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Dream 8-26-2011

2011-08-27T11:38:00.000-07:00

I'm in the backyard of a country home situated on a hilly property.

Maroon fence posts with small, harmless barbed wire, line the perimeter of the property. The maroon matches that of the exterior of the home, at least the back face of it. I approach the fence and place the palms of my hands on the top of the fence post. I leap upwards, keeping my hands firmly placed on top of post, using it as the rotation point. My feet fly into the air until I and the post form a straight line shooting through the center of the earth.

I continue my momentum and flip until my feet land on the other side of the fence. The greener side, which is to say the better side. In fact, the whole of the landscape is a golden yellow. Looks like hay, wheat, straw. I'm engaged by the beauty of the place.

I throw my bag and another item, plastic, black, utilitarian, about 18 in x 24 in. I don't know why I do this, but it becomes important.

I notice two unbelievably beautiful horses trotting along. As they enter the scene at stage left, Sterling, my old roommate and best friend, enters stage right, coming from inside the house.

He's not alone. He's with plan. Plan is to storm the neighboring home, the home of one Farmer Withers, and steal some eggs. Withers is clearly just inside the home, reclined in a sofa chair, holding a rifle. I see this through the wiring of the chicken coop.

There's no dissuading Sterling, and as I run up the hill, for Withers lives atop it, the aforementioned ponies run alongside me, close enough for me to touch. I decide that I want to spend my time petting the blond horse that runs most proximally beside me. His coat is a shade darker than the grass through which we jog, the mane a few shades lighter.

I continue running, and I've been dissuaded from the more sensible option of spending the afternoon relaxing amongst my new found equine friends. I follow Sterling up a hill, he grabs two handfulls of eggs, and we run through the gate, ensuring that our doggie friends (who have since materialized-think Sirens of Titan) escape along with their loyal masters. The horses are no longer of importance, and disappear.

I trail Sterling through the gate, fumbling to shut the latch, rushed by the howls of protest and rage coming from within the home of Withers. He also fumbles to load and prepare his gun for firing, aiming either to inspire fear or do actual harm, we as yet know not which.

The gate is latched, and I enter without tribulation or hurdle the back yard of the maroon house from which we've come.

I arrive only to realize two things.

First, I've forgotten my bag and the aforementioned black plastic object. I clearly need these two items.

Second, I come to understand that Withers' weapon is nothing more than a BB gun, intended more to scare than to harm. This comforts me.

These two facts spur my action to jump the fence and retrieve my items.

I feel simultaneously an anger at and an empathy (and even melancholy) for Withers. He clearly has become resigned in doing us no harm, and will (I know) aim high when firing even the relatively harmless BB gun. We are a symbiotic pair, the defender of the house, who in his loneliness pines for his security to be breached. The storming party, in need of developing the character that defines Withers' long-gone youthful "piss-and-vinegarness," feels the need to pay their dues as youngsters, hoping to add credence to the idea that they lived once, a long time ago.

Even their actions are cyclical. The eggs that they've stolen have a single purpose. To be hucked at the home of Withers himself, the house from which they came in the first place.

Credential Questions

2011-04-07T13:43:00.000-07:00

These are really hard. They're really broad. Here goes. I'm getting my Adult Teaching Credential, and am required to answer some questions. Here they are.

1. What is most important to you as a teacher?

Most important to me is to work with students in such a way that they begin to realize that they are transformers of the world; that whether they recognize their agency or not, they are the shapers of tomorrow's world. If they can really feel this on a visceral level, they will seek to do the things that bode well for tomorrow. They will be able to engage in honest dialogue with themselves about their goals, and subsequently communicate those to the right people to assist them therewith.

Additionally, I aim to help students see that they are no less complete simply becuase of a lack of formal schooling, English language proficiency, financial resources, citizenship status, or due to limited social capital. Rather, they are fully emotional, intellectual, cultural, social, spiritual, sexual, and political beings, who inevitably come from unique experiences no less fascinating or profound than any other. In recognition thereof, students feel empowered to take pride in their personal knowledge, and are less likely to feel deficient for any of the aforementioned lacks. Subsequent to their empowerment, students can really embrace a risk-taking activity like learning a new language or academic skill without feeling incomplete.

Drink a Beer and Wait Patiently

2011-02-26T10:30:00.000-08:00

So, I haven't been drinking much lately, but I decided I wanted a beer last night after a long bike ride. I stopped at HEB for a couple of vegetables, and purchased a 32oz (caguama) of Corona Familiar, a beer which I became accustomed to drinking during my months in Mexico.

I arrived at the house, opened the beer, and sat drinking it, to the melodious offerings of Freddy Fender. I noticed a young girl approach the bus stop (the 300) from my right. She stopped there, as one might who expects to catch the next Govalle bus on its southerly route towards Oltorf and Burton.

A few moments later, a red Mustang 5.0 came screaming down Govalle, heading in the same direction the girl had come from, which is my right. Naturally, he was driving on the opposite side of the street, this being the United States, and yet the girl was on the near side at the bus stop. As he approached, he swerved sharply and crossed the street, coming to a jerky stop in front of the girl. There was a conversation.

"What the fuck are you doing at the bus stop!"

Unintelligible response from the young lady.

"Why the fuck didn't you call me from the house?"

Again, unintelligible blabber from the girl, obviously upset at this point.

Unintelligible cursing from the driver of the 5.0.

He speeds off, moving from my right to my left, down Govalle, towards Springdale. I debate whether I should step in and do something. I sit, pensive, as I hear, coming from my left, what sounds like a red Mustang 5.0, approaching the two of us.

Sure enough, it is our knight in primer armor, returned to have a second go at his maiden.

"What the fuck are you thinking?"

"I just-" Interrupted.

"Get the fuck in the car!"

She tries. He speeds off, heading right, from whence he came, towards Tillery street. He turns at the first opportunity, at Kirk. It is reminiscent of the Wonder Years episode, when Savage's big brother does the same.

Weeping from the maiden. Bonafide weeping.

I start to approach the maiden, to ask if I may be of service, more nervous about an affirmative answer than a negative one, for that brings your humble author into the mix. As I do, I notice my neighbor, or more precisely, my neighbor's roommate, approaching. He's a few steps ahead of me, and seems to be offering the same helping hand. I return to my anonymous position on my front porch, hidden from sight by the bushes at the bus stop and the pecan tree that separates us.

"No." She sobs. "My boyfriend is just an asshole!"

Red Mustang 5.0 returns, from the direction he had recently escaped.

"Don't you dare tell my fucking dad that you saw me!"

Unintelligible, from both actors.

"I'm going to the fucking store for some drinks."

Speeds off. Sobbing.

5.0 returns a few minutes later, from the direction in which he had previously sped off.

Unintelligible, from both.

She moves toward the vehicle, attempting to get in. He speeds off (see above Wonder Years reference).

She follows in the direction he heads, sobbing and shaking her head.

Unbelievable.

Not feeling disappointed about a disappointing situation

2011-02-07T13:23:00.000-08:00

I just had an orientation session which was devoid of students. There were zero students in attendance. I only anticipated one student, and zero showed up. None.

I was sitting, waiting, for 45 minutes or so, feeling somewhat ambivalent about whether I wanted students to show up. In the end, I waited until a quarter til the hour, decided that nobody was going to show, and I left, offering only vague explanations as to what might have been the cause of the lack of attendance. "You know adult students, sometimes...We should have called earlier...Our program assistant has been out," etc...

As I drove back to school, I was alarmed to realize how truly ambivalent I had been. What had caused this? Why did I not care about this? Was I not embarrassed by this relative fiasco?

Has me thinking about finding something wherein I would feel embarrassed, frustrated, curious, motivated, etc...by an event not going well.

Huey Long Symposium-Baton Rouge, LA

2010-10-12T19:05:00.000-07:00

October 6, 2010

“Everyone is necessarily the hero of his own life story.”
-John Barth

Having read a good deal of Barth in the months previous, I won’t claim to understand precisely the man’s intention in the above quote, nor will I elaborate on context (in the interest of briefness). Instead, I implore the reader to allow its most proximal meaning – and perhaps most personal – to act as subtext to the text found, ironically, immediately below it.

I have recently returned, and even more recently recovered, from a trip to Louisiana; a trip aptly characterized as dichotomous, in its being both temporally ephemeral, yet enduring in a number of ways. Had you, Dear Reader, probed me on the morning after we drove in, on my way to teaching the first day of a new class (with a good three hours of sleep under my belt), I would have claimed – without employing hyperbole with any deliberation – that the most lasting and penetrating portion of the trip would be my bodily and cognitive weariness. As expected, the days since returning have rendered said weariness little more than a comedic afterthought. In its place, the intangible moments have taken the stage as the stars of the show, providing us with a much more enjoyable and share-worthy tale.

In having this time to reflect, discuss, peruse photos, and read a bit, I have come to appreciate my experience both individually and as part of a crack team, and it is this that I would like to textualize for you, Dear Reader.

Our trip seemed simple enough with regards to mission.

“There is symposium to be held in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, whose purpose is to explore the various aspects of the life and death of Senator and Governor Huey P. Long, an enduring character in that state’s politics. The symposium is to be held in commemoration of the 75^th anniversary of that very death. We, inasmuch as we are personally connected thereto in various ways, will arrive at the symposium, hoping to aggregate interviews, photographs, testimonies, and other media to be used for the production of a documentary film.”

Allow me to provide some information clarifying the aforementioned “we,” as well as the connection to the event, also mentioned. Our crew was spearheaded by the ever-dynamic Yvonne Boudreaux, who we have to thank for the personal connection to the symposium; more on that later. Providing much of the equipment, esoteric expertise, and humor is the equally engaging Jonny Mars. Bringing up the rear, so to speak, our crew is rounded out by your Humble Author, whose provisions, while less pragmatic, hopefully proved useful to the most honorable mission. If nothing else, your HA takes comfort in the fact that it was he, not his more qualified compatriots, who guided the trusty vessel during the home stretch to Austin.

The connection our crew has is this: Miss Boudreaux’s great uncle, the distinguished Doctor Carl Weiss, Jr., is the surviving son of the alleged assassin of Senator Long. Furthermore, Miss Boudreaux is the acting producer of a documentary film entitled 61 Bullets, which has as its centricity the events of that fateful evening and the subsequent 75 years of familial coping therewith.

Your Humble Author found his way onto this ship by way of his relationship with Miss Boudreaux. To employ what he presumes is the freshest lingo of the day, he is at present ‘going steady’ with this lovely Louisiana woman. As to what might be the destination of this steadfast sojourn, your Humble Author must plead ignorance. However, the relationship status of these two (a fact verifiable by those with a Facebook account), meant for your HA that multiple hats were worn, changed with less than ideal notice, which added to the hectic excitement of the event. There was primarily the boyfriend hat, as well as the photographer hat.

Allow your HA to elaborate with a brief yet truthful vignette. During the presentation of Dr. Weiss, Jr., which will be discussed at further length shortly, your HA found himself assigned to capture ‘family reactions,’ family in this instance comprising the Weiss, Pavy, and Boudreaux constituents. It became very apparent earlier in the day that the volume of the shudder on the camera was sufficient to attract the attention of symposium goers, which speaks more to the noisiness of said shudder than to the engagement level of the attendees, which, incidentally was quite high, inasmuch as they could successfully fight off a nap, which became increasingly difficult after lunch.

At one point in his soul-stealing (see unverified, base attempt to understand the mysticism of the ‘American Indian,’ apologies be mine alone), your HA found himself face to face – albeit through the lens of a camera – with one of the Boudreaux brothers, who happens to double as the uncle of the very woman who maintains a healthy relationship with, you guessed it, your HA. Mind you, while the lens somewhat shields from the subject, in that the photographer’s naked eye generally closes, photographer still must not only view the subject, but in this case must do so with the added intensity of having maximally zoomed in on the subject’s face, magnifying whatever mood might be written thereon.

In the case of the aforementioned Boudreaux brother, your HA would have rather been wearing the photographer hat exclusively. Indeed, the gentleman’s face was written over with disgust and anger. Of course, upon meeting said gentleman (and after a costume change of the type we’ve discussed), all is duly sorted and nothing if not cordial.

I offer this only to demonstrate the precarious position of living a dualistic purpose: that of meeting for the first time the very family who make up the bulk of the subjects of photographic interest, which is definitely an alienating act for photographer and subject, at least in the aforementioned context.

Incidentally, the first noteworthy event of the trip (second if you count the drive-thru daiquiris in Lafayette, which I imagine most will and should (ask me)) found our team explicitly set its sights on becoming better acquainted with the family, or at least some core members thereof. It was on that night that your HA met both Yvonne’s mother, Elaine, and the elder of her two younger brothers, Michael, appropriately enough at the place of employment of the younger of the two, Paul, whom I had met briefly months before, on a short trip of his to Austin.

Dinner was lovely, and we were joined by an old friend of Yvonne’s, Mike Conner, with whom she had worked on various projects previous. The difficulty of being a vegan in Louisiana didn’t make itself apparent on this night, and in sooth, was a fairly low lighted theme throughout the journey, very likely because of the expected effect it would have, which was profound and constant. Beyond causing a few interesting questions and inquisitive stares, the vegan issue was little more than a minor annoyance, easily disarmed by a bit of humor at inevitability. A word of thanks and appreciation must go out to Miss Yvonne, who’s genuine goal of inclusion made this mountain into a molehill. Rest assured, Dear Reader, your Humble Author will get his. He altogether appreciates your concern on the matter.

The day following brought our team to Louisiana’s Old State Capitol Building, whose castle-like exterior was perhaps further ‘Disneyed’ somewhat by the vinyl sign which mentioned ‘The Ghost of the Castle,’ advertising the exhibit and a play which honors a ghost – that of ‘Sarah Morgan, an authentic Civil War-era figure, who loved the castle from the day it was built and wrote passionately about it.’

With all do respect to Miss Morgan, and/or the ghost thereof, one couldn’t help but anticipate (while climbing the steps of the ‘castle’) the swarms of engorged bees patrolling the space on and around the garbage bin, hoping with their lives that the next little brat, rendered uncontrollably shaky by his first – and presumably last – roller coaster, loosens the grip on his Coca-Cola flavored Icee just enough, unleashing a semi-melted flow of saccharine lifeblood, ensuring survival of the winged soldiers to the extent that said brat keep his distance and not warrant an attack, a circumstance that, in occurrence, surely ruins the days of all those involved, not to mention literally ending those of the successful kamikaze.

No such luck, of course, as we enter. The building’s interior is quite exquisite (see attached photograph); its grandiosity and class immediately dashing any hopes of locating a fabricated biergarten, which honestly might have proven welcome during breaks later that afternoon. Indeed, it seems the erection of the capital saw no expense spared, most notably in detail and color. Adorning the interior walls of the main tower are the Sam Houstons, Ann Richards, and Lyndon B. Johnsons of Louisiana’s storied history. Of utmost interest to us, of course, is the equally dynamic and controversial Huey P. Long.

Inside the chambers, we make our way to the press zone, designated most obviously by the row of fancy cameras and the less-than fancy folks in charge thereof. A phone call the night before had informed Miss Yvonne that, amongst the distinguished press to be present was Louisiana Public Broadcasting as well as C-Span. Knowing my audience as I do (what a luxury!) I imagine my description of the symposium itself might be somewhat repetitive, given its having been shown on the latter of the two channels.

