Ann Demeulemeester: Black Spotlight Shirt

For some reason *they* think I am interested in this. Not only do I not have anywhere near this kind of money to spend on such things, I wouldn’t even if I had it!

Ann Demeulemeester: Black Spotlight Shirt.

The Solecisms of George W. Bush, President of the United States

The Solecisms of George W. Bush, President of the United States.

PARTYNEXTDOOR – Recognize ft. Drake on Vimeo

Hm, don’t think I’ll bring this to my ESL class!

Sorry if my whip covered in dank cause I’ve been rollin with this skunk all day.

PARTYNEXTDOOR – Recognize ft. Drake on Vimeo on Vimeo

via PARTYNEXTDOOR – Recognize ft. Drake on Vimeo.

Peer Participation: Correcting Error

It is our natural tendency as humans to want to correct things that seem wrong or out of place. Just walk into a room where some picture is hanging lopsided (even slightly!) and tell me what you would do. I would without hesitation go over and straighten it out. Dealing with people is a different matter, obviously. I present this analogue to drive my point that is is human to correct and to strive for symmetry (which is a kind of accuracy). And the hardest thing is to know when to intervene and when lay low and allow things to develop organically.

When I first started teaching ballet classes to children (years ago) I had the tendency to overcorrect and strive for accuracy. It was frustrating that most of the young students did not have the attention span to do the arduous barre exercises, and I struggled with them to stay still long enough to get through the barre! I then went to NYC and was fortunate enough to study with a true master (Diana Byer, protogee of Margaret Craske). There are many parallels in her teaching that I am finding in my current reading. On the points of error and the problem of correction (in learning ballet there is both “accuracy” work in technique and “fluency” work in expression) Diana had an uncanny way of keeping a mental record of each student at every stage of his or her learning and knowing just when and how to introduce some new information, interject a correction, or praise, to a paticular student. She used a “medals” and “missions” approach, avoiding rewarding only “conspicuous success,” and meaured each student against their own capabilities, rather than against the group as a whole. I would definitely want to follow in Diana’s steps and try to implement these principles into my teaching. I expect this will be something I will be exploring and perfecting as I go, and will continually be a process of discovery for as long as I am teaching.

“Women Are Being Driven Offline”: Feminist Anita Sarkeesian Terrorized for Critique of Video Games | Democracy Now!

"Women Are Being Driven Offline": Feminist Anita Sarkeesian Terrorized for Critique of Video Games | Democracy Now!.

Fantastic Fungi: The Forbidden Fruit

“Just do right” –Maya Angelou

Thank you for this, Glenna!

Master Class By Oprah Winfrey Maya Angelou from Zeshan Farooqi on Vimeo.

Is rap poetry? Is rap even music…?

Why We Shouldnt Treat Rap As Poetry – The Awl.

I lifted a few of my favorite comments:

I’m still waiting for someone to speak the Iliad to me.

I’ve seen too many books where the apparatus takes up most of most of the pages. I’m just *waiting* for some smartass to write a new ancient book that is all apparatus.

i agree that this scenario is twisted, and in this case textuality is the problem, but who’s responsible for the bummy-ass idea that Poetry lives in a book?

Sigh. Let’s go over it again. “Performative” is not a fancy-ass synonym for “performed,” okay? Songs are not “performative.” They are “performed.” A marriage oath, a swearing-in ceremony, a priest’s blessing over the eucharist — something that effects a transformation by its utterance, is performative. Don’t try to sound like the half-wit academics you’re justifiably taking to task by referring to “rap’s performative aspects.”

Hummingbird Facts

So many things I never knew about the Hummingbird! What a miraculous creature this is! It is quite likely that the bird I caught had gone into a state of “torpor.” Perhaps the warmth from my hands actually did save its life!

Hummingbird Facts.

My Hummingbird Story

My Hummingbird Story

Have you ever seen a hummingbird at rest? Have you ever held a hummingbird, completely still, in your hands? Neither have I; not until one day, it happened.

My mother knocked at the door of my bedroom. I was in my room because she had company and I wanted to get away. When I opened the door she had the gravest expression on her face, and she said, “Karen. There is a humming bird. It’s caught up in the window. Can you come and get it down?”

