Too Many Sighs

Le premier soupir de l’amour
Est le dernier de la sagesse.

- Antoine Bret—Ecole amoureuse. Sc. 7 - un écrivain et auteur dramatique français

When love’s well-timed ’tis not a fault to love;
The strong, the brave, the virtuous, and the wise,
Sink in the soft captivity together.

- Addison—Cato. Act III. Sc. 1 (speak to me of poorly-timed love)

The Masculine Dance

[The power and sway of men's hips as they dance is entrancing to the eye and highly sexual. More American men should consider dancing seriously to flaunt their virtues to the female of the species. Note: Saint Vitus is the patron saint of dancers.]

"My Soul is in My Pants" [by David McNamara]

My Soul Is in My Pants

Call me Rocco, the little brother of Saint Vitus.
I've got waxy eyelashes, a flexible pelvis
And can sort through the card catalog
Of all your mystical categories
With the power of my tango.
Are you surprised by my Latin thrusts?
Didn't you know you'd set off
These seismic rumbas
With your cocktail shaker
And mocha eyes?
Didn't you know you'd lose your balance,
You'd lose your breath
When my sacrum popped in want of you?
Doesn't it bore into your database
Like the worm wriggling at the bottom of a tequila bottle?
You looked and I danced.
You asked and I said yes.
That's not my phone. That's not my wallet.
That's my soul.
My soul is in my pants.

-- David McNamara

Source: The Best American Poetry

I Thought These Items Were Funny!

14 FAM EXHIBIT 723.2
ITEMS PROHIBITED FOR POUCH DISPATCH

This email is UNCLASSIFIED

Known items prohibited for dispatch by diplomatic pouch include, but are not limited to:

Human remains (e.g., cremains, organs);

Radioactive substances;

Weapons (e.g., knives, kitchen knives, swords, arrows);

Incendiary materials such as road flares, cigarette lighters, self starting charcoal, etc.; and

Any device that cannot be completely disabled from emitting any noise, signal, or vibration while in transit. Batteries must be removed or item must be completely unwound and locked in this position (such as clocks, watches, timers, alarms, radios, etc.).

[My father was cremated and his ashes are happily living with my sister, and I don't own any radioactive substances.]

August 1, 2010: Iowa

Time Released

August garden smells the

perishable odor of winter

drooping daisies and downing hollyhocks.

Halitosis of the season.

Browned blossoms leave me

with a time released feeling.

[August 1 marks the end of true summer in Iowa, and I begin to mourn. Family business spins invisible threads of possession around my heart, but soon it will be time to go.]

Low Anthem: If you haven't heard them, LISTEN!

I would love to be attending the Newport Folk Festival 2010, but since I am in Iowa, NPR is treating me to the sounds. What would I do without public radio? Suffer!

Low Anthem in Concert

Low Anthem is my band of the year!

A Winged Mystery

As the wax was drying on my car waiting for a buff, and Willy Nelson was singing "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain" in the garage, I said hello to a large flying insect that has habitually shared my outdoor space this summer. I had been watching its large sausage-shaped winged body, perhaps the body of a cicada, burrow its way into the ground for several days. I first noticed this guy because he (for the sake of pronoun ease) was disturbing the soil on the lawn. When I bent down to investigate what I thought was an up and coming ant colony, I discovered a mysterious mini tunnel.

Throughout the afternoon, I watched my winged neighbor come and go and wondered what was happening deep underground. Feeling a bit protective of his life and work, I arranged the soil carefully around the outside of the sanctuary so that other humans wouldn't be alerted to his presence. If it is a cicada, I thanked him for spending time with me because I have only ever crunched their abandoned exoskeletons underfoot or noticed their eerie armor clinging to trees.

I do my infinitesimal part in suburbia to protect the daily comings and goings of my winged mystery because suburban peer pressure being what it is- no dandelions, moles, wasps, mice, possums, or thistles allowed- leaves no room for showing compassion toward other living creatures and plants.

When will we learn that the birds and the bees- and the flowers and the trees- are not our enemies?

Petals of Plastic

Twitter This

July 22, 2010

FlowerHorizon

Although artificial flowers have so many advantages, we should consider that they are static in our decoration.

Ljtheraingirl No fragrance or charm, lack flexibility to sway in the breeze.

Message to FlowerHorizon from Ljtheraingirl:

Artificial flowers are dead hearts. Bees refuse to visit walls to intimacy and colors nature won't recognize.