We are treated to some opening remarks by Jay Dardenne, Louisiana’s acting Secretary of State, a man whose interest in the issues at hand seemed to reciprocate the respect given him by the people present, which was quite frank and obvious indeed. It was at this point, no more than five minutes into the thing that I, your Humble Author, realize that I would love to own a better zoom lens. I understand then and there that, in order to get the reflection-in-a-falling-tear-shot that has heretofore eluded me, I’ll need to beef up my arsenal. Inasmuch as this was not then and there possible, I was forced to resort to more clandestine and guerrilla tactics, which proved somewhat helpful.

The first panel was full of, well, eggheads. By the way, it takes one to know one. Relax. All well intentioned, well read, and well spoken, the eggheads spoke, for the most part, of the dichotomy that was Huey P. Long. In essence, a man who was hated for his iron-fistedness yet adored for his ability to ‘by God get things done.’ He is remembered as a bold and boisterous man whose advocacy for the people was perhaps only rivaled by his weariness thereof. He was able to lift people out of poverty, illiteracy, and unemployment, but only at the expense of countless others, not exclusively Dr. Carl Weiss and family. The shooting was discussed herein, although it took a backseat to the more general portraiture in which each of the nerd-alerts took part.

Immediately following these gents was the Long panel, which included blood descendents as well as friends of the family. The Long panel sounded more like a high school statistics class or possibly a State Board of Education meeting, in which numbers fill the air, less because they are spoken into it than because they really hold no weight, have no anchor to the real world. Of course, however, lasers, fire, and statistics endlessly wow us, and a great many of the attendees seemed captivated indeed.

As Tantalus with the low hanging fruit, we are able to see what nutrition we’re being offered. In the case of the Long panel statistics, we hear “unemployment, education, literacy, equality, populism, wealth sharing,” all delicious flavors we are unable to access. Information which might help us to verify or truly understand how exactly these fruits relate to reality, unfortunately, recedes from us, as did the waters at the waist of Tantalus. Thus we exist in a state of misinformation, unable to contextualize the meaning of the messages delivered by the Longs and company. I would be a fool, however, to think that there were not dozens of people in the audience who would praise the doings of Huey simply because of a desire for hunger quenching fruit.

Your Humble Author, of course, finds this to be terribly unsatisfying, and questions the merits and intentions of those that would thusly offer the fruit of knowledge. Also unsatisfying, but reasonable and expected, was the ability of the members of the Long panel to avoid the issue of the shooting, specifically the doubt cast on the account accepted by history. Referring to that account, Donald Pavy, member of the Weiss camp, once remarked, “The winners write history.”

The Long family panel was succeeded by lunch, paid for by a portion of the 50-dollar ticket price. In case you were wondering, yes, we did have to pay even as media and even with familial relations. The fact is that, of the three or four hundred in attendance, likely a quarter could claim some type of family ties. Yvonne did her duty both as producer and girlfriend, finding us some of the few vegetarian options, one of which your Humble Author subsequently altered to fit his diet. Lunch was over before it really started, which was fine, because it was lackluster to say the very least. Most of the hour was spent transferring, or attempting to transfer, footage from the video camera to the hard drives, which, as you might have guessed, weren’t working.

Herein stepped our first hero, a man aforementioned at the dinner scene: Michael Boudreaux, brother of our beloved producer Miss Yvonne. Being a Baton Rouge resident, he was able to pull himself away from his weekend duties to purchase and deliver a replacement hard drive. As you might have guessed, it didn’t work either.

Herein stepped our second hero, a woman aforementioned at the dinner scene: Miss Elaine, mother of our beloved producer Miss Yvonne. Being a Baton Rouge resident, she was able to pull herself away from her weekend duties to purchase and deliver a replacement hard drive. This time, you guessed incorrectly. It worked just fine. Our thanks to both of them, from photographer and boyfriend the like.

Immediately succeeding lunch came perhaps the most touching and emotionally charged presentation, that of Dr. Carl Weiss, Jr. We were asked to contemplate prior to the first verbal word of the talk, as above the stage, projected on a large rectangular media screen, were two grainy, black and white photographs. Both were of the father of Dr. Carl Weiss, Jr., Dr. Carl Weiss, the alleged assassin of Huey P. Long, and the other half of the pair of men that lost their lives that evening, some 75 years prior.

The photograph on the left shows a well-kempt, well-dressed young man at three-quarters profile, with a set of doctorly circular lenses adorning a cleanly shaven face, falling in front of a pair of obscure eyes, full of knowing. To the audience’s right is seen an image whose calamity and volume equals the tranquility of that on the left. It is of the recently deceased Weiss, fallen with arms somewhat outstretched, hands at shoulder height, white shirt unbuttoned, each side thereof resting on the cold stone floor of the State Capitol hallway. Due to the quality of the photograph after what have likely been multiple reproductions, it is difficult to differentiate between shadow and blood, though one knows without question that there is no shortage of either.

Our speaker, the son of the pictured, was seated on the stage, directly below these projections, awaiting his introduction by the aforementioned Secretary of State. His mood was stoic, ready, determined. After his introduction, he takes the stage to speak about his father, the accusation thereof, and of the effect on the family thereof. It is the first time in 75 years of living somewhat in the shadow of the accusation of his father – in spite of having established himself on the other side of the country – that he has spoken to a public audience about the issues above. One can only imagine the weight of this responsibility, a weight that likely has become increasingly burdensom in each of the three score plus years since Weiss discovered the truth of his father’s unnaturally violent end.

In the face of this, however, Dr. Weiss took the stage with grace and seeming comfort (although it is his aunt, Ida Pavy, who later explains that he was nervous beyond reason, as was she, herself, at the onset). He began by describing simply what are the circumstances behind his appearance at the symposium, namely, that though he was merely three months of age at the time, the death of his father has been an unavoidable presence throughout his adult life. We learned a bit more about Carl, Sr., both as an astute professional and a caring family man. We didn’t, however, learn much about his political identity, essentially because he didn’t identify with politics. He was, as Carl Jr. and others would remark throughout the weekend, apolitical.

We heard a number of compelling pieces of evidence offered by Carl, Jr., which seem to exonerate the young doctor, at least in the eyes of his son and family. Your Humble Author was terribly happy with the breadth of the honorable doctor’s evidence. Indeed, he spoke in defense with regard to forensics, motive, possibility, and consistency of testimony. His talk, both compelling and enjoyable, was met with a standing ovation at its completion, leading the Junior Weiss to retort thusly: “I take it from your standing ovation that you agree that my father is innocent.”

It was perhaps the most poignant portion of the symposium for me, a fact that without a doubt true for other symposium-goers. It was at this moment, after having been led by the talk, that I realized that the Barth quote that met us at the departure of this textual journey was absolutely true, and that our being at this symposium was not a group of speakers and an audience, talking about one or two men of interest. Rather, it was the crossing of hundreds of paths, narratives, enthralling, film-worthy narratives that happen to coincide for a number of hours. It became increasingly clear why Yvonne had chosen Carl as the key figure in a documentary. It also became similarly clear how one could have just as easily chosen anyone else and created a narrative in which this person is of utmost intrigue and importance; a hero, for lack of a better word.

There was a sense of pride that I think we, the seated, felt for and with Carl, Jr., at the time his speech ended. If I was able to see anything worth capturing through my camera lens, it was the change in Carl before and after his talk – but more specifically, those around Carl. Before lunch, Yvonne had asked me to capture shots of attendees as they left the chamber house, with a focus on the Weiss’, the Boudreaux’s, and the Pavy’s. I recognized Carl and was able to follow him through the slow sandwich line to pick up a boxed lunch. While doing so, he blends in, just another old man in a suit, possibly a historian, possibly a family member. It doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t really matter.

Of course, he is the hero in his life story. Because our crew knows a little about that life story, I know better than the others. We have made him a person of interest, and soon everybody will know, too. He proceeds through the line, settles on a turkey sandwich, and makes his way into the dining hall. There are no words. There are no handshakes. There is no interest in him, in the same way my camera treats the rest of the diners with absolute ignorance.

In contrast, upon completing his speech and receiving his ovation, Dr. Weiss, Jr. was literally swarmed by those with whom he had jockeyed for position and bumped shoulders no more than an hour previous. Young and old approach him, arms outstretched, for hugs and handshakes alike, all hoping to express their gratitude, possibly for having done something many of us would not have the courage to do. For, you remember, Dear Reader, it took this man 75 years to do just that, and he was evidently nervous as all get-out.

Following Dr. Weiss’ talk, we are witness to a panel of experts in various fields. There is a playwright and historian who starts, interestingly enough, with a performance piece of sorts, in which he attempts to orate in the dynamic style of Huey Long. Zinman’s the name, and he follows this with a narration of the night of the assassination, having conveniently filled with assumptions the holes that feed the debate of guilt on the part of Dr. Carl Weiss, Sr. His narrative is both compelling related to evidence as well as delivery, which deftly sets the scene. Your Humble Author is impressed with Zinman, which has nothing to do with his confusing your HA with a CNN photographer, which was flattering, indeed.

Zinman is followed by Donald Pavy, whose allegiance to the Weiss family, and more importantly their story, is clearly stated in a 13-point manifesto which details his reasons for disbelieving the accepted story, the story which pins the guilt squarely on Dr. Weiss, Sr. His delivery is curt, disconnected, and choppy, although one can see without much imagination that he, in contrast to Carl, has offered this information countless times, and his mood is that of one fed up with having to repeat the same information which repeatedly falls on deaf ears.

Captain Don Moreau, who claimed to have taken the unbiased position of a police officer aiming to evaluate the case by evidence only, succeeds Donald Pavy. While this is Moreau’s stated purpose, he seems to interject hearsay, suggestion, inference, and guesses. He does this craftily, though likely not with malice in mind, by hinting at possible explanations for the holes in the stories. His explanation is similar to Zinman, but quite a bit less self-aware.

Next up is Tom Angers, altogether forgettable, although clearly on the side of the Weiss contention. Last on our panel is one of the aforementioned eggheads, who has made a repeat appearance. He is taking the place of one Dr. James Starrs, who has made a name for himself having exhumed the bodies of several celebrities, including Jesse James. He becomes an agent in the Long case for the following reason: one of the evidential incongruencies is the caliber of the bullet that struck Huey Long and the gun carried by Dr. Carl Weiss.

According to the Weiss’, the bullet that eventually killed Huey Long – albeit aided by the miscues of those who attempted to revive him, another point of debate – is still with the corpse. If indeed it is, Dr. Starrs would like to know. He has expressed a desire to exhume the Long body, verify that there is a bullet in the casket, and thereby exonerate Weiss, both Carl and name. However, Starrs is not in attendance, a fact which to this day has no explanation. In his stead is a fairly bland, tautologue of a man who spoke about Huey as a dichotomy during the first session. To his credit, this man is terribly intelligent and extremely dedicated. His delivery, however, is unrefined and virtually endless. Compared to the others on this panel, he seems quite a bit too objective to fit the group. More passionate recklessness, egghead, if you please.

After these talks, the symposium had all but ended, and all that was left was a short reception at the Old Governor’s Mansion located just a few blocks away. We arrive after having captured some footage of the Huey Long museum rooms at the Capitol building, an interesting exhibit, indeed, complete with a copy of Long’s book which would be released posthumously, My First Days in the White House. Ambitious, indeed.

We arrive at the Mansion, hoping to get some interviews with a couple of key players, namely Russell Moseley Long, the descendent of Huey who spoke previous during the Long family panel. He seems like the youngest and most vibrant of the panel members, and his reaction to Dr. Weiss’ talk seems to point towards his agreeing to disagree about the happenings that has defined for ¾ of a century the identity of two families.

Before this could happen, however, we found ourselves being serenaded by a lovely volunteer docent who works with The Foundation for Historical Louisiana. She was singing the Long theme song of sorts, “Every Man A King,” painting a quite lovely portrait of populism in his Louisiana. She added vignettes to the serenade, including information about Huey and his meeting his wife. Her growing warmth to the idea of performing for the camera melted her shyness, and soon we were attempting to shake her as one might an attacking dog on one’s heels during a neighborhood bike ride.

As we attempt to make our escape, we look for our targets. We find Mr. Long Moseley, although it seems he is already the target of attention for some fellow party-goers. Considering these folks likely are personal acquaintances and that we, what with our cameras and (by now) clear affiliation with the Weiss side of things, it is very difficult to get in and request a moment of his time for an interview. Finally, Mr. Mars does just that, and Long Moseley agrees. However, it’s no more than a few moments before he is missing, and we’re unable to follow through. In the meantime, we find our beloved egghead, the one who has already graced us with his presence twice in the day.

Get this: he is interested in talking. He’ll even do it in front of a camera. So he does. In the meantime, your Humble Author has wandered off, looking for Moseley. By the time he returns to the supposed rendezvous spot, his wingers are missing, presumably locked away in a relatively quiet room so as maximize sound quality. He accepts his fate as a temporary wanderer, and promptly helps himself to some processed grain in two forms: first, from a bruschetta mountain of sorts, and second, from a pitcher of beer. He then relaxes and marvels at the brazen carelessness, or perhaps the drunken brazenness, of two fellow guests, slamming a bottle of wine and joking about how far they’ve to drive back home within the hour. Giggle, giggle.

About the time he convinces himself not to utter ‘derogatories’ about the people of Louisiana – for he knows that his home state of Texas has a formidable cast of characters in its own right (some might even claim to be family of his, incidentally) – he is rejoined by his faithful crew, who has finished with our favorite egghead, this time joined by his wife. As expected, his talk is reported to have been of little controversy or passion. What it lacks in these two, it makes up for in accuracy and objectivity. If there’s one thing I learned from this symposium, it’s that we can’t all be the Huey Long of the bunch. Would we even all want to?

On a quick trip to back to the Mt. Bruschetta, your Humble Author is greeted somewhat out of the blue by a gentleman who made an interesting comment about his familial connection to the case. Evidently, his father was to be Carl Weiss’ anesthesiologist on the day following the assassination, and had received the call verifying the place of the surgery. This, of course, is a small hint of evidence that seems to suggest that Dr. Weiss was not planning on murdering the Senator of the state that evening. Otherwise, one can’t help but surmise, he couldn’t have cared less as to the location of the surgery.

This gentleman, called Perry Snyder, seems terribly interested in sharing any information he might be able. I dutifully take down his number, and reply that I’ll toss his information to my crew that we may judge the necessity of another interview. We had long since arrival decided that we should get as much as possible on these, the few days we might have an audience primed for speaking about our subject. Inasmuch as we were still ‘in the zone,’ and ‘in the zone,’ for that matter, we grabbed Mr. Snyder and proceeded with an interview.

Your Humble Author found his way into the aforementioned secret, relatively noiseless room, and the happenings therein proved to be quite profound, indeed. Mr. Snyder, in addition to his professed personal connection to the case, had done quite a bit of research into it, and thus was able to add to this portion of the story as well. Towards the end of our talk – mind you we’re not aware it’s near the end during the moment – our tape begins to run out. Of course, we’re filming neither on tape nor on film. Rather, we’re capturing digital information, which explains the hard drive issues of earlier.

As we’re realizing this, Yvonne makes producer’s decision (entitlement be hers) and asks Mr. Snyder to share his thoughts about Carl’s talk earlier in the day. Mr. Snyder is clearly moved, and as the drive’s space runs down, as do the tears down the cheeks of the speaker. He explains that he was profoundly touched by the gravity of taking on the task of defending one’s dead father, some 75 years after his death, after some 75 years of damaged reputation, of living to some extent haunted by the name of the much maligned assassin of Huey P. Long. He believed that Carl spoke with eloquence, passion, and pride. It was this that caused Snyder’s waterworks to begin to overreact. Speaking of overreacting, he quickly asked that we cut this portion of the tape off, surely knowing that we can’t literally ‘cut’ digital footage. We’ll let him slide.