As I walked into the foyer, I thought about how earlier that evening, when I had first arrived home, I had heard a strange noise coming from the ceiling fan. I remembered thinking how the ceiling fan was making a hummingbird-like sound, a sort of brvvbrvvbrvv. I stood there awhile thinking, “May be the fan has something wrong with it,” and I almost walked over and turned the off, but I didn’t. I remained in limbo for a spell, admittedly a little worried, imagining one of the propellers flying off and killing one of our guests, but I didn’t walk five feet to turn the thing off. Instead, I chose to ignore it and stole straightaway into my room.

Of course, in hindsight, as I was stepping up onto the ladder that my mother and her guest, Carolyn, had gotten out from the garage and propped up for me, I thought, “Why didn’t you turn that blasted fan off?” I suddenly felt mortified when I realized that, all along it must have been this hummingbird, now futilely buzzing up and down the pane of glass, that I had heard brvvbrvvbrvving in the fan an hour earlier. I realized that I had hesitated, not because it was hot, but because I really just wanted to avoid meeting the company at that moment. I had stood there listening to the fan, but the sound went away, and so I rationalized that it had ‘fixed itself.’

My mother told me that she was afraid to climb the ladder and this is why I had been elected to save the hummingbird. It was trying to fly out, but could only skim upward along the long cathedral window. It would reach about a quarter of the way up and then skim back down to rest on the sill. My mother handed me a pair of bright green garden gloves. I put them on and climbed to the tip-top of the ladder. I reached up and, as it was resting on the sill, I just cupped my hands around it and brought it down. It was an easy catch. Its long pointy beak was sticking out through my gloved fingers, and I could see part of its gossamer green wings. As we took it outside I called to my mother, “Get my iPhone. I want to take a picture of it!”

I spread my fingers open and could see the iridescent green of its feathers in the sunlight. The bird didn’t budge. I thought it was badly injured, possibly on the brink of death. I decided to sit on the porch with it in my hands and just let it rest awhile. His wings didn’t flutter; the only thing that moved was the eyelids. I watched its eyes close and then open at regular intervals— every five to six seconds the tiny eyes blinked softly. I just watched him, and thought, “How often does a person get to hold a hummingbird in their hand and have it be completely still?”

Opportunists that we humans are, I had my mother take a video, and then a few pictures of it while we had the chance. At least ten minutes went by and the bird still had not moved. My mother decided to go inside and get a shoebox. She suggested that we put it in the shoebox and then call the wild animal people and report it. I told her that I knew exactly what to feed it—sugar water. We would just get an eyedropper and feed it ourselves. Who doesn’t know how to feed a hummingbird?

I started to imagine what I would do, recollecting when I was eight years old and I saved a pigeon. I took it right from our dog’s mouth and then we brought it home. I had that pigeon for several weeks and every morning I woke up at the crack of dawn so I could feed it before school. When I got home from school I would take the pigeon out of its box and have it fly. I started at the bottom of the stairway and worked my way up, and when it was able to fly all the way down the stairs, we all took it outside and let it go. It flew away.

I followed her in with the hummingbird. My mother started upstairs to get the shoebox and I opened my hands and the hummingbird flew off! It went right back to the same where it apparently thought was the way out. It hadn’t learned its lesson! I had to go back out to the garage and get the ladder because I had already put it away. Once again, I climbed the ladder, and like clockwork, I caught the bird. I walked outside with it cupped in my hands, and when I got to the middle of the yard I opened my hands and it flew away. It flew straight up into the sky, disappearing into the tips of the redwood.

I marvel when I think of that tiny bird and how it survived going through the swift blades of the ceiling fan – for I don’t know how long. He must have been dodging and missing those fan blades because if he had been hit he would’ve dropped and there would have been a dead humming bird in the foyer. But he could fly so fast and was so agile that he was dodging those fan blades like a Matador! And then he had to deal with crashing into the window, and he survived it. And after all that, he only needed fifteen minutes of rest to get his strength back to fly, and flutter, and float, again.

El Matador

El Matador