Would you buy them for a lover?

Remind me again why they exist?

Struggling To Be Certain

I have been exploring the various ways intimacy has been defined in my day to day life. One expression of the concept happened in the year 2000 when I was working as an ESL teacher at a community college in Iowa. Supporting a debutante poet as she translated her words from Japanese to English brought us together in a delicate intellectual conference. As an assistant to the linguistic transformation, the poet trusted me with her filtered impressions of life as a Japanese exchange student in small town Iowa: kanji; katakana; hiragana; and the Latin alphabet (rōmaji).

I Am Standing in a Foreign Land

Author: Madoka Tazuke

I was here but,

there was no sound.

There was only darkness.

The air was very heavy

like something pulling on my heart.

I listen to the sound of nothingness.

The air envelops me

in its quiet, heavy embrace.

I am struggling to be certain

of my existence.

I saw her and the feeling of anxiety

came over me.

I was uneasy because of the sudden confusion of

my identity.

The eyes were like a powerful wave

washing over me and carrying me to sea.

At that time, I thought

What is this wave?

Am I true?

Or, is she true?

Did I see her?

Or, did she see me?

And, I am standing in a foreign land.

Like she is standing there.

Hills Review: A Journal of Poetry, Spring 2000

Dragging My Toes

One reason I diddle and slowly cavort through my possessions under the disguise of cleaning house is because I am disturbing an unreliable dust- a dust which coats my recollections of the past. What I think I remember occurring shape shifts through the passage of time: truth? I am easily diverted by old class notes, letters, personal journals, and poems. Tonight, for example, I found an artist's proof of a poem I wrote in 2000 when my father was dying. I always liked this particular poem, and when I was reunited with the words after a separation of 10 years, the emotions swirling around my father's illness were all too real.

Emerging

My poetry emerges

with coaxing.

Loose fingers elicit

flaky apple pie cinnamon

and heavy cream

sticking to slurpy tongues

teasing each syllable

with fat and saliva.

Each word an electric impulse

a twitch

that strains my body

during hours of foreplay

back and forth on the page.

Rearranging the parts.

Reconstructing the sensations.

Lulled by the release.

[Words and the rearranging of words into some sort of order were a comfort to me at this time. After my father died, I asked for his guidance as my muse.]

The Tension of Home

Mark Delap discusses the tensions that even the shortest trip from home can cause in the traveler in his Magma article, and the tension arises in me as I prepare for my next 10 months of life on another continent. I apologize to everyone for the use of various font types in the previous post on Elizabeth Bishop's poem. I was having trouble formatting the text and finally gave up on perfection.

I am fermenting as I combine the ingredients of a traveller who is on her way to a new continent in the capped bottle of my body and mind: May the lid not blow off.

Wish me luck fellow travelers.

Questions of Travel by Elizabeth Bishop

I was sorting through old correspondence today in my dusty cluttered bedroom when I found an envelope with my name addressing the modern day me in left leaning purple letters. On the back of the envelope were excerpts from Elizabeth Bishop's poem Questions of Travel. I don't know who addressed the envelope, because it is now separated from the letter that was once inside, but I did enjoy reading these lines from the poem. Whoever wrote those words to me so long ago, thank you!

Think of the long trip home. 

Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? 

Where should we be today? 

Is it right to be watching strangers in a play 

in this strangest of theatres? 

What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life 

in our bodies, we are determined to rush 

to see the sun the other way around? 

The tiniest green hummingbird in the world? 

To stare at some inexplicable old stonework, 

inexplicable and impenetrable, 

at any view, 

instantly seen and always, always delightful? 

Oh, must we dream our dreams 

and have them, too? 

And have we room 

for one more folded sunset, still quite warm? 

 But surely it would have been a pity 

not to have seen the trees along this road, 

really exaggerated in their beauty, 

not to have seen them gesturing 

like noble pantomimists, robed in pink. 

A Question of Travel: Poetry of Dislocation

Comments by Mick Delap

"Another Bishop poem, Questions of Travel, was quoted by Tim Kindberg as he edited the previous ‘Foreign Lands’ edition of Magma. Bishop wrote Questions of Travel soon after taking up residence in Brazil and in the poem she explores the detail of the foreign country she is experiencing for the first time, writing with a stranger’s, a traveller’s eye. But in the process of defining her reactions to a new country, Bishop also found herself opening up fresh perspectives on an old one, on the home – or homes – she’d just left. It was only when she got to Brazil that Bishop found herself able to start writing effectively about her early childhood in Nova Scotia. In Questions of Travel Bishop records this paradoxical process, how travel may throw new light not just on Here, but also on There. But in doing so, it may upset any comfortable preconceptions or assumptions about what Home was or is."