His testimony was sincere and quite beautiful, in fact. One doesn’t doubt that his reaction was shared by countless others in the audience that day as Dr. Carl Weiss spoke in defense of his father, but of himself as well, it seemed.

After we spoke with Mr. Snyder, we made our way out of the Old Governor’s Mansion, and put the mission on the backburner until the morning. Rest assured, Dear Reader, a break was in order. We found solace, eventually, in an outdoor patio of a restaurant smack-dab in the middle of town in the vicinity of the locations of our previous events. We meet with (the newly illustrious) Carl Weiss, his two wonderful daughters, Christina and Gretchen, along with Yvonne’s mother, Elaine (aforementioned superhero of harddrives) and brother, Paul (aforementioned brother working at the restaurant). It’s a nice dinner, and I’m thrilled, just thrilled, to dive into my “so-and-so pasta salad with all the good stuff taken off.” You see, I chose to have the chicken, bacon, cheese, and Parmesan held. It was just fine, thank you.

The next morning saw us heading back downtown from the hotel, which wasn’t all that difficult, especially given the navigation skills of Miss Yvonne, which without fail included the life-sustaining trips to Community Coffee. We arrived at the grounds of the new state capitol building, built by Huey Long, which are absolutely beautiful grounds, complete with a massive statue of Long adorning it’s main mall. This colossal structure, incidentally, is the single physical barrier keeping the aforementioned Dr. Starrs from simply garden-trowing his way to the casket which holds not only Huey P. Long, but, quite possibly, a key piece to this puzzle; a puzzle which, having been 75 years unsolved, remains so long after millions of others have reached completion. Perhaps there are parties who would rather not see the finished image for fear that it would tarnish their having tarnished for, lo, these three score and fifteen.

Regardless of your thoughts of the Long dynasty, or Huey personally for that matter, he is marked by a fabulous effigy, whose grandeur may only be overshadowed (literally, at times, depending on the angular relationship with the sun) by the state capitol building which he, himself, commissioned, and if testimony of docents and chatty citizens is to be trusted, built in what might be record time – if’n, of course, records are kept for such silly things. We need not egg on the human in such matters (keeping and attempting to beat records, that is) for fear of increasing the dangers of an already relatively precarious undertaking (building large edifices, that is). I hope you’ll enjoy the photos of the capitol grounds, beautifully flanked on the day in question by the bluest of skies (a detail I think just beyond the control of Long and his, of course).

The beauty followed us as we entered the great building – which, for the record (ha, ha), is the nation’s tallest state capitol at 450 feet. While your Humble Author marveled at the State House and Senate Chambers (the latter of which has a visible shard of shrapnel let loose by a late 1960s bomb stuck in its roof that is conveniently spotlighted by the crew of the place), his crewmates mingled outside shooting footage of the aforementioned statue. Your HA wandered to and fro, marveling for a number of minutes at the age of a set of computers directly outside the doors of the House Chamber. He also was interested to see the futile efforts of a number of parents, both mothers and fathers, single and in teams, to 1) calm their young children down, and 2) prove to their children that any of this should make any difference in anything, now or ever.

Shortly, we’re reunited as a crew, in the very hallway that is perhaps the least biased – yet most guarded – witness we’d yet encountered in our little sojourn from the Lone Star State. Pointed out to us is the confirmed bullet hole in the side of a pillar, as is the second scar to the interior of the building, whose origins are quite less clear. We speak with more authority about the happenings than is probably warranted, and your Humble Author would be a liar if he hadn’t, by this point in the trip, developed a sense of pride at having been connected to such a captivating story. It is up to you, Dear Reader, to determine if your HA’s feelings are immature. It is also up to you, excepting in the case of a supportive point of view, to keep that determination a secret.

After shooting a number of things, excluding Senators, Governors, Doctors, pillars, amongst countless others, we make our exit, being sure not to forget thanking on the way out those who helped us as we came in.

To Ida Pavy’s house we go; Ida, of course, being the previously referenced aunt to Dr. Carl Weiss, Jr. and a resident of Opelousas, Louisiana. We arrive and are greeted warmly by an unbelievably hospitable threesome: Ida Pavy, Albert Pavy, and our beloved Dr. Weiss at their side. It’s no more than a moment before your Humble Author has taken up the offer for a tall bourbon and water, the offer having been made by Albert Pavy, known ‘colorfully’ as Pop Rouge, upon entry. Whiskey in hand, cool and refreshing, your HA is given the grand tour by Pop Rouge, whose knowledge of his domain as well as his desire to disseminate it seems to surpass even the professionals at the capitol building. As a side note, amongst his stories was that of Tantalus, who found his way into this paper, just a number of pages ago. If you have made it this far and don’t remember Tantalus, you should go back and start over. You’ve missed something.

Our mission here in Opelousas is twofold, and is the culmination of the theme of the weekend, which has been living a dichotomous existence; metaphorically, the portions of this dichotomy represented by different hats that have been worn by your Humble Author, and presumably countless others in attendance for a whole myriad of reasons. In this collection of moments at the Pavy residence, the hats begin to fuse together, to become one, until soon enough, your Humble Author is unable to tell them apart. Sounds, terrifying, I know, but there is a great deal of beauty in it. Allow me to explain.

To the extent that I, over the course of these hours and these whiskies, begin to understand and furthermore embrace my position as a personally connected but simultaneously artistically interested person, I also begin to appreciate the profundity of the work that Miss Boudreaux has put into this project. For, you see, Dear Reader, it is more than a project. To name it thusly is unjustifiably reductionist, and denies the personality that the multiple narratives have for Yvonne. Only now do I begin to realize that the complexity found in relationships between humans is to be expected and should be appreciated, especially when one considers the complexity of each individual when evaluated in a vacuum.

I begin to internalize the idea that, aside from all the wikipedia entries, cocktail receptions, and history book debates, there is value to this whole thing, at least in my universe, because of the value that it holds in Yvonne’s life. My interest inevitably becomes more than simply an intrigued person in isolation, or on the other hand, a boyfriend in isolation who is acting as support for his lady, and becomes an aggregate of the two. This fusion turns out to be much more powerful, as you might have guessed, than either of the two elements in isolation.

We get back into the car after I come to feel this, only partially understood, and even less able to be verbalized, and head back for home. It’s only too soon – around 9 pm – that we encounter, literally, standstill traffic on the Louisiana side of Houston. We’re detoured off I-10, presumably to avoid the chemical spill that awaits us just a mile or so ahead, and don’t see the interstate until about 11 pm. In the two hours, we’ve been blazing at about one-sixth stagecoach speed, and it’s not beyond our technological and mathematical scope to know that it’ll be near three in the morning by the time we roll into town. We were happy to beat traffic, you must know.

After having a near facilities failure at a gas station a couple of hours out, we enter Austin city limits as expected, around three, drop off our faithful professional Jonny, and each head for the sack. I imagine none of the three of us was asleep in our beds a moment before 3:30 in the AM, which, as you might expect, made Monday morning come more than too soon. Of course, in the same way that he was in such mornings uplifted by the hugs and smiles of elementary school students years back, your Humble Author was, on this day uplifted by the devotion and passion of his current batch of learners, the adults. Through it they got together, and the world was as it should be.

In the weeks that have followed – for you see, I sit finishing this (insert your word here), the date on my computer tells me that it’s October 11 – I have come to see the value added to the entire experience by the appreciation of my crewmates, specifically the most proximally connected (YB). In isolation, as a nerd, I would have found the event mildly amusing, Dr. Weiss’ speech mildly moving, and the statue at the capitol mildly awesome. However, having seen, if only for a number of select moments, through the eyes of a family member related to the story, the history, I realize that we are the ones with the power to create beautiful stories, really to determine reality.

Theorized by Berkeley, it sounded like this, “Omne esse est percipi.” Not bad, but let us, Dear Readers, finish as we started, with the rarely-matched John Barth, for his words indeed fit my departing sentiments.

“Nothing is intrinsically valuable; the value of everything is attributed to it,
assigned to it from outside the thing itself, by people.”
-John Barth

Cameron

New Idea

2010-02-21T15:14:00.001-08:00

I will write each day. The manner by which I will determine the amoutn of writing I do will be the following. Date multiplied by the month. Eg March 5=15 days/.

Dream 1/17/2010

2010-01-18T08:54:00.000-08:00

Mom sent me a package. Inside the package was a pair of pants. The pants started off looking like something I look for all over the place, which are Levi's Sta-Prest vintage pants. I pulled them out of the brown package. As I did, I noticed that they wre not Levi's Sta-Prest. They were cordouroy pants. They were dark gray. They had fringe along the waistline and the cuffs. They had holes ripped in them and zippers. I hated them, bad.

I called Mom. I talked to her and Dad. I told them that I was thankful for their having thought of me. I then told them that I hated the pants. I instantly felt bad about that part. Dad asked why I even thought that was important to share in the first place. I told them I thought I could be honest.

'Next time, don't be.'

Dream 11/2/2009

2009-11-04T07:50:00.000-08:00

I'm in Washington, D.C. I have gotten a job with some people. I am with said people on the way to the office. We arrive. It is in a huge building. The building is office building. We find the office. Everything is greey and silver and metallic and modern. We are four. We are mixed between girls and boys. The numbers don't matter.

It is my first day so I am to create a name project. The project has nothing to do with the aims of the business. It is extraneous. I am to use glue and wire to build and display my name. The wire turns into string midway through the project. I am all over the floor with my materials. A girl that works there is also on the floor. We are flirting and it is working. I would rather have sex with her than finish my name project. She would rather me have sex than finish my name project. Consequently, my name project is taking way too long. I finally finish. I have misspelled my name. I have to fix it. As I fix it, I hope nobody notices the errors I have made.

I speak with a lady at a desk. I get the feeling she is the boss. She tells me that before we move on, I should fix the name of a coworker whose name was incorrectly displayed. I find that it is quite a bit more difficult than all that. It seems nobody agrees how to actually spell her name. She is actually a real coworker from my life. From an old job.

The lady behind the counter transitions into Hulk Hogan's wife or daughter. It doesn't matter which. The office transitions into the Hogan home. It isn't actually what I remember their home looking like, but it's their home. I spend a lot of time here. The girl from the office for whom sex was an option is here at the house. She looks different, but it is her.

The house is made up of the following memorable elements. Long, stadium-like, concrete ramps, a massive, concrete parking lot, a twenty-foot wall around the thing, some sort of central room (possibly a kitchen or living room), and an old clubhouse. The clubhouse felt like it must have been something from my past, though it looked different than anything I remember. It had deteriorated. It was musky and moldy. No children wanted to play in it.

Hulk Hogan's son, hereafter HHS, had taken it over. He looked older than Hulk. HHS was doing dark, devilish things in it. At times, I would be running down the ramp and the son would roll things after me to try and knock me down. He wore a Jason mask, or an old hockey goalie mask (see Terry Sawchuck). It soon became evident that he had some nasty business he was involved in. He wanted to earn credit to sell things to the underworld. I imagine he had no money. I assume this because of what he did to Hulk Hogan, his father.

I was standing on the ramp. Hulk Hogan was standing below me. HHS, above me and to my left. HHS looked much older than his father now. His father was still quite large. His hair, both cranial and facial, had become purple. He looked somewhat cartoony. There was a showdown on the ramp. It involved mostly screaming. After a fit of hollering, it was clear HHS had won the duel. From Hulk's body came an unbelievably and enveloping white light. From this white light spilled some type of coin. The coin was the capital for the underworld business. I got the shit out of there.

I was in the bed of a truck on the way to a party. My fellow bedmates were screaming. They were really excited about the party. We arrived. It was daytime. The party was to be held inside and outside. There would be booze, a grill for food, and informal sporting. The partygoers were actual friends of mine. I'll not name any names, although they did act appropriately.

I remained outside while the majority of my truck entered the house to begin raging. I felt that this isolated me. My isolation, however, was comfortable. The weather was nice. I found a bunch of unwanted potatoes on the ground. I also found a nine-iron golf club, unmanned. I decided to use them both. My plan was to rocket the potatoes into the neighborhood. I assumed they would explode on contact. They would cause no harm.

I then became conscious of the possibility that a potato might not explode so easily. It might just rocket at a home. A flying potato would surely shatter a neighbor's window. I turned to find more reasonable targets. I found, to my surprise, a group of small golf flags stuck in the lawn. They were near the grill, which was also left without supervision. I prepared my first shot.

From behind me came screetching down the road another truck. It looked like it held bandits. They were all hooting and hollering about something. As they got closer, I could hear they were screaming their plans upon arrival. They planned to beat someone up. I imagined that they were talking about a friend who they were going to play with. I didn't feel any threat, either personally or vicariously.

The truck came to a halt. The bandits popped out in all directions. They ran to the party room, hereafter PR. The PR was next to the golf flags. It had just materialized. It was a PR from Embassy Skate Center. I actually worked in Embassy Skate Center, cleaning the PRs. The PR was about 12 by 20 feet and the walls were dominated by tall windows. You could basically see what was happening at any one moment in the PR. When the bandits rushed the PR, there were already things going on. These things included talking and drinking. Nobody had paid much attention to any other activities, though presumably there were some.

It was clear soon that the bandits hadn't lied about their violent intentions. As it turned out, there was one person whom they wished to pummel. The initial rush caused a fair amount of chaos in the PR. A girl, seemingly uninvolved previously, took a huge swing at the group. Her swing showed no regard for who she might hit. Who she hit I do not know.

Within about thirty three seconds, the mob was dispersed. The bandits, for the most part, had left the PR. They became as uninvolved as I. The involved reduced to two young men. It was clear that the two had some history that they wished to resolve, though said history was never made clear to me. Neither one of them had shirts. Both wore board shorts. Both wore flip-flops. One wore glasses. He was the one with long hair, hereafter LH. I did not recognize either one.

LH was clearly the superior gladiator. He stuck with jabs. He weakened with body shots. He finished with hooks and uppercuts. His knee made an appearance. With the arrival of his knee came the arrival of the other kid's blood. The match was decided within a few moments. It had been a resounding victory for LH.

The other kid was being interviewed. I had camera lens view of the thing. He didn't look as bad as before. He wore glasses. On his head rested a backwards cap, hereafter BC. Somehow he was still cocky. The cameraman told BC to check his teeth for loose ones. BC replied that they all felt fine. He seemed to think that having been overwhelmed by a group meant that his relative bludgeoning wasn't a loss. I seemed to think differently. I felt bad at first when he was attacked, I really didn't feel anything during the one-on-one, and I wanted him to really get it during the interview.

The whole dream, though mostly the party scene, had a strong lemon flavor and tone.

Paulo Freire Poem

2009-10-30T10:04:00.000-07:00

I found this incredible poem in Freire's book Daring To Dream: Toward a Pedagogy of the Unfinished, published by Paradigm Publishers in 2007

"Some time after his arrival

the foreigner said to the men in the valley

one dusking afternoon:

Thus far I have spoken to you only

of the songs of birds and

of the tenderness of the dawns.

It was necessary to undertake with you some

fundamental learning:

to feel out the uncertainty of tomorrow,

living out the negation of myself,

through a work that is not our own.

Only so, speaking to you would be a form of

speaking with you.

Now I can tell you:

We do not believe in those who proclaim

that our weakness is a gift from the Gods,

that it is in us as the fragrance in the flowers

or the dew in the mornings.

Our weakness is not the ornament

of our bitter lives.

