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Showing posts from January, 2008

Don't Byte Me

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I've noticed a disturbing pattern emerging. Our culture is moving too quickly. Nothing wrong with speed, if moves lines along, belongs to your first choice in a 6 furlong sprint, or can hasten a conversation going nowhere. But what's up with so many things being reduced to short sound bytes. It's laughable what has happened to newscasts on most networks. With the exception of PBS, which actually tries to let a few people speak until they've completed a thought, most everything else is useless. After the local crime blotter, the weather (why is that news?) a smattering of national news, it's time to recap. Want to see something that states the case nicely? Try this. Look at how the morning shows like TODAY, GMA or The Morning Show handle their feature spots. Usually it's some expert in real estate, or cleaning products, or exercise. *Note they recycle the same themes constantly* These little segments are so rushed that both the interviewer and intervie

And Away They Go

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I have been to the racetrack thousands of times in my life. From Churchill downs on Derby day, to the Humboldt county fair, in Ferndale, on Marathon day. I have memories of tracks and champions that no longer exist. Longacres, John Henry, and a muddy set of goggles worn in a major Derby prep all figure prominently in my personal set of souvenirs. I’ve seen the fog roll in at the old Jefferson Downs, and I’ve seen Lost in the Fog roll on at Golden Gate Fields. Like the crustiest old hard boot, I know that just when you think you’ve seen it all, along comes something else. It’s either a psychotic standing in front of Artax in deep stretch, or cobra venom, or even a stalled tractor leaving a starting gate sitting like an enormous hurdle across the track as a full field rounds the far turn. Hopefully, I’m in for many more unexpected sights, astonishing revelations, stellar performances, and heroic efforts. But the one thing I’m not prepared for is the current malaise our beloved s

Billions and Billions

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How big is one billion?  The best explanation I ever crossed paths with says that if you gave a newborn one dollar for every second it was alive...one...two...three dollars...how old would the child be before it reached one billion dollars?  Seven...eight...nine...ten dollars...That child would be 32 years old before it became a billionaire.  This analogy is most useful when trying to comprehend amorphous numbers.  It is particularly useful when my students try to get their heads around government spending.  So it was with particular interest the other day when I read that our government spending on the war in Iraq has now exceeded $500 billion.   Just imagine even a fraction of that money going to education or health care.  (I vote for both) Why is it that we can't seem to elect leaders with the political will to spend billions of life affirming institutions; only war.  War is the breakdown of communication, diplomacy, humanity.  It thrives on mythology and fear.  Greed and psycho

Farewell

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I want to call attention to the passing of an old friend.  Someone we all knew. S(he) had been struggling for quite a while now, and I'm sorry to report that death has come for the letter.  Remember the letter?   Produced by hand, by way of the brain, the letter came in various colors, was done chiefly but not exclusively by pen or pencil, and arrived in the mailbox.  Part of the letter's appeal was its tactile quality.  Letters felt fine.  hey could be thick or thin, long or short, welcome or unwelcome,incredibly artistic, or barely legible.  I think that was part of the appeal.  With the rise of email and various alterations to the human production of text, the letter had died.  Therein lies the tradeoff.  With the demise of this intensely human endeavor, what might the impact on humanity be?  I'll be watching. I've noticed that emails easily get lost.  Harder to ignore a letter.  Can't click delete.  I recently heard a friend of mine tell other friends, "If

Dream On

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I've always been interested in dreams. Most people are. You really have to spend some time collecting and working with them to get what there is to get from them. When I taught introductory psychology, my students could talk about their dreams for hours. Of course, most want to know what the dream means. The answer to that is ongoing. Dreams are constantly revealing new ideas, layers of meaning, developing and varied interpretations. A few years ago when I was involved in a research collaborative of teachers I did a thematic study of the dreams of teachers and students. I was struck by the motifs in the dreams of young teachers as well as those of experienced veterans. Some of the images and issues were incredibly powerful. Experienced teachers often dreamed about class size, vulnerability (nudity, not knowing something) and being dispossessed. One second year teacher told me of a haunting dream where the floor of her classroom falls out; hardly the random firing of brai