The Natural Laws of Good Luck Part II

These natural laws may come in part from a girl's mother.

"I'm not one of those girls who think small. I like to think high. My mother taught me that."

Janaina from Brazil- From a UN Radio series entitled The Next Generation: Voices of 15-Year-Old Girls

The Next Generation: Voices of 15-Year-Old Girls

thunderstorm warning tonight: tornado is watching you!

restless in the Midwest

I am flighty, mighty, itchy and twitchy
yearning for something bigger than vanilla Oreo cookies
crunchy before they hit the milk.

I am acid reflux in a tummy
overdosing on Coke's brown burn.

I am ready, but tethered;
mouthy and all eyes.
Listening to the thunder
that blends little girl dirt under big toes
with a Grown Woman groove, but

she still needs that sock monkey
under her arm.

I am here, but will soon be there; flesh and photo; girl and woman.

Come and go,
but don't forget to wipe your feet on the mat.

Disclaimer

The following disclaimer pertains to any blog posts that discuss my work during the 10-month grant period. I am required by the English Language Fellow Program to post this disclaimer.

This website is not an official U.S. Department of State website. The views and information presented are the English Language Fellow's own and do not represent the English Language Fellow Program or the U.S. Department of State.

I hope that is clear. Thanks everyone!

Ukulele Power

The intro to the concert is really lovely.

Honoring Simon Includes Smoking

LJ's Photo of San Simon

San Andres Xecul and the Vegetarian Cafe

I discovered El Infinito today on 7th Avenue, a vegetarian cafe, and it smelled of the most flavorful roasted coffee beans on the planet. Thoughts of my friend, Charlsie, darted in and out of my mind because there were brightly colored Mayan gods painted on the walls, and I wondered what she was painting at this very moment.

The trip to San Andres Xecul earlier today left me wondering about religions worldwide. Why is it so important for people to have a saint to worship, in this case Simon, who is responsible for health, love lives, the drinking tab at the bar, smoking and peace. The couple honoring Saint Simon in his shrine spent 120 quetzals on a tailsman to send to relatives in Washington, D.C. That is a large amount of money for a middle aged rural couple in Guatemala.

Riding in the back of a pickup truck to get back to the main road was life affirming on such a sunny Sunday. Mayan religions mix Christianity with their own forms of worship. Seeing the effigy of Saint Simon dressed in a Texas cowboy hat, cowboy boots, sunglasses, and sporting thick black sideburns was not comforting to me. Knowing that many people in the town believe that he sleeps on the slender twin bed night after night was like a ghost story in reality.

Seeing a lighted cigar in his mouth, a bottle of liquor near his feet, and candles on the alter may not be the best portrayal of a responsible role model for Guatemalan kids, but Dionysus added some spunk and spice to ancient Greek life, so who am I to question.

Shine your light on me Saint Simon and send good health, the amor of my life, love, and peace to all.

March 12. 1922

Happy Birthday Jack Kerouac!

But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I´ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes Awww!

I know I am American when...

I know I am American when...

I complain about walking everywhere and miss my car when I see a blue Mazda similar to mine rolling through the street;

The pollution in the streets makes my eyes water and my throat burn;

Skype doesn´t work on the computer, and I can´t hear the person on the other end of the line, so my frustration level increases dramatically;

I go to bed, and it sounds as if the cars are driving over me honking their horns. I can´t fall asleep;

My fingernails are dirty, and it bothers me;

I flinch each time I hear a fireworks explosion for a birthday or a celebration;

and the men with big guns guarding expensive shops catch my attention each time I see them.

The Deluge of Language

Lu Chi (261 - 303)

In a single yard of silk, infinite space is found. Language is a deluge from one small corner of the heart.