We do not believe in those who state,

in hypocritical intonation,

that life is really like this

-a few having so much,

millions having nothing.

Our weakness is not a virtue.

Let us pretend, however, that we do believe

in their discourse.

It is important that not a gesture of ours

reveal our true intention.

It is important that they leave happy in their lie,

certain that we are things of their own.

We need time

to prepare our own discourse

that will shake up the mountains and valleys,

rivers and oceans

and that will leave them stunned and fearful.

Our different discourse

-our action-word-will be spoken

by our whole bodies:

our hands, our feet, our reflections.

All within us speak

a life-bearing language

-even the instruments that

our hands will use,

when, in communion, we

shall transform our weakness

into our strength.

Poor us, however, if we cease to speak

simply because they can no longer lie.

Therefore, I tell you:

Our liberation discourse

Is not the medicine for a passing illness.

If we go silent as the present lies quiet down,

new lies will appear,

in the name of our liberation.

Our different discourse

-our action-word-

As a true discourse

will be made and remade;

it never is or will have been,

because it will always be being.

Our different discourse

-our action-word-

must be a permanent one."

-Paulo Freire

Geneva

April 1971

Henry Louis Gates, Jr. Quote

2009-10-30T10:02:00.000-07:00

"There is no tolerance without respect, no respect without knowledge."

Dream 9/31/2009

2009-10-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

I climb stacks of records. Public records. All the way to the sun. The higher I get and the closer to the sun, the older the records become. The earliest are when humans started to ask what the sun was.

I'm terribly sunburned. I am really close to the sun. I have given my life to the quest of conquering the records of our species' past. I am really sunburned.

I take some photos of the sun. No one has ever taken such amazing photos of the sun. This holds true even in the face of their bad quality. It's the context. Get it?

Riley is on a balcony on the other side of the sun. I don't know what planet or body he is on. It doesn't matter. He takkes pictures of me. The flash hurts my eyes. This is funny becuase I am really close to the sun.

I make it down from the stack of records.

I stay at Hostal Residencial Sucre. I actually stayed there in Quito, Ecuador, for over a month.

At the hostal, someone steals my camera. It is called the Little Blue Camera That Will. I yell. I yell becuase they've stolen the photos of the sun. The same photos that would have changed the course of the world.

Dream 9/15/2009

2009-10-30T09:32:00.000-07:00

Friend, Chris, hereafter CL, shows part of a movie. It is the opening scene of the film. We are a group of 19 or 20. Most of us know the movie. I don't. It is late evening. Dusk. We are in a beautiful spot. Earlier, Kate and I tried to decide where to place the hammock. The scene is some really powerful speech. During the thing, I lay on the ground. Someone is talking. I miss the words in the speech. The talking ruined the speech. Later in the film, there is a little spaceship. The little spaceship is in a descent. It smashes the ground. Little dudes get out via ejection. They fly into a ravine. It is explained that they died really violent deaths. CL explains this as a desire to canonize and martyrize them. This wouldn't, naturally, be as effective if they survived for a time, were happy again, maybe even successful at fixing their little ship and escapping. At the end of the explanation, the movie is stopped. I comment that I would like to see it again sometime. A feller throws us all Snickers candies. For some reason, we're all really close. I really love all these people.

Notes of Race to the Top Program

2009-10-30T09:20:00.000-07:00

Part of American Recovery/Reinvestment Act of 2009 (referred to as the State Incentive Grant Fund).

$4.3 Billion for competitive grants to states

4 "Assurance" areas:

-Implementing standards/assessments

-Improving teacher effectiveness and achieving equity in teacher distribution

-Improving collection of and use of data

-Supporting struggling schools

50% of funding must go to LEAs

Priorities

-Absolute Priority-comprehensive approach to the 4 areas aforementioned

-Proposed Priority-emphasis on STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Mathematics)

-Invitational Priority-expansion and adaptation of statewide longitudinal data systems

-Invitational Priority-coordination and vertical alignment

-Invitational Priority-school level conditions for reform and innovation

There cannot be barriers linking student achievement to teacher effectiveness

Provide alternative certification path (including "Significantly limit the amount of coursework required or have options to test-out courses;)

Compensating and promoting (809)

Effective teacher-means a teacher whose students achieve acceptable rates (say at least one grade level growth in one academic year) of student growth

Find America COMPETES Act

Dream 9/3/2009

2009-10-30T09:17:00.001-07:00

Listening to De Contrabando by Jenni Rivera. I am with Raquel Welch, hereafter RW. My friend Justin is with me and RW. We are fighting ghostly horsed warriors.

We three board a plane. The plane has had it's head cut off. That is to say, it is a drop-top. It is short and stubby. The plane flies to the battlefield. We land on a cliff. The ass of the plane is hanging off.

In the plane and on the battlefield we conduct battle with the Mother Ship, hereafter MS. We defeat the MS.

Dream 8/31/2009

2009-10-30T09:15:00.000-07:00

We're playing a video game. It starts off killing dinosaurs. I am Lil' Wayne.

In another part of the game, we have to find and kill an old man. Neil, for some reason, is going to be the killer. He stabs the old man int he midst of some Mexicans. It doesn't work.

He then puts a bag over the man's head. It doesn't work.

Consumer Comfort

2009-10-30T09:13:00.000-07:00

Think about how comfortable we are made as consumers. Think about restaurants, street signs, advertisements, storefront signs, business descriptions. Think about this in comparison to how you felt in Ecuador, strolling the streets of Quito Viejo, searching for a locale that served vegetarian foods. Pretty incredible.

Dream 8/21/2009

2009-10-30T09:12:00.000-07:00

I'm listening to a fatso lady on CNN interview.

I'm playing with games on my laptop.

Dream 8/17/2009

2009-08-20T18:58:00.001-07:00

My roommate Riley's alarm, in "real life," is going off. The sound is a repeated bing, somewhere in between the sound a bell makes and the sound a honk makes. As this is happening, I am dreaming.

I am purchasing a new car using either a computer or an iPhone application. I choose the car, and decide to see what kind of price I'll be offered. I hit the "Calculate" button to see the final cost of the vehicle that I have just customized. As I do so, it starts adding costs like taxes, titles, and licenses. Each time it adds a cost, the alarm goes, "bing."

The alarm must have binged about a hundred times, because there ended up being a couple of thousand dollars of overcosts. The final price of the car- $218, 534.

Dream 8/10/2009

2009-08-20T18:55:00.001-07:00

Playing soccer with kids.

Bully kid=keeper.

I have to pay the lady money from working at the snack bar. I have change.

Dream 12/7/2009

2009-07-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

I am involved in some real heavy shit. Deeply involved. I remember being on the top story of a parking garage. It`s open to the sky. It is nighttime.

I am being chased by a guy. He seems to be part monster as well as man.

I jump into a dodge van, grey. The keys are inside the ignition. I`ve only to start the thing to make it go vroom, vroom. It is the van of some sort of federal office. Dark grey. Shifter is the one with the big ball at the end.

I put the rhino into gear. The gear I choose is Reverse, represented by a capital "R" with a circle around it. I am zooming down the streets that make up the levels of the parking garage. At the front gate, I (the car) is recognized and the guard opens for me to exit. I blaze down the road.

I arrive at a large, monolithic building. Inside the first door, I discover a hallway. It looks like a depressing office building. I find Sterling, my brother, and tell him about all the deep shit that I`ve found myself in Federal shit. I`m up for Federal Grand Theft, Robbery, lots of money somehow, stealing an airplane, resisting and/or avoiding arrest, etc...laundry list.

I tell him that I just wanted to show people that there are those out there struggling to survive, though I know I`m not one of those people.

Sterling tells me to run. Why not? You can`t be holed up in a cell for the rest of your life. Follow me.

We pass by his wife, Kathryn. She is sitting on a table sorting through documents. She is doing her job. She says hello to me and blows Sterling a kiss with utmost class and reserve. We arrive at a cubicle amongst hundreds in a large office. My mom is sitting on the other side of the desk. Also there is a girl I used to date.

I start telling Mom about the shit I`m in. The speech sounds the same as it did with Sterling just moments earlier. There is part of me that is really proud of having sacrificed so much just to prove a point of injustice.

Dream 11/7/2009

2009-07-23T08:08:00.000-07:00

There is a juice restaurant up the road. They only want me to get juice from there. I am having trouble finding the place. I am confused as to what part of town the juice restaurant is in. They keep giving me directions.

Dream 10/7/2009

2009-07-23T08:04:00.000-07:00

(These couple of days I was sick. I don`t know exactly what it was, but I had some flu-like symptoms. I think this added to the visceral nature of the dreams. They really were powerful, and generally unlikeable. Very lucid.)

I`m walking into the market. I need a bus ticket to Otavalo, Ecuador. The market is 2-Dimensional. I am 3-Dimensional. The only thing I can buy is bunches of herbs, of fresh spices. Then I have to sell them. I finally figure out the dimensions problem. By sleeping sideways, I am able to interact on their dimension.

Then, I realize I can`t sleep well because my blankets only speak Spanish. Evidently, I do not speak well enough to manage with a Spanish speaking blanket.

Dream 9/7/2009

2009-07-23T07:40:00.000-07:00

There is a guy that lives in our backyard on Sir Philip. (I actually used to live on Sir Philip street. It is in San Antonio. The "dream" backyard looks as did the "real" backyard.) I know that the man is some sort of "tribal man." For some reason, I keep thinking the word "tribal" describes the man. His forehead is quite massive. His features make me think of the word, "neanderthal."

My mom and I watch the man scale 100 meters up a tree, without use of ropes. It is impressive.

He meets me and my mom at the garage. He wants to say hello to her. He thinks that to do so he must kiss her on the lips. He is confused by customs. Mom calmly says, "No, like this," and offers her hand to shake.

I am walking along Joe Ben`s funeral. (Joe Ben is a character in Ken Kesey`s novel, Sometimes A Great Notion. In the book, Joe Ben dies drowning while stuck under a log. He and his family, the Stampers, are loggers in Oregon. Great book.)

At the funeral are hundreds of people. They are mostly chatting. I am meeting all of the characters from the aforementioned novel. I don`t, at the time, know exactly who they are. I just know they are from the novel.

I am walking along a row of restaurants. I want papas fritas. Papas fritas are french fries in a different language. None of the restaurants are offering papas fritas, or french fries.

Enter the US Embassy in Quito. (I have actually, in "real life," entered the US Embassy in Quito.) I tell the people that I`m to stay there until I receive my passport. The clerk tells me something has come up in the report. I know the report, although there was no such thing in "real life." He says it`s come up that for a time years back, I was drinking a lot of beers. He also says it looks like I didn`t have a job for about a year and a half. I tell him this: "No shit, it`s called college, and I was teaching full time."

A female clerk send me upstairs. I`m to have surgery to complete my eligibility for a new passport. The surgery will be on my leg.

I am with my big brother Sterling. (I actaully have a big brother Sterling.) We are, in total, a group of 15 to 20. The majority of the group is made of soccer and hockey teammates of his, that is, Sterling`s. The group plays ultimate frisbee at some sort of sports park.

I head to the parking lot to toss the ball with one fella. It is shaped and colored like a baseball. It bounces in the following pattern: first bounce, high-arched, thin parabola, gliding slowly. Second bounce, very low-arched, long stride, zooming past. Repeat. There is a little kid with his sister there. The little snot is 8 years old. His little snotty sister is 5. They are getting in our business. The little snot is telling me that we are doing it wrong. "You`re not supposed to use your hands," the little shit says. He thinks we want to be playing fùtbol.

"Go to hell," I finally tell the little shit. "Get the fuck out of here if you don`t wanna play baseball."

The little snotty shit`s mom goes bananas. She says she is gonna get me booted from the place. I tell her I don`t believe in hell, so the statements don`t really mean anything grave. This doesn`t appease the bananas mom.

She, indeed, kicks me out. On the way out, I pass a large beer hall. I look for my brother, Sterling, or any of his friends. I see a long, lanky friend of Sterling`s. He tells me that most of the fellas have already gone home.

Dream 7/7/2009

2009-07-23T07:36:00.000-07:00

I am in a deserted town. Most people are dead. I find a restaurant. I sit and tell of the cabrón from the bus. (There really was a cabròn from the bus. He was drunk and during the night was either trying to get fresh, grabbing my thigh, or he was intending, feebly, to rob me. I told him I`d kill him.)

Across from me at the table sits Molly Ringwold. She has aged naturally but it is clear who she is. In the dream, I had just seen 16 Candles on the bus. (I haven`t ever seen 16 Candles in `real life.´)

Someone at the table asks if she has ever seen 16 Candles. She says that she was in the movie. Of course.

Shit, the person says, Molly Ringwold lives in our town!!

He Has a Hemingway of Giving it to You Straight

2009-07-13T09:34:00.000-07:00

So, I have been reading Death in the Afternoon by Ernest Hemingway. It´s his book that combines descriptions of bullfights, bullfighters, bulls, etc...in really nice Hemingway honesty and assholishness. Towards the end of the book (just before the 40 some odd pages glossary) is somewhat of a stream of memories, each condensed to less than a full sentence, which, all together as a list, remind him of some of the better years of bullfighting in Spain. After this, which is really lovely in its own right comes the following words. I got what I got from it, which was quite a lot. You can interpret for yourself.

Keep in mind, I´m awaiting my departure from Ecuador tonight, after an incredibly beautiful and empowering 5 months here.

"I know things change now and I do not care. It´s been all changed for me. Let it all change. We´ll all be gone before it´s changed too much and if no eluge comes when we are gone it still will rain in summer in the north and hawks will nest in the Catedral at Santiago and in La Granja, where we practised with the cape on the long gravelled paths between the shadows; it makes no difference if the fountains play or not. We will never ride back from Toledo in the dark, washing the dust out with Fundador, nor will there be that week of what happened in the night in that July in Madrid. We´ve seen it all go and we´ll watch it all go agian. The great thing is to last and get your work done and see and hear and learn and understand; and write when there is something that you know; and not before; and not too damned much after. Let those who want to save the world if you can get to see it clear and as a whole. Then any that you make will represent the whole if it´s made truly. The thing to do is work and learn to make it."

-Papa
Death in the Afternoon

Two Negatives Making a Positive

2009-07-05T19:46:00.000-07:00

I step off the Metrobus about 4 days ago. Within 5 steps, I feel something tap my left arm, where some people have biceps. I glance over and recognize what has happened. A bird has shit on my shirt. The bird shit is comprised of two forms of matter, that I can see, at least. The first is solid. The second is liquid. The solid is, from what I can tell, the shell or skin of a small berry or fruit. They solid pieces are a dark purple color, almost black. The liquid is, from what I can tell, just bird shit. Later in the day, after having flicked the solids from my shirt, the liquid remains. It looks like disappearing ink that just won´t disappear.

The next day, I´m wearing the same shit shirt. I´ve done nothing to address the non-disappearing ink. At this point, I´m still without money and I think being able to say that I´m literally covered in shit might help with the relateable part of my story...the empathy winner. I step off the Metrobus again. You see, the shitty day provided me with no concrete assistance, so I´m back to take another shot. After about 7 steps off of the Metrobus, the rain comes. I have slick sandals on, which is not to say fashionable. They prefer to treat water like it´s cousin, ice, when they meet on the sidewalks. The dirt on my feet has turned to mud. I am slip sliding away, while I jog to find a place to have a beer and some foodstuffs. I arrive at an Indian restaurant, having been craving Indian food for weeks, and realize something wonderful. The non-disappearing ink has disappeared. My assumption is that the water has washed the liquid bird shit off of my shirt sleeve.