My Passion Not My Profession

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Here is something I recently read on a fascinating new piece of research: (Parenthetical comments are mine) " Apparently, teachers who are motivated mainly by intrinsic factors, so called "autonomous motivation," have a greater sense of personal accomplishment and fewer feelings of exhaustion.  (THIS, I MIGHT ADD IS CALLED, JOY) Perhaps more importantly, they promote autonomy-supported teaching which offers students choice and greater clarification of subject relevance.*(THIS MEANS THAT STUDENTS REALIZE THAT THE SUBSTANCE OF THEIR EDUCATION MATTERS, AND THAT THEY HAVE A SAY IN WHAT THEY CHOOSE TO LEARN) This type of teaching then is reflected in students' more positive feelings for the task at hand and greater behavioral engagement. (THIS MEANS THAT STUDENTS ARE BOTH LEARNING AND ENJOYING THEMSELVES) The researchers for this study concluded with concern that the increase in high stakes testing would have a detrimental effect on these highly effective teachers (THI

Here You Are

For those who asked, here is the poem. It was written in February, 2007 at the writing retreat with poet Barry Lopez sponsored by the Oregon Writing Project Thanks, B When the Knock Never Came Bruce Greene Was there ever a time-a specific moment your childhood ended? Sometimes they fade away, or get stolen; sometimes they dance on willingly But sometimes they smash into mountains. In Dr. Halpern’s office I heard the “C” word, He told My huddled family, minus mom, that she has cancer, His bottom lip curled when he said the word; I see it always. We all went home for eight months, Eight months of failed therapy, Eight months of special medicine, Eight months watching her drain into that puddle that once held An inexpensive facsimile of the American Dream. She occupied the back bedroom-best for everyone, Please knock before entering, Knock so you will be prepared to see the disease up close and personal, So you won’t disturb her sleep; We always knocked, Unless

More Please...

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For those of you who don't know, I'm writing a book. It's a memoir of sorts. In June of 1969 I worked as a VISTA Volunteer in Houston,Texas. My book is a memoir of that experience and that era. It has been a fascinating process to write this book with the help of a journal I kept so many years ago. I'm thankful that I did write in it with some frequency but here and there I wish I'd filled in some gaps. That leaves my memory to do that work. My writing group seems impressed that I have been able to recall and illustrate so much in a fairly seamless way. That's the good news. What is so frustrating, at times, is the way the memory plays tricks. Sometimes names and faces don't merge. Occasionally the names evaporate altogether. But there are times when the event or person is astonishingly clear. Fortunately I have a few friends that can corroborate my recollections from time to time. Writing on a computer, with the ability to research various pla

I Was There

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It's not nearly enough to say that I loved the film I'm Not There . This is a film that pushes every sense. It's risky, brooding, exhilarating, bemusing, scintillating, and profound. Just like it's subject, Bob Dylan. Todd Haynes, the filmmaker must certainly be the same. The fact that Dylan's persona is presented as 6 people is a good beginning. Certainly the acting, especially Kate Blanchett as the young, iconoclastic, androgynous Dylan, is superb. The music, even the covered versions drives the imagery. It will be interesting to read the reviews, talk about the film with my friends of all ages, and see the film again. I wonder how the views of older and younger Dylan fans will differ? Or if they will? For those who merely tolerate Dylan, (I suppose there are some) I'd say see this film so that you can experience the power of the medium. History in the making here.

On The Wall

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One of the things I like about living in Portland is that very trippy little things keep happening. My friend Lenny says that Portland is the biggest small town in the country. I know what he means. A few months after we moved in to the fourplex we share, we met Barb, our new neighbor. Turned out she had gone to high school with Katie in California. They were good friends, lost touch and found each other 35 years later. I was a bit skeptical at first, but in the last year they've completely re-ignited their friendship. Some of the teachers I meet here have roots in the Bay Area too. There have also been new friends, writers in my weekly writing group, and a familiar face randomly seen on the street from time to time. But the most amazing thing so far happened the other day when I found something in a store that features all manner of artsy, avant guard, objects, antiques, gifts and jewelry. There on a rear wall of the store, high above everything else was a print of a pai

Montana and Roses

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I didn't watch the Rose Parade today. It's not the same for me since Monty Montana died. I have no idea who the Grand Marshall was, or which float won the Governor's award or any other award. I'll survive. I don't even care if most people don't know the difference between the Rose Bowl and the Tournament of Roses Parade. I used to care about things like that. Yet I never fail to think about Monty Montana on New Year's day. I'll always remember when Monty and his horse came to my elementary school, rode around on the blacktop and did a little show. Monty was a good horseman and really knew how to handle a lasso. I'd see him in the Rose Parade every year and recall how cool he seemed and how excited all the kids at Camellia Avenue School. Every year, until 1998, Monty Montana would show up in the parade. Through the Civil Rights Movement and the Vietnam War, Monty was in the parade. Presidents and heroes lived and died, and Monty was in the