1 de Mayo, 2010: May Day in Xela

Passing through the cementario en 20 Avenida with mi sombrilla and the splash of drops soaking through mis zapatos, I notice the decapitated marble goddess watching over the long-gone La Familla Paz encased in 6-foot long rectangular concrete. A lone woman in black stands under su sombrilla at the end of the path remembering a husband, brother, nino who died too early

sleeping in the concrete
standing in the rain

I wander through the Mercado Flores into a cafe where I drink cafe con leche for 5 quetzals and stumble across a poem in an anthology of world poetry.

The Postclassical World A.D. 250-1200

Meng Hao-jan
Written for old friends in Yang-Jou City while spending the night on the Tung-Lu River

I hear the apes howl sadly
In dark mountains.
The blue river
flows swiftly through the night.

The wind cries
In the leaves on either side of the bank.
The moon shines
On a solitary boat.

These wild hills
Are not my country.
I think of past ramblings
In the city with you.

I will take
These two lines of tears,
And send them to you.
Far away
At the western reach of the sea.

The lesson I learned walking beside the dead in the rain on May Day:

Juan Chi (210 - 263)

That is why the wise man drifts along the river of time.
What is passing cannot remain.
Such are the thorns and thistles of this world.

World Poetry: An Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time

Xela Notes - Class Day Uno

I DO NOT HAVE A SPELL CHECK IN XELA!

Eating three meals each day with the same people produces heightened levels of intimacy and deeper levels of togetherness that many Americans miss in their rush-rush, no time for a sit-down lunch and dinner lifestyle. In Xela, I see my host family at breakfast, lunch and dinner. I watch each member of the family eat his or her black beans, plantanos fritos y drink jugo de frutas. We do this together with compañerismo, a bilingual table sharing our stories of the day. Sylvia, who works with pre-kindergarten kids, tells the story of a 3 year-old girl who slumps in her arms and says she is too tired to work. I tell, or should I say try to tell, Particia, Sylvia and Miguel about mi maestra. Ella es simpatico y su pelo es castaño claro. With my first 5-hour Spanish class packed into my brain, I am eager to practice and start work again at the I.C.A. Spanish School tomorrow.

Lacy Spring Garter Garden: April 17, 2010

Signs of Spring on April 17, 2010 & Seymour Cat

We Dance

WFUV Concert

Angelique Kidjo: Dancing Her Way to the Front

Oyo

The Unforced Force of the Better Argument

[I loved the article “The Shout Doctrine” by Mark Kingwell in the April 2010 journal The Walrus, so I have selected a few of the key passages to post because civility in discourse is key to moving forward as a society, and the article is four pages long.]

From “The Shout Doctrine” by Mark Kingwell

The Walrus

Underneath the road rage politics and bratty teenage campaign rhetoric lurks a creeping nihilism, a disregard for the very idea of reason.

Discourse, no less than consumption, has positional and hence competitive aspects. Indeed, winning the argument — or, rather, being seen to win it — is the essence of many discursive exchanges, especially political ones. If politics is reduced to elections or debates, it goes from being a shared undertaking of articulating ends and means and becomes a game of status and one-upmanship.

So much for what Jürgen Habermas called “the unforced force of the better argument,” that fanciful lodestar of rational discourse. In actual discursive markets, bad currency tends to drive out good. Birthers and Tea Partyers can thus dominate the public debate in the United States by saturating it with misinformation, the discursive equivalent of shoddy but cheap merchandise; corporations, meanwhile, can increase their power through effectively limitless donations to election war chests (thanks in part to the Supreme Court’s 5–4 decision in January to strike down electoral spending restrictions for private organizations).

Further accelerating the decline, on both sides of the border, the practice of deindividuation — adopting an online nickname, for example, or hiding behind a political action committee — has become widespread, snapping the bonds of personal responsibility for what people say. It is a small irony of the digital world that John Rawls’s famous “veil of ignorance,” behind which he imagined anonymous citizens rationally choosing fair principles of justice, has in the real world translated largely into nameless flaming. So it goes.

That air of bozo entitlement, coupled with a disregard for anybody else’s views or right to speak: pretty much your basic definition of incivility.

Pleas for civility are commonplace even as current discursive practice places a growing premium on rudeness and incivility in everything from opinion-dominated newspapers and unbridled blog posts to the words of groomed television hatchetmen and politicians whose idea of a good riposte is escalating the insult.