For this, I can vouch that, in some cases, two negatives really do make a positive. Actually, it´s more like a neutral, but we´ll use our imaginations.

Dream 1/7/2009

2009-07-05T19:35:00.001-07:00

We are a group. I am with friends. I don´t know who these people are as soon as I wake up. They are, for me in waking life, strangers. We are swimming in a natural swimming hole. We are having fun diving off of rocks. We are naked. Each one of us has a partner. Still, though, we are currently having fun as a group of friends.

I get the feeling that we are being watched. We move to the man made swimming pool. It looks like a resort that I´ve never been to.

In a flower pot which also doubles as a lamp, I find a camera lens. The lens has a red light on it. This tells me it is on and working. This means someone has been watching us swim in the resort pool. Somehow, I immediately know who it is that has been watching. It is the old, somewhat grumpy guy that lived at Shady Oaks Apartments. Shady Oaks Apartments is a real apartment complex located in Austin, Texas. I really lived there. The aforementioned Grump also lived there.

There is some sort of investigation that flashes across my field of vision. I see that he is into young girls. Young for me right now means 14 and 15. Specifically, he likes girls with strange haircuts. I see several examples of the weirdness that gets him off.

We plan to meet with the Grump to settle the score. We want to settle it once and for all, which is to say forever. When we approach him, he shoots the girl who is my partner. She is my girlfriend. I am her boyfriend. I know this. His bullets hit my girlfriend in three places. One place is the forehead. Another place is the right shoulder. The final place hit is the gullet. My girlfriend, with her three bullet wounds, falls to the asphalt. She is bleeding some, but less than you might think. She is still in her bikini from the swimming. It is blue. The blue is in the middle of north carolina tar heels blue and detroit pistons blue. It is similar to detroit lions blue.

A few minutes later the girlfriend says she feels fine. The bleeding from her bullet holes has stopped. We share stories that we´ve encountered which tell of people having survived bullet wounds to the forehead. We decide that she still may die. We decide that for what may or may not be the last moments of her life, we should have sex. She reminds me to be gentle, because she still might die.

Cultural Conservation as a Natural Act

2009-07-05T19:14:00.000-07:00

This morning when I woke in the lovely Hostal Residencial Sucre, in Quito, Pichincha, Ecuador, I was pleased to hear from the adjacent Plaza San Francisco live music. I made my way down to the thing to check it out. I listen to a few songs, and then comes the dancing. I soon see colorful costumes and a large mix of people who comprise the audience. This makes me happy.

As I watch the various dances, performed by various indigenous groups, each representing a piece of the way of life of said groups. Some represented the tradition of neighbors helping neighbors build their homes, one at a time. Another represented the cycle of growing and harvesting choclo, maiz, corn. A third was an effigy to an herb used in traditional healing practices.

I enjoy these dances, and I enjoy the music. I feel more like I am in Ecuador than any other time when I hear the Andean flutes and see the brilliant costumes. I have been known to get teary at these performances, because I really meditate on how lucky I am to be spending time in Ecuador.

During the performance dedicated to the herb, a young boy of about five entered the "dance floor," as defined by the arrangement of the audience, a square of probably 8 meters by 8 meters. The boy, who we later found out was named Mateo, was a lovely little man with a long black pony tail and fairly dark complexion, and he arrived on the scene and began stomping along with the music. His steps were perfect. As intently as our eyes were stuck to the little guagua, so were his on the female dancers who were praising the Pachamama. He was so interested and so enamored with the steps of the dancers and with the music. Throughout the duration of the song, probably 8 minutes, Mateo stomped around the perimeter of the square, displaying not only skill in keeping the beat, but, more importantly, displaying pride in himself and his fellow dancers.

At one point, an older lady in the front row of the audience tried to grab Mateo. He escaped. On his next lap, she tried again, this time coaxing him to exit by putting a fifty-cent piece in his tiny palm. Mateo, not yet interested in finance, immediately threw the silver coin and continued his triumphant strut. At this point, I had a laugh, as did most of the crowd. As some of you might know, laughing and crying are actually quite close cousins, and I found myself unable to control the waterworks, so to speak.

It was such a wonderful thing to see. The crowd, the pride of the dancers, the pride and interest of little Mateito in his countrywomen and their traditions, his rejection of money in the face of cultural solidarity. Perhaps I´m reading very deeply into something that, as we know, could have been childish sponteneity. But I don´t care. It was wonderful and profound for me.

Cultural conservation, executed as naturally as I´ve ever seen. What a world?

Dream 29/6/2009

2009-07-05T19:07:00.001-07:00

I am on some sort of farm. The farm exists in the nation of Holland. Batiste´s mother is here. I am not alone. I am with Batiste and Chris. We are getting ready to leave the place to travel.

As we walk along the farm to Batiste´s mother´s house, we ask for the flag. We ask for it with energy, and we ask for it repeatedly. Like this. "The flag, the flag, the flag, etc..."

A group of hundreds of people respond to our request. All of a sudden, a stripe of orange is raised up above the people´s heads. It covers one third of the people´s heads. Next, a stripe of white is raised, parallel and flush with the orange stripe. The orange stripe is exactly as thick as the white stripe. After white comes blue. It is a light blue. In Spanish, it would be celeste. Celeste is similar to sky blue.

Because we saw "the flag," we each get a small flag of our own. We are able to choose from flags all across the world. The flags are about the size of a postal stamp. Not one of us chooses Holland for our free flag. I choose Ecuador.

People are showing me their animals. They have animals on leashes. They use the leashes to keep control of the animals while they walk them. The animals are the following: pumas, lions, jaguars, etc...Walking their animals, the people are very proud. I have the red ass because I don´t think said animals should be domesticated in this manner.

The place is a village for people who do artesania. Artesania means artisan craftwork. This usually means bracelets and necklaces made out of string with wax on it.

Attraction Manifests Itself In the Darndest Ways.

2009-07-05T19:04:00.001-07:00

So, I´m sitting in a restaurant in Loja. There is a girl that is so attractive here, I am nearly getting a boner. I am not dwelling in perversion, nor am I fantasizing about anything. Just noticing her beauty, my attraction needs a way to manifest itself. My body seems to think a boner is an option.

Being Filthy

2009-07-05T18:57:00.000-07:00

I´m filthy. I have scabby sores on my legs which originated over a month ago as simple horsefly bites on Rhiannon farm. My Leatherman knife cut my finger (while attempting to open a bottle of wine in a hostal that outlaws booze). My feet are black and brown with Loja city grime. I am peeling. My hair is still full of sand. A black ball-point pen burst in my slacks´ pocket. I got shit on by a bird while drawing Iglesia San Francisco. There´s a spot from Patate on the leg of my slacks. I haven´t been in Patate in three months. Deoderant doesn´t work.

I really don´t feel bad about it. I really looked forward to a hot shower upon arrival in Loja from the beach. I have yet to follow through in over 72 hours in Loja. In an entire day of eating, drawing, walking, I wasn´t able to make it to the lavanderia to wash my clothes, cause I don´t give a shit.

I´m wondering what this means. What is it that keeps me comfortable, even more comfortable, a bit grimy? Is there some sort of ideological thing that it stems from? Am I just downright lazy? If there is an ideological underpinning, and I get a job wherein I have no choice but to bathe often, will I be violating something important to me? Think on that.

Church Crowd Loja, Ecuador

2009-07-05T18:48:00.001-07:00

I´m sitting at the Plaza San Francisco, in the provincial capital of Loja, Ecuador. It´s a fairly nice Plaza, complete with a church, also called San Francisco.

As I sit, I´m thinking about what a Cuencan city guide said about mendigos, or beggars. I posted the quote, but it basically blames the beggars for their woes, and explains that they taint Cuenca with their country ways.

Outside the church, in the evening, I hear some sort of Mass going on inside. Outside have gathered the following three types of people:

1) vendors (of candles, milagros, paintings, jewelry, crucifixes, etc...)
2) mendigos (legless, old, crawling, filthy, sad, destroyed, etc...)
3) artists (I´m drawing the church with a bottle of wine in my bag)

Anyway, it kills me to think that anyone, much less an entire city, would have such a terrible attitude seemingly devoid of empathy such as that which was displayed in the brochure. For crying out loud, the fucking lady has no legs, she´s crawling around on the floor with shoes on her hands. Crippled or not, a buck is a totally different thing for me than for her.

PS. I forgot. There´s a fourth group present here this evening:

4) the PDAers (making out, groping, entangled, in love, in lust, both, nice).

Bunny Wailer and Seeing Everything in Ecuador

2009-07-05T18:42:00.000-07:00

There´s a story told about Bunny Wailer that I have always found interesting. I relate to it in a way I think about my being in Ecuador, specifically that my being here is coming to an end...at least for this visit.

Bunny Wailer was one of the three original members of Bob Marley´s music group, The Wailing Wailers, later The Wailers, and finally Bob Marley and the Wailers. Bunny Wailer was said to have metaphysical powers, and stories have been told about his ability to put curses on people.

Evidently, a record company stooge suggested to Bunny that the group name their second or third album The Greatest Hits of The Wailers. Bunny replied that if, indeed, the album should be called The Greatest Hits, then said stooge would never again hear anything better. He died within weeks.

The other day, as I planned the last few weeks of my trip here, I was pondering what I wanted to see. Obviously, in a country so diverse and beautiful, I am realistic in knowing I´ll miss a great deal. I decided that trying to rush through the last bit here, trying to see as much as possible is, in a way, telling the universe that I don´t plan on coming back soon, or even at all.

This is not the message I want to send to the universe. For that, I´ll not rush. You can´t make me.

On International Cuisine

2009-07-05T18:39:00.000-07:00

Sitting in A Lo Mero Mero Mexican Restaurant in Loja, Ecuador. ´How unbelievably sad, I´m thinking, that no matter where you are in the world, you have to do without another place´s incredible food, right?´

Wrong, somewhat. Learn to cook the food, grow the ingredients, practice the methods, make it happen. What a joy the internet is to have so readily available?

Letter to American Express

2009-07-02T13:39:00.000-07:00

So, I received money through a wire transfer from American Express. Finally.

The lady at Ecuadorian Tours, an AMEX affiliate, asked that I write a report explaining basically that they did nothing wrong. I have a hard time excusing ignorance, but I think the responsibility to communicate is that of the huge company. The following is the report.

" July 2, 2009

American Express
P.O. Box 981540
El Paso,TX 79998-1540

My name is Jay Cameron Allen, and I have been an AMEX card holder for about seven years in total, since sometime in 2002. My father holds several accounts and has been a loyal customer for over 25 years. I am writing to express my displeasure at the way a recent issue, or number of issues, in fact, was handled by various departments within your company. I will tell the tale in sequential order, as I think doing so will highlight and clarify my reasons for having become frustrated.

On Saturday, the 27th of June, I was staying in a hostel in the small town of Vilcabamba, Ecuador on vacation. As I was out, my entire backpack was stolen, which included, amongst other personal items, a laptop computer, an HD video camera, my passport, three credit cards, including my personal Green Card, and cash.

The next morning, the 28th, I was quick to cancel all the cards, and was given some quick advice as to how to address my problem of being left with literally no cash whatsoever. Luckily, I was with some travelling friends of mine, who were saintly enough to lend me what they could afford. Rest assured, however, on a backpacker’s budget, extra cash is scant if existent at all. The money they lent me was sufficient to travel to the nation’s capital, Quito, a few days later after dealing with the police.

On Tuesday the 30th, I entered the office of Ecuadorian Tours, located here in Quito at Avenida Amazonas and Jorge Washington. They are a travel agency with the power to issue replacement American Express cards to those who have lost theirs or have had theirs stolen. The process began at Ecuadorian Tours in the early afternoon.

After four hours or so, many spent on the phone with either my father in Texas or with American Express, we still have not received the authorization needed from American Express to issue the replacement card. The details told were many, however the main issue was that American Express continued to claim that a fax had been sent to authorize a replacement card, while I, sitting next to a quiet fax machine, knew that the reality was otherwise.

We spoke with various departments during this time, including the emergency services department, the CRUSH department, and various others. After over five hours of inaction, filled rather with conflicting stories from all sides, an email was received that authorized the issuance of said card.

The card was issued. To the best of their knowledge, Ecuadorian Tours explained to me the possibilities that the card offered. It was explained to me that the card can be used at ATMs of the Banco de Guayaquil, a local bank here in Ecuador. Sure enough, as I approach the Banco de Guayaquil ATM, I am comforted to see the American Express logo amongst the logos present. The card is thereafter rejected as invalid. I walk to another ATM. The card is again rejected as invalid. The office of Ecuadorian Tours is now closed, as it seems is the door of opportunity for me to pay for food or lodging. For you see, this is now three days after having been robbed, and getting sustenance has become a serious issue.

The next morning, I receive an email from my father. Without money, I have been unable to directly contact either my bank or American Express. He informs me that he has been told by American Express that the card is unrecognizable by ATMs because it has yet to be linked with my bank account in the United States. I, therefore, simply need to call American Express and link the two, so that the money will be taken out against my checking account with Bank of America.

To do this, I must find a place to use the telephone. I head directly to the US Embassy here in Quito, located at Eloy Alfaro and Avigiras. The plan is to deal with my stolen passport, as well as plead for assistance on a financial front. Before the Embassy opens its services to citizens, I walk a few blocks down the road, armed with what I believe to be a defunct American Express card and a few cents in my pockets. I aim to find a place where I can buy a piece of bread or two. As luck would have it, I spot a Domino’s Pizza, and decide that it can’t hurt to try the card there. As I expected, the multiple swipes on the card produce nothing. I suggest to the gentleman that he might try by manually typing the number of the card in. He does. It runs perfectly. I eat, finally. I now assume that the problem is the magnetic stripe.

Back at the Embassy, I discover that they are unable to assist me directly with cash, which I understand. They are able, however, to allow me use of the telephone so that I can complete the task aforementioned.

After another two hours or so, I complete the necessary link between the replacement card that I have been issued and my Bank of America checking account. To do so, I provide my bank account number and routing number for my bank located in San Antonio, Texas. At the end of this activity, I am asked to give the American Express representative a four-digit number that I will not forget. This will serve as my pin number. I understand, at the end of this conversation very clearly, that the pin will be good for a one-time withdrawal, within seven days of its issuance. The maximum withdrawal is five hundred dollars US. We are very clear about this. We are also very clear that this withdrawal can be completed at a Banco de Guayaquil, which as I said earlier, is the only bank of the area to have a direct link with American Express.

After speaking with Bank of America for another number of hours, I head to a Banco de Guayaquil near the hostel on whose floor I`m currently sleeping for a dollar a night, borrowed money. For you see, I have enough confidence in what I´ve been told that I want to be near a place to lock up the loads of cash I`m on the verge of receiving, finally.

The first ATM, as luck would have it, is out of order. The second ATM, around the corner, claims that the card, again is invalid. I go back to the first location to speak with a teller at Banco de Guayaquil, located in Quito Viejo on Bolivar near Garcia Moreno. The teller answers that, even though the magnetic strip will not work, they are not able to do a withdrawal on an American Express card. She directs me to the central location in Quito, at Rio Amazonas and Colòn.

I arrive to the bank at about 17:30, nervous that the offices will surely be closed. Luckily, however, I am able to enter and express my problem. I am told that with some form of identification, at this point my Certificado de Visaciòn from the Ecuadorian Embassy in Houston, I am able to make the emergency withdrawal of up to five hundred dollars US. I am, naturally, overjoyed. After waiting in the lobby for nearly an hour, the guard announces that the national system has died for the day, and that we`re to come back in the morning.

