00early morning triptycha waning moonthe sound of a single caron a distant highway,carried on still airover silent rooftopsand treeswithholding judgmentMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1137677591546614832006-01-19T05:25:00.000-08:002006-01-20T21:57:10.923-08:00This morning I noticed a twice-jointed birch tree standing next to two others. The two were bowed permanently by some fierce wind. Unlike them, this tree had a joint, a shift of direction, in its trunk, perhaps six feet off the ground, directly into the space out of which came that brutal wind. Such defiance.A few feet farther up, the trunk, having proven its independent ways, abruptly Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1137590644129892642006-01-18T05:15:00.000-08:002006-01-18T09:09:11.540-08:00Walking to workDark.Check the sky. The sky is the first chance for the day to give a gift. India ink at the horizon. Rifle barrel gray above. Receive the sky.Notice how the trees are today.Sense wind against cheek and ear and throat. Smell of signs of the day. A few snow flakes against eyelids and nostrils and lips.Birds? Birds today?No birds. Even the crows are silent.Notice sounds of Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1137505440890916652006-01-17T05:35:00.000-08:002006-01-18T10:31:04.293-08:00I spent the holiday weekend at a training seminar. It was strange to be away from my blog that long. When I resumed blogging a few weeks ago, it was more as an experiment than for any sense of benefit. I wanted to see what it would do for me when I was doing it of my own initiative, rather than as part of a class I was taking. Now I'm finding the experience addictive. I still keep my paper Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1137163110431709302006-01-13T06:37:00.000-08:002006-01-13T06:38:30.440-08:00a dark chocolate voiceflows when warmed,cracks when chilledMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1137086865285799782006-01-12T09:24:00.000-08:002006-01-12T16:44:56.490-08:00Love the sound of laughter in a classroom. The laughter of shared tension, shared attention, shared comprehension. The writing classroom at its best radiates the energy of effort, the edginess of challenge, the challenging edge of watchful eyes, heads cocked at slant angles.And laughter. Especially the laughter of surprise, the startled recognition of newly constructed truth. Always the best Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1137072289267896342006-01-12T05:14:00.000-08:002006-01-12T07:19:27.470-08:00The writing classroom can be waves, massage, a firm hand supporting the small of your back. It can be heat lightning, firing everywhere, harming no one but intermittently offering sharp glimpses of where you are.It can be so slow that next and next and next after that gradually come to a halt, and some reality remains to be examined at full, wondering leisure.It can be so fast that it was over anMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1137013501577631402006-01-11T13:01:00.000-08:002006-01-11T17:15:10.366-08:00In response to a colleague who teaches high school:Something rotten there is in a hallway of fear. Principals without principles leave hallways stinking, no matter the diligence of janitors. In schools so principaled the cafeteria, the parking lot, the bathrooms have the same faint smell.In such a school the good teachers offer sanctuary in their fresh air focus on healthy minds and safe bodiesMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1136915350963485962006-01-10T09:40:00.000-08:002006-01-11T07:34:03.546-08:00From my journal, 1996, about to begin spring term:Teacher fearsthe first day of classdamp palms, tight chestlying body demandingrelief from faceswaitingFrom my journal, 1991, also about to begin teaching:I = I + you + time + place + history + ...Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1136909147676268682006-01-10T08:04:00.000-08:002006-01-10T08:05:47.686-08:00Here are two little poems I found in my notes from last term's Advanced Writing class. I'm not sure they are examples of advanced writing.e-viscerationtext messagingskips so many vowelsit becomese-rationloodles of poodlespiddle and puddlebut a one hound houseis a potpourriof puppery pooperyMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1136654970848907922006-01-07T09:21:00.000-08:002006-01-08T08:00:22.083-08:00In Januaryall menseek the same lightthe snow manfearsIn Januaryeven the frightened snow mansearches for the lightMarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4118642.post-1136576043702268362006-01-06T11:31:00.000-08:002006-01-07T05:04:19.673-08:00This is how I feel about going back to work next week.Markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17192452293593971724noreply@blogger.com2