Well, who cares? You should, even if you never watch those shouting matches that pass for Sunday-morning political commentary or pay a lick of attention to the duelling reductionists of the op-ed pages. Parliamentary democracy is nothing more nor less than a conversation among citizens, both directly and by way of their elected leaders. Here, and only here, can our interests and desires be made into law. A good conversation is a delicate thing to sustain, as anybody knows who has attended a dinner party where wine was served. We all have a direct personal stake in seeing such discussions thrive, because every time a good citizen checks out, the tactical forces of incivility lower democracy’s value by one more notch.

Civility is, on this account, something like the political air we must all breathe to negotiate our differences and, maybe, serve the cause of justice.

Rage and politics really should be separated, or there will be no such thing as discourse, just shouting. Even anarchists demonstrate this; otherwise, they wouldn’t bother penning manifestos that make studied factual claims and offer rational arguments.

The point is not, it never has been, that civility is some abstractly good thing, a nice idea. If we do not repair our political conversation, if we do not demand that elected leaders speak rationally if they want to go on claiming the privilege of our interest, then we all lose. Collective self-defeat.

Current Captivation: The Disappeared

I am reading The Disappeared by Kim Echlin, and her writing is holding me captive in its street smells and descriptions of Phnom Penh. Echlin's short powerful chapters are densely calorie-packed like a decadent piece of chocolate cake with a thick layer of frosting in three to five pages. Here's a sample to whet your appetite.

"A girl wears her lover's clothes because she likes his smell and she wears his clothes because she is trying to understand why she feels both free and broken. Why does she feel whole when she has to give away her body, her mind and her heart? Why is she not tempted to escape? She wants to smell her lover on her skin, and she can not understand this feeling that imprisons, frees her. She does not guess that she will remember wearing her lover's clothes when she is old. She tells herself that what she feels is forever. But she has already observed in the world that it is not."

I see residue of Written on the Body in this love story, yet I do not want Anne and Serey to break their bond tragically. I'm on page 108: 120 pages to turn before I learn of the lovers' destiny.

The Crush Continues Today

My Crush on Jeff Bridges Spans the Decades

more medicines, but less wellness

THE PARADOX OF OUR TIMES

- His Holiness the Dalai Lama (also attributed to other sources)

Is that we have taller buildings, but shorter tempers

Wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints

We spend more, but we have less

We have bigger houses, but smaller families

More conveniences, but less time

We have more degrees, but less sense

More knowledge, but less judgment

More experts, but more problems

More medicines, but less wellness

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values

We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often

We have learnt how to make a living, but not a life

We have added years to life, but not life to years

We’ve been all the way to the moon and back

But have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor

We have conquered outer space, but not inner space

We’ve cleaned up the air, but polluted our soul

We’ve split the atom, but not our prejudice

We’ve higher incomes, but lower morals

We’ve become long on quantity but short on quality

These are the times of tall men, and short character

Steep profits, and shallow relationships

These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare

More leisure, but less fun; more kinds of food, but less nutrition

These are the days of two incomes, but more divorces

Of fancier houses, but broken homes

It is a time when there is much in the show window

And nothing in the stockroom

A time when technology can bring this letter to you

And a time when you can choose

Either to make a difference.... or just hit, delete.

Watermelon Slim and Deak Harp in Memphis

Grocery Store Gigolo - Poetry in Motion

[A friend who translates poetry from Czech to English sent me this poem. Although he forgot to credit the author of the work, which could be him, I didn't care. The beauty of the message caught my breath in mid-air, juggling the carbon dioxide furiously, while stirring my senses to a hopeless frazzle. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.]

Grocery Store Gigolo

For a ten dollar bill, I will marry you
every Friday for a week.
Let me snow ball you red with laughter
on the peak of mount Fuji
and without causing any undue earthquake
let me press my lips into your life-giving topography.

In the morning I will serve you guava shake in bed,
and let Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake water the philodendrons.
For five dollars I will feed you persimmons with my fingers
and papaya slices mouth-to-mouth.
I will scrub your back with oatmeal,
cover your face with guacamole
and wash your hair in coconut milk.

After I shower you with pomegranate wine
and lick you clean,
I will pass you a towel and lie down beside the tub
to keep your feet off the cold porcelain.

Weaving the orchids of Bora-Bora into your hair,
I will tie your ponytail with the tropic of Capricorn
(when you grow one).

I will plant a nasturtium blossom above your ear,
rub two drops of rose oil behind your knees
and give you a horsie ride to the sand of your choice.
For a quarter, I will fill your purse with sand dollars,
dive for oysters with seaweed,
and culture flamingo pearls
for your ears. While you eat, I will play Water
Music on a conch.