As I head home, I decide to try and coax vendors to use the same method which worked at the Domino`s Pizza restaurant earlier in the day. I am unable to do so. Many seem confused as to what restrictions and options they have being an American Express business. Some told me that it is impossible to manually type in the American Express card number, others that they had no way of communicating with American Express, and others that simply acted as though they were making an effort, which they clearly weren´t. Even the supermarket claimed that they were only able to enter manually card numbers for Visa and Mastercard, excluding only American Express.

This morning, the morning of the 2nd of July, I head back to the Banco de Guayaquil, again filled with the confidence that was incessantly offered me by American Express representatives across the gamut of positions, offices, and departments. As my number is called, I make sure all my documents are in order, and I, with confidence, request the one-time, emergency withdrawal that I have been promised countless times. I am greeted with confusion at first, then denial by the manager. He tells me that the Banco de Guayaquil has no power to give money by any means other than the ATM. He apologizes when I remind him that this literally means whether I sleep in a public park or not and whether, when I finally do get to sleep, my stomach will, again, be devoid of a true meal.

Being that I am still unable to make telephone calls, including collect calls, I return to Ecuadorian Tours to sort out the problem with the magnetic strip on the card. As I arrive, I realize that there is nothing this office, with the information that they have been given, can do about the situation. Luckily, they are willing to offer their phone for a time, so that I can attempt to sort the situation out directly with American Express.

I climb various trees through the American Express departments, which I am used to by now. Before long, I am given some information that, frankly, takes me for a complete shock. I am told that, paraphrasing the magnetic strip on the replacement cards is not functional, rather is put there to make it look like a real American Express card. I am also told that emergency cards have a five day period in which they cannot be used and that I should never have received the one-time, emergency pin number which had been given me the previous day.

Finally, luckily, I am connected to a young lady named Crystal ________. After hearing, nay, truly listening to my story, and having recognized my name and the case from earlier in the week, Crystal decides that she will do what she can to help me. She helps me to clear up the discrepancies that still matter at this point (though dozens still exist in my understanding, or lack thereof, of the process and the system). She decides that we will circumvent the Banco de Guayaquil altogether and instead look for a location nearby that will accept my weak forms of identification and accept the transfer. Within the hour, Crystal has found, along with a Spanish-speaking colleague, a nearby bank that will do just that. She provides me with the proper information, and within thirty minutes of receiving it, I have claimed at the Banco Pro Credit a transfer for five hundred US dollars. Additionally, Crystal waives the twenty US dollar fee that generally comes with wiring of money.

At this point, I am going to move on with the rest of my trip. I lack less than two weeks here, and I am not the type of person to let things continue to affect my mood after the fact. Finally, I am able to say after the fact.

However, there are some take-away points that I would like to share as a loyal customer, coming from a family of long-time, extremely loyal customers. In general, to quote a movie, “what we have here is a failure to communicate.”

This failure to communicate exists at all levels. This failure to communicate manifests itself, ultimately, in the suffering and emotional taxation of a customer. However, more importantly, something that only Ms. __________ seems to realize, is that said suffering and emotional taxation is affecting a human being. This failure to communicate has also caused my personal loss in any faith I had in American Express to truly be where they are needed in a time of true emergency. I almost question how American Express, both as a company as well as on and individual level, would define “an emergency situation.” I can tell you that if I am in an emergency such as this, a five-day waiting period is not sufficient.

There is a communication problem between American Express and the foreign entities bearing their name. Both the Banco de Guayaquil and Ecuadorian Tours are proudly sporting your logo emblazoned on their letterheads, advertisements, and storefronts. However, the fact is that there is a general, though simultaneously profound, confusion as to what the connection between the two entities is. I wholeheartedly deny that any malice was at play with my situation, robbery omitted. However, malicious or otherwise, the damage is still done.

For their part, Banco de Guayaquil seems utterly confused as to what they offer given the relationship they have with American Express.

For their part, Ecuadorian Tours seems utterly confused as to what they offer given their relationship they have with American Express.

I cannot help but put the onus on the entity, of the three, that I know and trust best, to be the leader in clarification of policy, as well as any changes thereof. That entity, as you might have guessed, is American Express. I do not fault the thousands of agencies around the world who have connections with American Express for the lack of communication.

Simply put, I trust you. I have trusted you since I became a cardholder, and likely before that day, as I listened to my father claim the faith he had in your company. I have, in the last week, lost a great deal of that trust. I do not think there is anything that can be said nor done that could ameliorate that damage.

I only ask, for those that experience similar situations in the future, that you take responsibility of leading the discourse on policy. The small businesses around the world that so proudly sport your logo have a right and a responsibility to understand what they can and cannot offer as an affiliate. Because I trust you, much like those who follow me in dealing with such unfortunate circumstances trust you, I implore you to take the lead in solving the problems of misunderstanding, conflicting information, and overall lack of empathy that exist, both within American Express and beyond.

Please, if you have any questions or comments for me, contact me by email. Until the 15th of July, I will be enjoying the little time I have left here in Ecuador, so I expect you will understand if the any reply does not arrive with utmost hastiness.

In addition, I would like to further and more explicitly recognize that Crystal ________, of the hundreds of representatives I spoke with, was the singular person to show empathy towards my plight, as well as to allow that empathy to manifest itself into solutions. Real solutions. This is what I expect from a company such as American Express. Please do not allow future problems to prove me overzealous in my expectations.

Sincerely,

Cameron Allen
Card Member since 2002
readtheworld@gmail.com"

The nice moments from yesterday.

2009-07-02T07:20:00.000-07:00

So, as I told a good friend of mine, I felt as if every corner I turned yesterday, I was struck in the testacles. However, the straightaways provided some good old Ecuadorian tales. Here are two of the highlights from yesterday. After thinking about them for sometime, I think yesterday was really a great day.

First, on the Metrobus (don`t know which route, too many to remember), I noticed a little kid, about 8, who was with his mama. He was sitting in the window seat and she in the aisle. I noticed him looking out the window, with more interest and intrigue than the entire bus combined. He still seemed so excited about what was going on, and the possibliities that the streets held for his peepers. It was really a wonderful thing to see. One of those times, as a teacher, when you realize that that`s your job: to preserve the feeling of inquiry and interest that that scruffy little nincompoop was demonstrating.

At one point, he saw something worthy of pointing out, and turned to his mama to share what he`d discovered. As tenderly as I`ve ever seen before, in a way he had probably done a thousand times, he noticed his mama with her eyes closed, and slowly drew his hand back so as not to disturb her. The way he did it was almost angelic, as you could tell how much he cared for his mother. At the same time, there was a sense of disappointment, for this thing he noticed outside of the window, to him, was of terrible importance. I was thinking that if I ever become a parent, or even as a teacher, I don`t ever want to miss moments such as this.

The second one is a little bit lighter.

I´m walking along the wall of the massive Centro Cultural Metropolitano, headed to the front door to check out the free exhibit on display. Having already seen a nice photo exhibit and a Marc Chagall exhibit based on the Odyssey, I had hopes of at least something quite different. I`m maybe not the biggest Chagall fan, but that doesn`t matter now, does it?

As I`m walking along, I see a puppy dog. In all likelihood, the rusty bugger is a street dog, whose general interests range from yesterday`s meat scrappings to that other dog´s ass...maybe twice. It doesn`t take long to realize that said pup is really focused on something which appears to be just inside the side door of the Centro. I`m thinking that a guard has bought himself a lunch, perhaps rice and a meat (national meal). Perhaps there is a child in the door, taunting the pupperoni with pepperoni pizza. Possibly a gutter punk is waving his mangy dreadlocks around to keep the dog so attentive.

As I arrive, I`m utterly surprised at what I discover. The pup is neither pining for pollo, praying for pizza, or deadlocked on dreadlock. The pup stands and peers into the windows of the library, simply watching people read. The pup just wants to know how to read. Or maybe he knows, and he simply needs to replace his library card, which might have been stolen. I felt much like the pup today, just needing a replacement card that would get me what I needed. Only what I was standing at attention for was exactly what interested the pup none, which was a nice plate of rice and beans, maybe with a little salad on the side.

As soon as I returned home to the Hostal Residencial Sucre, I did that pup right in the only way I knew how. I sank my teeth into a book for an entire evening, realizing all that I still had available to me.

Fairly long day in Quito after being robbed.

2009-07-01T18:09:00.000-07:00

This is an email that I sent my parents about today. I was robbed on Saturday night of my entire backpack. Computer, camera, cash, credit cards, passport, pens, all of it.

Temporally, this is out of order. There is more that has happened in the last week. Still, here´s the day.

"So, I just made it back home. Here{s the odyssey.

I take the metrobus (.25$) to the last station north at about 9:15 AM. From the map I think I´m only a few blocks, maybe a kilo away from the embassy. I walk and I walk and I walk. I continually ask passersby (which are scant along the way) if I+ve arrived yet. Each one says really far, really far, bus this bus that. I decide to walk, knowing that by the time I arrive at the Embassy, I´ll look like something the cat dragged in. Ends up being probably about 5 or 6 kilos, and I definately looked haggard and wan.

Arrival is nice, though I´m early and have to wait. In the meantime, I walk down the hill to find a panaderia, thinking bread is probably the thing to grab...cheap, filling, and pretty damn good in fact. Of course, any damn European will bitch and moan about it, waah, the bread in (fill in European country) is so much better. Yada yada yada.

On the way down the hill, I spot a Domino´s Pizza. Fuck it, what can it hurt. By now I´ve decided that the magnetic strip is bullshit, which is backed by the multiple attempts made by the pizza man. Finally, I suggest that he type in the numbers, which he does without problem. He types in the 15 digits, and voila, we´ve got pizza. In fact, we´ve a small salad and bread sticks without the cheese. But you get the point. Okay, so we´re on board. We simply need to request from vendors that they type in the numbers, and we´re in business.

As I eat, which probably wasn´t a pretty sight to see, I´m thinking about the interesting circumstance of my poverty. Most places I cannot even enter, for there is no way in the world they would serve me. These are the small, hole in the wall places with the best Ecuadorian food. Rather, I have to look for the biggest, most heartless, most corporatized, and generally most expensive spots to enter. After miles and miles of road traveling, I´m looking more like I belong in the hole in the wall. Which is where i wanna be in the first damn place.

I head back to Embassy row and am happy to find that I´m third in line (some things went great today). After a few minutes waiting, inside and out, I talk with a nice lady at window 11. I explain the situation, aided by the detail of a sweaty brow, with convincing passion (I imagine). I also try to hide the fact that I´ve just minutes before stuffed my gut with bread and salad, and a free sprite to boot (burps aplenty).

She says that the Embassy is no longer able to provide citizens directly with money. I tell her that I´m pretty close to being able to draw from my AMEX, if I could only use the phone (puppy dog eyes). She connects me and we go through the BofA tree, which I´m convinced rivals that of the family tree of the human race.

Finally, we get to the right lady, and she asks for two small pieces of information. Bank account number and routing number. Lady, I lie, my checkbook was stolen along with everything else. Especially the routing number. She puts me to another lady. Lady two has a little more pep in her step and is game for some investigative work. I resist the urge to call her dick, realizing that her being willing to help might be more fragile than my sanity, which at this point is a chandelier, or perhaps a lovely piece of china, devoid of any food or solutions of course.

Finally, we discover the bank´s routing number. Funny enough, I remember the bank and opening my account, lo these many years ago, because I remember how stupid my dreadlocks (I guess they deserve that name) looked in the picture. Little did I know, nearly ten years later I would still be showing that picture to friends and neighbors.

With this information, we complete the transaction. Done. The card will give me money. I decide that, even if the magnetic strip is junk, I will simply enter the bank for a withdrawal. Ha, winner. Just as I´m thinking this, the nice lady comes back into the room, on the other side of the window, of course. She´s had a nice 30 minute break. We were friends until, when I proclaimed my lack of faith in anyone mentioned above, she responded, "It´ll work. It´s gonna work." I should have gotten her address, just in case it didn´t.

Second order of business, and second hour in the Embassy, I attack the Bank of America debit card issue. I´m trying to get an emergency card or emergency cash, of which you can choose one, sent via DHL or FedEx. We climb the tree again, and finally get issues resolved. At last communication, I´ve chosen to have an emergency debit card sent to me at a DHL office here in Quito. It should, if things go right (ha), arrive on Friday. That would give me instant cash from any cash machine, for a pretty charge of $5 bucks. This is going well.

Finally, the Passport. The office is closed tomorrow and the rest of the week until Monday, in observance of some sort of important date. Who the hell knows these days, anyway? I will arrive on Monday, with necessary documents in hand, photos, police report, etc...and we´ll commence the emergency passport application process. This process can be done in minutes, which means days. Hopefully before the 15th. I got the feeling from the people I spoke with that it wont be a problem to get at least the emergency thing by the 15th. By this point, however, the feeling I get from people is probably about as valuable as the proverbial fart into a windstorm.

Embassy done.

I take a cab, fat and sassy, to the last stop on the line, Rio Coca. The dollar and a half kills me, but a few cents less than the hike did on the way up. Worth it, at the time. From the station, I head back, fatter and sassier, planning to stroll victoriously to the Banco de Guayaquil to get me some dinero. I have decided to do this close to the Hostal so that I´m not carrying half a thousand big ones. By the way, the AMEX withdrawal is a one-time thing. From a buck to five hundred, once. Only once. Guess that settles it.

The ATM at BdeG says, "Sorry, I´m a fucker. Come back in a few minutes, and I´ll tell you the same...but don´t you wanna see for yourself." I go across the street, thinking the largest hurdles have been cleared, and purchase a bottle of water and a 20 cent granadilla (a really nice fruit, similar to passion fruit). I return to the fucker, and he repeats his mantra. I walk down the street to another BdeG. He tells me, "Your card is a shit. It doesn´t care if you eat or if you sleep in the street. It wants me to say ´fuck you.´" Wow, quite direct. Not beating around the bush.

I return to the first BdeG, thinking I´ll just go through the line to fix the problem. Easy, piece of cake stuff, no? No. They can´t make withdrawals on AMEX cards at this branch. "Colón y Reina Victoria."

Back on the metro I go (.25$), headed to where I´ve just returned. I walk for a while and finally find the building, which I actually spotted up in the sky as I exited the Metro. Fancy, maybe the central Quito branch. That´s like Madison Avenue or something. At 5:45 PM, I enter the large bank, just happy that I´m allowed to enter. I speak with a lovely lady who agrees to ask the jefe if my Certificado de Visacion (the only identification I have at the moment) will be sufficient to make such a withdrawal. She returns with good news and a ticket with a waiting number.

Lovely, I´m thinking, this will give me time to reflect, relax, and write a little bit. Besides, the building is nicely air conditioned, which is welcome by me almost any time of the day. After about thirty minutes, the little guard walks around the group of us and proclaims that "the system is off...nationally. No more business today. See you all bright and bushy-tailed in the morning. Deal?"

I walk through the Mariscal, a very touristy spot, yet am unable to find a place that will accept AMEX. Well, there were a couple, but I didn´t really feel like going to Galapagos or buying a tent. Specifically, the Indian restaurant there didn´t accept cards. Crap. Back to the Metro I go (.25), not having enough to make it home by cab. I´m entering the lair of lions, which is to say thieves, who love to lurk on the Metro around dusk, catching people on their cross town sojourn, tired, defensless, unexpecting, white. I want to have a sign that proclaims that "Man, I ain´t got shit." But really.

We make it back. I´m likely aided by the combination of the following in looking more menacing than ever: my musk, my general but powerful and visible filth, my molester glasses, my beard, and the ever present sweat on my brow. No problems.

I decide to try a few more places, knowing now that the solution to all my problems is simply that the vendor type in the entire number of hte card and hit enter a bunch of times. I start at a place that sells rice, beans, fried plantains. Their "machine doesn´t work like that," they say. The next spot tries, but only about half of the numbers. He tells me it doesn´t work. The third place is down, but would literally cost me $20.00 for satisfaction. No dice. How about the supermarket?

No dice. It seems Ecuadorian vendors have a real fear of doing it the old fashion way, which is sort of an interesting thing to think about.

In the time I´ve written this email, which isn´t actually as long as you might think, Don Jose, the jefe of the hostal has, without telling me, cooked me dinner. He´s not much of a cook, but he has just presented me with a huge plate of white rice, topped with some fried egg omelet thing. This is one of those times, I believe, when you just eat the fucking thing. I´m continually impressed by the hearts of those around me who I´ve met. I can only think that maybe this proves I´ve had some positive effect on them.

So, as we stand, we´re getting full of food. We´ve got a trip to BdeG tomorrow morning to try and get the 500 out. I´ve printed a copy of my passport, so that should work better than the Certificado de Visacion. I´ve got about 4 liters of water, all of which I need after today. I also have a plum, two pears, and two tomatoes. So we´re set for the next few meals...though I´m waiting for the splurge.

By 10 o´clock tomorrow morning, I should have money in my pocket. I just hope that by 10:15, it´s still there."

Dream 23/6/2009

2009-06-25T08:50:00.000-07:00

I am in a shopping mall. I´m there with another person. I don´t remember that person. It doesn´t matter. The store which has caught our interest we have yet to enter. It has a white picket fence around it. The inside carpeting is some sort of golf green material, synthetic. There are large yellow flowers made of felt that adorn the ground. Also on the ground are large irregular, circular pieces of bright blue felt. These are supposed to represent water, as in lakes.

The store sells horses. The horses are full size, adult, living and breathing. I am somewhat disgusted by the fact that horses are on sale in such a manner. Yuck. My companion seems to think as I do about the ordeal.

There is a motto or a hymn of a product, store, something that I´m looking at. It´s on the back of a canister that is similar to the one that carries curry powder. A rectangular prism, "with soft rounded edges," (see The Mountaingoats). The motto is a modified version of the classic patriotic ditty, "This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land." Instead of naming regions and places in the United States, however, it is referring to a Banana Republic and the resources thereof. I know it is talking about Ecuador. Evidently, it´s up for grabs. News to me.

I am working as an assistant to Rick Barnes. He is a homicide detective. We are questioning a kid in a case. The case is called "The Gabriel Case." The kid is shaggy-haired. He has a brown neck, either from sun or dirt. He is 19 years old. He could be a Tausch.

He is describing to Detective Barnes, hereafter DB, how he murdered the kid, whose name was Gabriel. I come into the room at the time he explains, very matter-of-factly, what he did with the body. "I squeezed it to get all the blood out, you know." I seem to know. It seems reasonable. He cut up the body into pieces. Rick wants to make some sort of measurement of length after hearing this piece of information. He requests a ruler from his desk outside the questioning room. The questioning room, incidentally, is a hallway about 20 feet long. Along the walls, facing the walls, are desks with walls on either side. The room is cramped.

I leave the room and find a ruler on DB´s desk. It is a meter stick or a yard stick. The thing comes apart in two pieces to make it more wieldy. It connects back together with long teeth that fit perfectly to make the thing whole. A cop sits at the corner of DB´s desk. He wears a blue cop shirt and dark blue pants. His uniform is complete with a reddish brown moustache.

The pig is clearly jealous of my involvement with DB. The pig should be investigating. Instead he sits and bes jealous of me, right there at the corner of DB´s homicide desk. "What does he need that for?" pig. "To measure the body," yours. I wink to show that I¨m having a real blast working with DB.

I come back into the room to deliver the ruler. As DB toys with the thing, presumably putting it back together, I notice the title of an editorial. The newspaper on which the title exists looks like a tabloid. It is really colorful. The fonts are large, imposing, and dynamic. The title says something about remembering Gabriel. "That´s yours," I ask. "Yep," says the Homicidal Tausch, hereafter HT.

I know without explanation that HT wrote the editorial. It was about how special Gabriel was. HT got it published either the day after the murder, or else two days following. Below the headline of the editorial is a line of three pictures. They´re arranged horizontally. On the left is HT, taken around the time of the murder. The middle photo is Gabriel. The photo on the right is another young man of similar age. Inconsequential.

As Rick and I leave the room, he says, "What a shame? Smart kid." I tell him that it is no big surprise that a smart kid might be capable, even more capable, of such a murder.

What interests me about this dream was my attitude towards HT. He didn´t seem to show much remorse, about as little anger as he displayed. If anything, he came off as confused, immature, and lost in all of this, as if the magnitude of his actions as well as the pending consequences (whatever they might turn out to be) hadn´t been duly understood as of yet.

I didn´t hate the kid, although I was disgusted by what he did. The two seemed mutually exclusive to me somehow. I felt empathy for HT. I wanted him to feel comfortable in his interview with DB. As I have seen and heard in interviews, Rick Barnes is a fairly calm person. This followed him into the dream. I wanted HT to know that we weren´t "out to get him," rather just to gather information.

Finally, I knew the kid was smart, and that this intelligence had probably cost him a great deal of suffering. For having dealt with this burden, I loved the kid.

Conversation on Goodreads

2009-06-25T08:46:00.000-07:00

I´m on a website on which you can catalog your books. It´s called Goodreads. It´s free and nice. There are groups. In the groups are discussions. The following is a conversation about Classroom Management.

If only I could find people in real life that wanted to discuss things like this. Soon enough, my friends. Soon enough.

Barbara (made-up name):
Although I support the ideas discussed by Kohn, Dewey, Friere and the like, I don't know how applicable those ideas are if the teacher does not have good management skills.

Cameron (me):
For me, the ideas of those you mentioned, along with thoughts from Rousseau, Henry Giroux, bell hooks, for example, help in a very specific way; a way, unfortunately, that is not desired by many teachers. There are many teachers looking for manuals, complete with specific activities and management strategies for use in the classroom.

What Freire and the others do is provide a theoretical framework which can be internalized critically by the teacher. In having internalized an ideology that becomes personal, teachers are more easily able to be natural in their approach to management, and are also afforded the comfort in knowing that the decisions they make are in line with what they believe on a macrocosmic, theoretical level.

On the other hand, there are some that find specific methods that they enjoy, or that might work with one classroom, and they become enamored with said methods or activities. In doing so, they haven´t taken the step to realize why said method worked with that specific group of kiddos. What ends up happening, especially if teachers change grade levels, is that they are not equipped with a strong ideology of Management (which is what Freire and others offer), but rather a number (perhaps a few dozen) specific activities or methods that might only successfully apply to one group of kiddos, in one grade, and for one situation.

If you can develop the ideological framework, you´ll be able to critically investigate millions of ways to allow that ideology to manifest itself in good classroom management. This is because you believe in it, not because you expect it to produce results, but because you believe in the theoretical underpinnings thereof.

Jackson (made-up name):
Great post Cameron. I often wonder how teachers who have not spent time thinking about these big picture questions are able to sort through the drifting sea of specific rules and techniques offered by the many commentators in our field. How do they seperate the wheat from the chaff?

As Nel Noddings said, "How much more precious is a little humanity than all the rules in the world?"

Sucky Thing From Brochure of Cuenca

2009-06-25T08:35:00.000-07:00

So, here in Loja, I found a brochure for Cuenca called Cuenca Chévere para Chiros, which loosely translates to "Cuenca Cheap and Cool."

It´s a nice brochure, for the most part, and mentions some stuff that I hadn´t learned in my month there, such as a place to get really nice herbal, medicinal juices, homemade for however many years. There is a section in which the brochure speaks of the people of Cuenca, aiming to describe the daily lives of Cuencans. Here is what the thing says about Beggars, first in Spanish and then in English (their translation):

Los Mendigos

Los medigos sentados en las veredas y escaleras de la ciudad paralizan a Cuenca. Ellos reflejan la siudad inerte, esto es, sin movimiento. Carecen de la prisa de los que gozan del estatus de ciudadanos.
La proliferación de mendigos, consecuencia de la migración de la gente del campo a la ciudad, ha alterado la visión de la indigencia. Haciéndola cotidiana, oculta el valor de la mirada denuncia, que el mendigo proyecta sobre el resto del cuerpo social.
En su continua lucha por ganarse la vida ellos deben hacerse cada vez más seductores en la calle, y este fenómeno es el que da espacio a la creación de personajes guardianes de las aceras, cada uno con su cara, su queja, su discurso, sus llagas, sus espacios y el impacto que proyecta en quienes los vemos al pasar.

The Beggars

The beggars seated on the paths and steps within the city paralyze Cuenca. They reflect a city that is inert, that is, without movement. They lack the haste that characterizes the other inhabitants of the city.
The proliferation of the beggars as a consequence of the migration of the peasants to the city, has distorted our vision of poverty, making us observe it as a daily phenomenon, lacking sensibility of the denouncing glance that the eyes of the beggars projects to the rest of society.
In their daily struggle to survive, they must become more seductive in the streets, generating a phenomenon which develops in the creation of a sort of guardians of the sidewalks, all of them with their particular look, their complaints, their speeches, their sores, their spaces, and the impact this creates on those who see them upon passing.

Wow, Cuenca. Pretty general and strong words, wouldn´t you say?

Ecuadorian Constitution 2008 Articles of Interest 71

2009-06-25T08:29:00.000-07:00

Capitulo Séptimo
Derechos de la Naturaleza

Art. 71

La Naturaleza o Pacha Mama, donde se reproduce y realiza la vida, tiene derecho a que se respete integralmente sus existencia y el mantenamiento y renegacion de sus ciclos vitales, estructura, funciones y procesos evolutivos.

Toda persona, comunidad, pueblo or nacion podra exigir a la autoridad publica el cumplimiento de los derechos de la naturaleza.

Para aplicar e interpretar estos derechos se observaran los principios establecidos a la Constitucion, en lo que poseeda.

El Estado incentivara a las personas naturales y juridicas, y los colectiveos, para que protejan la naturaleza, y promovera el respeto a todos los elementos que forman un ecosistema.

Dream 22/6/2009

2009-06-25T08:23:00.000-07:00

I had this dream while I was sleeping on an overnight bus from Guayaquil, Ecuador to Loja, Ecuador. I was by myself. My neighbor was a gorilla who was confused by the idea of personal space. He also ate chicken like a monster with no feelings.

I am on a cruise ship. I am on this ship with three buddies. They are not my "real" buddies in "real life." The three are Jews, which is to say they are Jewish. Each one is dolled up in a suit and a fluffy-middled party shirt. We´re watching TV on a couch in a room on the boat. We´re also playing video games.

On the couch, I fall in and out of sleep. My neck isn´t able to keep my huge head from falling (cabezón). Each time my huge melon falls, my neck is pained quite excrutiatingly. It hurts more than I want to know, but I still can´t control it.

I ask one of the Jews (a fat, freckled one with curly locks) to call the ship´s doctor. He does. The boat sways.

This, for all I know about them, was a lucid dream. In it, I´m trying to lift my damn noggin, but am, in the end, unable to hold the thing in place. I wake for the last time on the bus with a very sore neck, still neighboring the sweaty gorilla who hasn´t learned to share very well.

Dream 19/6/2009

2009-06-25T08:01:00.000-07:00

I am at piso due. "Piso due" is what we called the all-you-care-to-eat cafeteria at our University. It is on the second floor. "Piso" means floor in Spanish. "Due" means two in Italian. I might have spelled that wrong.

I am choosing my ass off. Everything looks really appetizing. It looks appetizing in a specific kind of way. In the way that you know you will feel like shit after eating so much of it. This is part of the real world, as well. I know it is going to mess me up, but I want it regardless.

I am at an Ecuador fútbol match. I am there with my Mom and my Dad. We are sitting in the aisle on the steps. For some reason, we rise and start moving backwards up the steps. I assume during the dream that this is for a better view of the action. The steps are precariously steep and thin. Every so often, as we´re creeping up, I nearly fall. I get really pissed off when this happens. I don´t understand why we don´t just deal with the view we have and enjoy the game. Nearly falling isn´t the way I like to enjoy the game.

At one point I have about ten clear steps in front of me. The opposing team´s keeper on the field is quite close to our section of the stadium. He has a blue jersey on. The blue is the same as the feet of the blue-footed booby. The jersey´s sleaves are long, and the collar is black. I yell, "¡Hijo de puta!" at him, which means "Son of a bitch!" A cop with a long black jacket yells at me in Spanish. We argue and finally agree to something. Just then, another cop shows up. His uniform is different. I think about paramilitaries in Colombia.

The second pig is screaming about my initial transgression. I thought we were over it. He approaches me with his billy club in hand. He´s threatening me with it, so I grab it. In the struggle, which is weak, I get plunked on the nose with it. The blow is not forceful, though evidently enough for blood to be summoned. Summoned´s ass, it´s pouring. Cold, metallic blood rushes into my moustache and upper lip.

The crowd, naturally, has noticed the scuffle. I am glad that there is so much blood. I think every drop should make the pig feel more and more like the asshole I want to believe he is. Soon the blood has formed a small pool on the step in front of me. The pig´s overaggression is now palpable, beautiful, vibrant, lasting, primeval.

Finally, I step downstairs to get some food. I am assuming that I can clean myself with napkins at the food spot. On the walk, I am still relishing in the symbolism of my bloody honker. I regret not taking a photo of the injury. In "real life," I take photos of my injuries so that I can make a totally destroyed body collage someday.

Just as I´m thinking this, my real big brother, Sterling, shows up in the breezeway. He is armed with a digital camera. I think it is a Nikon D50. He takes a photo. He analyzes the photo. His eyes say he loves it. His laugh agrees.

I have an encounter with a feller from my high school. This feller, in "real life," wanted, with varying degrees of devotion, to beat me up. I made his mommy cry. In the dream, we exchange shoulder bumps. After that, we exchange words. Shortly, we come to a peaceful agreement to steer clear of one another. Fine. Fuck it. Move on.

I make it to the snack bar. I am no longer alone. My companion is a girl. I don´t remember her face or whether I know her or not. It doesn´t matter. I am looking at the menu, still covered in "blood." After a minute of looking, I see my reflection in the window that separates customers from workers at the snack bar. What I see quite surprises me. There is, indeed, a bit of blood that has seeped into my moustache. The vast majority of the substance that I´m feeling so proud about is actually snot. Thick, yellowish green, snotty mucous. Fuck. I look like an ass.

Neil, a friend in "real life," has a skating party. He is in a tuxedo. I like that. In the parking lot is a dog who wants to take a bite out of my meat. I punch the dog in the snout. It gets a clue.

Inside the rink there is no skating surface. Instead, the floor is occupied with workers. The workers are rotating the skating surface. From the looks of it, it will be days before they are done. I mingle amongst the few guests. I haven´t seen them since I returned from Ecuador. None of the key players are there. This has me somewhat bummed.

What a Sports Nut, Huh?

2009-06-25T07:33:00.000-07:00

So, last night was the third game in the College World Series. Texas (the University I attended) was in the game against LSU. I had been following the run they were making, mostly thanks to my Pa, who was updating me about their progress. I´m not really a huge baseball fan, and in fact never attended a game in five years as a student. However, I think being so far away made this game and this possible championship take on an air of importance that quite surprised me.