For one more dollar I will carry you into the sunset.
In the peristyle of your temple
I will slide my tongue up the hyperbola
of your trapezius muscle,
mold it inside your abalone ear,
and eat your nasturtium.

For dinner you can sip Gelati with a straw
as it melts on your abdomen while I rub your feet
and lick the cream rivulets you let escape
to pinker places.
In the auburn light of the Florentine evening
I will braid the remaining sunrays into your locks
and send a bottle of Cinzano Rosso to your publisher.

For your last dime I will sharpen your pencil with my teeth
and bring your notebook to the courtyard.
For a chance to hear your poems in the moonlight,
I will give you all your money back.

[Author unknown at this time, but investigative work is being done.]

Written on the Body and Mind: Parallel Choices

[When I read Written on the Body, my socks were knocked into the South Pacific. Today, I found this lovely quotation from the author of that book. The ideas expressed so eloquently caused me to wonder where parallel choices could have landed me in the parallel lives we all could have experienced. Is it foolish to wonder such things?] “I have a theory that every time you make an important choice, the part of you left behind continues the other life you could have had. Some people's emanations are very strong, some people create themselves afresh outside of their own body. This is not fancy. If a potter has an idea, she makes it into a pot, and it exists beyond her, in its own separate life. She uses a physical substance to display her thoughts. If I use a metaphysical substance to display my thoughts, I might be anywhere at one time, influencing a number of different things, just as the potter and her pottery can exert influence in different places. There's a chance that I'm not here at all, that all the parts of me, running along all the choices I did and didn't make, for a moment brush against each other.”

Jeanette Winterson

Drive by Daniel H. Pink

The science shows that the secret to high performance is our deep-seated desire to direct our own lives, to extend and expand our abilities, and to live a life of purpose.

We’re born to be players, not pawns. Engagement as a route to mastery is a powerful force in our personal lives. While complying can be an effective strategy for survival, it’s a lousy one for personal fulfillment.

In flow, the challenge wasn’t so easy. Nor was it too difficult. It was a notch or two beyond his current abilities, which stretched the body and mind in a way that made the effort itself the most delicious reward. The balance produced a satisfying degree of focus and satisfaction. In flow, he was autonomous and engaged, existing in the moment and connected to the task.

Every workplace should be a flow zone. The desire for an intellectual challenge keeps us engaged. Develop a flow-centered work strategy.

In every field, grit (perseverance, hard work, practice to overcome weaknesses), may be as essential as talent to high accomplishment.

As Carol Dweck says, “Effort is one of the things that gives meaning to life. Effort means you care about something. Something is important to you, and you are willing to work for it. It would be an impoverished existence if you were not willing to value things and commit yourself to working toward them.”

Children careen from one flow moment to another, animated by a sense of joy, equipped with a mindset of possibility, and working with the dedication of a West Point Cadet. They use their brains and bodies in an endless pursuit of mastery. (Adults should try it!)

Mindset

Good Work

Alfie Kohn

autonomy, creativity, mastery, and purpose

Daniel H. Pink, Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us, Penguin Group: 2009

[After experiencing a downturn in motivation due to cloudy skies, endless blizzards, and frigid temperatures, I decided to read Daniel H. Pink's book to hear his truth about what motivates the human animal. The paraphrased content from his book that you will find below is what I took to heart.]

The Need: Autonomy, Human Creativity, Mastery and Connection

People want to work autonomously, have the time necessary to master their work creatively, and recognize its beneficial connection to the community and the world. It’s time to throw away the tardy slips, time clocks, and outdated industrial-age thinking about management techniques.

It’s important to overturn the age-old idea of “managing” workers and students because people with intrinsic motivation almost always outperform carrot and stick grunts in the long run. Intrinsic motivation is a renewable resource. But, best of all, men and women who are intrinsically motivated experience a greater sense of physical and mental well-being.

Contingent rewards- if you do this, then you’ll get that- have a negative effect on people’s motivation. Why? Because if-then rewards require people to forfeit some of their autonomy.

The problem with making an extrinsic reward the only destination that matters is that some people will choose the quickest route to achieve the end result, even it means taking the low road… Contrast that approach with behavior sparked by intrinsic motivation. When the reward is the activity itself, deepening learning or doing one’s best for example, there are no shortcuts. The only route to the destination is the high road.

CARROTS AND STICKS: The Seven Deadly Flaws

They can extinguish intrinsic motivation.

They can diminish performance.

They can crush creativity.

They can crowd out good behavior.

They can encourage cheating, shortcuts, and unethical behavior.

They can become addictive.

The can foster short-term thinking.

The Self –Determination Theory (Richard Ryan and Edward Deci)

This theory argues that we have three innate psychological needs- competence, autonomy, and relatedness. In other words, human beings have an innate inner drive to be autonomous, self-determined, and connected to one another. And when that drive is liberated, people achieve more and live richer lives.

“The science confirms that this sort of behavior is essential to being human- and that now, in a rapidly changing economy, it is also critical for professional, personal and organizational success of any kind,” writes Daniel H. Pink in his book Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us after reviewing a substantial amount of literature on the subject of human motivation

[Dan Ariely, the author of Predictably Irrational, is cited in Pink’s book and is also now on my reading list.]

I found this quote from Seth Godin inspiring and insightful concerning human nature and employment.

“As an entrepreneur, I’m blessed with 100% autonomy over task, time, technique and team… The art of the art is picking your limits. That’s the autonomy I cherish. The freedom to pick my boundaries.” Seth Godin, author of Tribes and Purple Cow

Dough It: Loaves of Love

Do a little dance; Share a little love; Bake a loaf of bread!

This whole-wheat bread recipe is the scrumptious partnership of delicious and healthy, so much so that I am considering devoting part of each Sunday to the bread baking experience. Painting the crust with an egg wash is my favorite part. Grocery store bread can’t measure up to the real thing.

100% Whole Grain Maple Oatmeal Bread

Makes enough for two 2-pound loaves. The recipe is easily doubled or halved.

5 cups whole-wheat flour

2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats

½ cup wheat germ

1½ tablespoons granulated yeast, or 2 packets of yeast

1 tablespoon salt

¼ cup vital wheat gluten (Vital wheat gluten is easy to find in the supermarket.)

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

2½ cups lukewarm water

1 cup buttermilk

¾ cup maple syrup

¼ cup neutral-flavored oil (I use canola oil.)

Egg wash (1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon water) for brushing on top of the crust

Raw sugar for sprinkling on top

1. Mixing the dough: Whisk together the flour, oats, wheat germ, yeast, salt, vital wheat gluten, and cinnamon in a large bowl.

2. Add the liquid ingredients and mix without kneading using a spoon.

3. Cover (not airtight) and allow the dough to rest at room temperature until it rises and collapses (or flattens on top), approximately 2 hours.

4. Grease two loaf pans. Separate the dough into two parts. Elongate each part into an oval and place each oval in a loaf pan. Cover loosely with plastic wrap. Allow these two loaves to rest for 60 minutes.

5. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

6. Just before baking, use a pastry brush to paint the top of the crust with egg wash and sprinkle with sugar.

7. Bake for about 45 or 50 minutes, until richly brown and firm.

8. Allow the loaves to cool for at least 15 minutes in the pans.

[Advice: Stick large chunks of warm buttered bread into your mouth. Chew with self-awareness and eyes closed. Smile while executing the final step and share some love with the neighbors.]

Recipe: Healthy Bread in Five Minutes a Day, Jeff Hertzberg, M.D., & Zoë François, St. Martin’s Press: New York, 2009, p. 147

Sexual Maturity in Humans Takes Time

Sex and Age: Think on This

Words of Wisdom from... Elizabeth Gilbert, Committed, Penguin Publishing, 2010

Immanuel Kant believed that we humans, because we are so emotionally complex, go through two puberties in life. The first puberty is when our bodies become mature enough for sex; the second puberty is when our minds become mature enough for sex. The two events can be separated by many, many years, though I do wonder if perhaps our emotional maturity comes to us only through the experiences and lessons of our youthful romantic failures. To ask a twenty-year-old girl to somehow automatically know things about life that most forty-year-old women needed decades to understand is expecting an awful lot of wisdom from a very young person. Maybe we all go through the anguish and errors of a first puberty, in other words, before any of us can ascend into the second one?

[And, what do search engines like Google reveal about sexual maturity and the pursuit of love?]

"If Google Reveals Secret Desires, What Can It Say About Relationships" on NPR

Om Shanti: I Need a Yogi

More Time to Chaplin

I wish I had more time to watch Chaplin films.

Divine Inspiration

Four Arms Embrace Me

Saraswati, the goddess of arts and knowledge, represents the free flow of wisdom and consciousness. She has four hands representing the four aspects of human personality in learning: mind, intellect, alertness and ego.

[The ideals of this goddess reside in my heart. She turns my head with her musical charm because I also desire the free flow of knowledge and consciousness in my own life.]

The Natural Laws of Good Luck

Tiny Bubbles: Slippery Luck

I found this reference to translations of Antonio Machado’s poems by Robert Bly in Ellen Graf’s memoir The Natural Laws of Good Luck: A Memoir of an Unlikely Marriage.

Soap bubbles are transitory and fleeting like all human life; Treading softly on humble ground goes Machado. This encourages me to consume more of his blue skies and memory lanes.

I have never wanted fame
Nor wanted to leave my poems
Behind in the memory of men
I love the subtle worlds,
Delicate, almost without weight,
Like soap bubbles.
I enjoy seeing them take the color
Of sunlight and scarlet, float
In the blue sky, then
Suddenly quiver and break.

Heart of Darkness: Assorted Thoughts

Teaching Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness is never uplifting and usually leaves me depressed- about as low as one human mind can sink. Listening to an interview with Francis Ford Coppola about the making of Apocalypse Now, a modern portrayal of the themes in Conrad's novella set during the Vietnam War, didn't elevate my mood any higher despite the fact that I admire Coppola greatly.

After listening to the interview and preparing discussion questions for the last half of the novella, my mind drifted to the Richmond High School gang rape that happened in the picnic area of the school grounds circa October 2009. Picnic areas are supposed to be places where people relax and chat with friends. In this case, a 15-year old girl was allegedly gang raped by ten young men while ten bystanders, who had been somehow desensitized to the violence, watched for more than two hours.

Parallels to Heart of Darkness:

Setting:

* The Belgian Congo in the late 1800s was destroyed by Belgian's exploitation of the area's natural resources and the murder of 8-10 million Africans who died working in a slave labor system.
* Inner City American High Schools in 2009 are destroyed by violence, the breakdown of community support, drugs, and a culture of hopelessness leading to high drop out rates.

Theme:

* Entering the heart of darkness = Realizing and exposing the depth of human cruelty and violence in all its forms through the ages is the job of every human being.

Characters:

* Victims- Africans in the Congo / A 15 year-old rape victim in Richmond, California
* Rulers- King Leopold and the Colonizing Belgians / Twenty young people inflicting sexual violence on the victim caught in the workings of a larger political, social, and economic system, which turns a blind eye to their problems
* The System- The Company run for profit above humanity / The United States ignoring festering problems in inner cities
* Money Makes the World Go Round- The Accountant carefully tends to Company profits / The Government slashing education funds in poor inner city schools

Ideology Fueling the Darkness

* Africans are inferior and Europe is bringing illuminating light into the continent's ignorant dark interior
* Americans should pull themselves up by their bootstraps and out of poverty / It's all your fault mentality!

Richmond High School Gang-Rape: Suspects Wear Bulletproof Vests at California Arraignment

One bright spot on the horizon of human nature: Art exposes the heart of darkness and helps us heal the wounds. This story was on National Public Radio's Weekend Edition this morning and explores the trafficking of women in the global sex trade. I would like to think that there is the prospect of a bright future for a 15 year-old girl in Richmond, California who has a long road of recovery to travel on her personal experience though the heart of human darkness.

Emma And Elena, Exposing The Sex Trade Through Art

Is it really Oct. 17, 2009

Times, Days: Here and There and the Cat

I have been busy during the month of October, so I haven't had sufficient time to think, process or reflect on life. I enjoy the aforementioned activity of being productive- the motivational tension of work dynamics- because I subscribe to the philosophy of working hard in order to play hard when my goals are successfully behind me. You better believe I am looking forward to playing hard in a few short months.

Leading the discussion and an analysis of the film Rebel Without a Cause, teaching excerpts from the Malian epic Sundiata Keita, and preparing to teach Conrad's Heart of Darkness in the bleak season of autumn are where my time and attention are currently directed.

When I am in the play phase of my journey through life, I will have more time to blog, but felt the need to voice some of my thoughts at this moment.

And the cat...

He is growing fat and lazy with the coming of the cold weather. He cuddles about my head at night and keeps my ears warm.