After dinner last night, I ran around the streets of Loja, searching for an internet place that was open, fiending like a wino or a crackhead for another swig, another hit. My search proved fruitless, and I went to bed with sports on the brain. Each time I woke up in the night, I would think of the game, which had surely ended, and send hopes out into the darkness that the good guys had pulled it out.

This morning at about 7:15, I was unable to get back to sleep. I began thinking about why I was so consumed by the outcome of this game, so distant, and yet so magnetic. I began to think about the last few months, and the sporting events that I´d been involved with in one way or another. I came up with a list of the nicest sports moments so far of my time in Ecuador, and I thought I´d share. By the way, the Longhorns lost 11-4. I´m okay with that now. I can relax.

Top 8, from the bottom.

8. Orlando Magic sweep the LA Lakers to win NBA Championship. This didn´t really happen, which is why it drops to eighth position. If it really had happened, rest assured it would be higher on the list. I don´t like the Lakers. Sorry, Billy and Jack Nicholson.
7. Damion James stays for his senior season. Damion James plays forward for the UT basketball team. Since he arrived, I have like him as a player. He is very intense and powerful. Maybe in another year he´ll have harnessed that energy and become a little more smooth and skilled. I sort of expected this, so it wasn´t huge news.
6. US fútbol topples number 1 Spain. I really don´t care much for the US fútbol squad, never have. I´ve always, until recently, supported Mexico. However, I really dislike the Spanish team, and I don´t mind rooting for the good old USA against them. Huge win.
5. Texas takes LSU to a third game in the CWS. Although we weren´t able to close the deal, I think coming up 7 runs short of a seventh national championship is a pretty nice accomplishment. This is compounded by the fact that the season began shrouded in controversy with Augie Garrido´s DWI arrest before the start of the year.
4. Ecuador ties Brazil in Conmebol qualifiers. This would be higher, but for the number of chances Ecuador had versus those of Brazil. I think the final tally was like 11 shots to 2, 70-30% possession, both in favor of El Tri. In the end, Brazil took advantage of their scant chances with their storied precision, but we still came away with a big tie.
3. Deportiva Cuenca beats Boca Juniors. I was in Cuenca for this game, and found a coffee shop and bar to watch at. Unfortunately, my friends Dario and Ji didn´t make it out, but we just met Cuencans who were more than willing to share space with a gringo fan of Dep Cuenca. I loved the faces of the Boca fans walking all around town. Final tally, 2-0.
2. Comuna Rhiannon comes out of nowhere to challenge Malchingui Camioneta Coop. The farm on which I lived for a month was full of a mix of people. We were estadounidenses, British, Australian, Belgian, Colombian, Mexican, Austrian, and others...One thing we weren´t was a group of well oiled fútbol machines, which showed in the first match between these two powerhouses, which ended up somewhere in the neighborhood of 12-5. The second match, played on grass in Malchingui´s concrete stadium (capacity 5,000), was much closer, much to the surprise of all those in attendance, which, though it sometimes felt like it, wasn´t near capacity. After taking a lead early in the second half at 4-3 on the goals of the Mexican Pancho, Rhiannon lost a bit of steam along with the momentum, and allowed three more second half notches, unanswered. Final score, 6-4. Followed by choclo, beans, and beers with both teams at a local comedor. Really unbelievable experience, and fantastic sports moment.
1. Argentina offered clinic in Atahualpa by Ecuador. This was by far the best sporting experience of my time here, maybe of the last few years. Top five ever. Argentina comes in, feared, ominous, precise, heavily favored. Beautiful weather. Beers and falafel beforehand. Photos, interviews, chanting, etc...really a perfect atmosphere. Entering the stadium there is an electrical charge captivating the beings present. First half is slow, not many chances. Ecuador´s keeper makes a save on a PK, along with some other really clutch saves across the entire match. Second half, the rains came. This didn´t slow anyone, especially not the Ecuador selección. Pulled away with an amazing goal followed by a dinker that put the good guys up 2-0, which was too deep a hole for the Argentines to climb out of. The crowd ends the game with the chant, "Y llora, llora, llora Maradona." Beautiful.

Dream 18/6/2009

2009-06-24T15:45:00.000-07:00

I am at a hockey game. I´m am at the game on a date. With a girl. I am realizing that I don´t really like her that much. I certainly don´t dislike her, though she´s not my favorite. I am, however, attracted to this girl physically. The attraction, incidentally, is strong enough that I feel that I would like to have sex with her at some point.

I leave the game. I decide to leave through the ice. I do this in the middle of the game. As I cross the ice, I realize that I am wearing a referee jersey. Everyone-players, fans, referees, are screaming in anger at me. As I run, I decide to change my shirt. I want to avoid being mamed.

I realize now that I am in the parking lot. I don´t have another shirt in the car. I decide to put my referee jersey on inside-out. On the way back in, I find Daniel Armstrong. Daniel Armstrong is a real person with whom I grew up in San Antonio. I haven´t seen him in a while. Over a year. We head back to the stadium. We find an enterance that has been covered with plywood. We break through the plywood to get in.

I don´t know what happened to the sexy girl.

I´m now on a farm. There is a horse there. The horsey is black and beautiful. The majority of the sleek beast is covered by a thick, red blanket. The horse is standing on the side of a trailer. I know it is a trailer, though it resembles more of a traincar. A container, so to speak. The horse is standing on a thin pathway to the side of the train container. The beautiful steed must have hated me. It kept on jumping with its front legs high into the air.

I feel as though its incessant jumping presents a possible danger for that fucking horse who hates me so. Still, I tell a lady about my concern. I still love that faithless prick of a horsey. The lady responds with a scream. "He has to stay there!" she hollers. Her attitude, the main component of her words, is really scummy and negative. She has proven to be as faithless as that big ol´ steed.

"Fine. Fuck it," I say.

I am on the way into the house on the farm. In the first room, I see Stephan and Bri. Stephan and Bri exist, to the extent that I can claim the existence of anything. They were with me at the farm in Malchingui. They are my friends. Stephan has 3 to 4 stacked to-go containers. The containers are made of two parts. The bottom part is some sort of flimsy metal, likely aluminum. The top section is made of plastic. You might call it a lid or a top.

I ask Stephan what he is eating. By the way, he is eating with the speed and carelessness for detail as might a vacuum cleaner set about the same task. I ask what he consumes even though I see that it is some sort of soupy tomato stuff. Inside of the soupy mess are vegetables, unidentifiable. I look up at Bri, who sits across the table with no food. She is not paying attention. I laugh anyway. My laugh is supposed to say, "Well, he´s just too much, I tell ya." It´s meant to be an endearing, friendly comment.

It is true that I want the food Stephan eats. Though the vigor with which he attacks the comestibles tells me he´ll finish all that is put in front of his mug. I ask where the food came from. Stephan pauses for long enough to say that it is from (first name)´s. I know what the place is in the dream, though I don´t recall the (first name), nor do I think it exists outside of my dream.

I move to the kitchen. I head there to make my own damn food. I find two styrafoam containers. They look like they were made to, have at some point, or hopefully still do, contain food. One styrafoam container is brown. The other styrafoam container is white. I am excited, frankly, about the prospect of finding some food, ideally something unhealthy but filling.

In the first container, I find a full meal of food, untouched. It is some sort of burrito. Inside the burrito is potatoes, onions, rice. The whole ordeal seems to have been spiced with something that gives it all an orange hue. The color of it all makes the first food quite appetizing. The tortilla is red. To the side of the burrito is a pile of black beans. They are not extravagant, rather simple and appetizing. As I look more closely at the food, I notice that there is mold on parts of both portions. The mold is sparse and, given my appetite, unthreatening. Small, whitish, greenish balls. 100 of these balls would fill one grain of rice.

I decide to scrape the stuff off with a knife and eat anyway. I scrape just a bit. I realize soon that I´m probably simply displacing the stuff more than anything. Absolutely not accomplishing what I aim for with any semblance of success. I stop and move on.

In the second container, the white one, is a different story altogether. I find in the second half of a quesadilla. I know that it is from Chili´s Restaurant. Chili´s Restaurant is a real place that I visited frequently on hockey trips because teammates worked for the place in Austin. Knowing that the quesadilla is from Chili´s ensures that I don´t want it. Not to mention that it is full of cheese. The other half is basically a tortilla full of guacamole. I know that it is really old. Still, though, it has maintained its color quite surprisingly. This makes me nervous more than anything.

Next, Neil and I go into a soup restaurant. Neil is a real friend of mine. We have gone to eat together in what I´ll call real life over the last six years. The restaurant is in California. It is a hip place with a phonetically spelled name, something like "kwik." I remember it having a "Q."

Neil is telling me that he is thinking about getting a job there. (For the record, Neil is currently employed and recently received a raise. So there, dreamworld.) Before working there, naturally, Neil would like to sample the fare. We look a long time, and I think we´ve both decided what we want minutes before we actually make a move to further the process.

I am interested in all of the soups, though have absolutely no interest in actually ordering anything but one of the two vegetarian options. One is called "Hunter´s" something. I want that one. I step up to order, but the menu at the front is different. On this menu, the "Hunter´s" soup is a meaty soup. Very meaty. I´m somewhat nervous with the status of my meal. The lady at the counter isn´t comforting. She is concerned about the line that is building up behind me.

I am concerned about my soup, especially in relation to my morals.

The final component of the dream was something German. That was my key word to remember the portion of the dream. I remember nothing more than that; "German."

Dream 17/6/2009

2009-06-24T15:31:00.000-07:00

This is partially a dream, but partially part of the waking world. I´d call it a lucid dream, for all I know. This is a dream that happened as I slept in a tent. I always have heavy dreams when I sleep in tents.

I have to lay in a certain position in order to satisfy the rules of some third party. I don´t know who the third party was, although I know that it was a man. I have a strong feeling he was a stranger.

Anytime I satisfy the rules of said strangerman, either a ribbon or a cylinder shows up. When I say shows up, I mean on a seperate plane, perhaps in a seperate universe or location within our universe. It doesn´t matter. This place, plane, universe, etc...is devoid of anything but the ribbons and cylinders. The cylinders are made up of patterns similar to those found on the ribbons. The patterns are simply parallel lines, of varying thickness and frequency.

Each cylinder appears with each open base parallel to what would be the ground. Each cylinder goes from some random point to another random point. The ribbons show up with the majority of the surface parallel to what would be the ground. At each end of each ribbon, the thing curves and heads straight down, towards what would be the ground. The amount of the ribbon that faces perpindicular to what would be the ground is less than half of the ribbon that is parallel.

The appearances, at first, seems totally existential and irrelevant. Soon, however, I realize that third party strangerman has a specific arrangement that he is going for. I begin to see a pattern formulating, which includes a weaving of the ribbons, with spaces being filled with cylinders.

I do not complete the pattern. Instead, I wake up sweating in a tent with sand all over my body. I am pissed that my sleep was such a job. I am pissed that I am sweating. I go to the hammock, which I still think had healing properties.

Dream 15/6/2009

2009-06-24T10:36:00.000-07:00

I´m at Buffalo Exchange. I´m there with two girls. I know these girls, and have for a long time. I´ll not use their names. There are three other people who I don´t know. These three are a mix of girls and boys. We end up three and three. We lay on the floor in pairs. We´re naked. The pairs are one girl with one boy each. We lay one on top of the other, though not in any particular way. I´m asking if one of the girls I know is okay. Her hair has been cut crudely and she has either become deaf or mute.

We decide to celebrate. I fill a huge, green, plastic bucket with Trópico Secco. Trópico Secco is an aguardiente made in Ecuador. I throw in a little bit of cranberry juice. It´s not much, compared to the amount of Trópico.

We walk up Seidel. Seidel is a real street in San Antonio, Texas. I used to walk up the street all the time as a youth. I have the huge, green, plastic bucket full of booze. On the walk, I´m picked up by a car. The car is driven by the other girl who I know´s mom. We don´t speak. I sit on the back of the car. The car is more like a buggy. My foot rests on my Chaco sandal. None of the straps are around my foot. The Chaco sandal rests on the street, which is speeding below us. It´s not a problem.

We end up at a barbeque. The barbeque happens only a few blocks from the start of the journey. The barbeque is being put on by a lovely African American family. They are terribly nice and invite us to join the festivities. I stand by the side of a car which has brought a group of us to the barbeque. Michael and James from Rhiannon are there, amongst others. Of these are Dusten and others from the Family of Dudes.

I offer everyone the Trópico mixture in the huge, green, plastic bucket. James doesn´t want to share the hooch with the Patriarch of the Barbeque, hereafter PoB. Neither does Michael. I try to tell them that it is for everybody.

I walk back down Seidel to 2909 Sir Philip. 2909 Sir Philip is the address of a home I used to actually live in with my family. Ask my brother. As I arrive, I notice the PoB coming out from the backyard. He asks me if he can try the "lemonade vodka stuff." I tell him it´s still at his house, but just then Dusten makes the corner. He´s carrying the huge, green, plastic jug full of mixed Trópico and cranberry. PoB tries the sauce and says that he enjoys its flavor. I tell him to let us know the next time he has a barbeque, because I would like to join. He checks that I´m a vegetarian. He says, "We might still have...no, next time." We´ve made friends.

We´re at a museum. Mom, Dad, Aunt Melody, others. The museum is full of small silver trinkets behind large cubes of glass. I think that they are "native," although I don´t know what I meant by that description. My Aunt Melody (who is really my aunt) tells me that there is a trinket of my Great Uncle, J.O. J.O. stands for John Oran, and he actually is my Great Uncle. His sister is Lois, my real Grandmother.

I walk over to see the thing. It is under another layer of trinkets. Dad can´t see the thing. He asks if we can leave because it´s dinner time and he has to work. He just wants to leave.

Ecuadorian Constitution 2008 Articles of Interest 171

2009-06-24T09:53:00.000-07:00

Articulo 171

Las autoridades de las comunidades, pueblos, y nacionalidades indigenas ejercerán funciones jurisdiccionales, con base en sus tradiciones ancestrales y su derecho propio, dendro su ambito territorial, con garantia de participacion y decision de las mujeres. Las autoridades aplicaran normas y procedimientos propios para la solucion de sus conflictos internos, y que no sean contrarios a la Constitucion y los derechos humanos reconocidos en instrumentos internacionales.

El Estado garantizara que las decisiones de la jurisdiccion indigena sean respetadas por las instituciones y autoridades publicas. Dicho decisiones estaran sujetas al control, de constitucionalidad. La ley establecera los mecanismos de coordinacion y cooperacion entre la jurisdiccion indigena y la jurisdiccion ordinaria.

Fight at the Plaza

2009-06-24T09:44:00.001-07:00

In the Plaza Grande. Quito, Ecuador, Pichincha. 12:45 PM. Watching people. Tourists. Shineboys. Drunks. Police. Tourists. Tourists. Cameras. Presidential Palace. Munkey, Jodi joke about barefoot or sandalded shoeshine as we´re approached. Shineboy I, 8. Offers with a wry smile to shine Munkey´s bare feet. Shineboy II, 11. Walks by. Punches I in back. I takes offense. I punches II in the neck. I and II fight. The fight is in the face. Neither drops his shinebox. I yell. ´Ay, yay, yay...tranquilo.´ My stomach hurts. It hurts from the punches. We see a kid. The kid is rich. His pants don´t touch his shoes. His sweater proves he´s a skinny nincompoop. His glasses don´t argue. His age is similar to the pugilist, II. Their age is the only thing similar about them.

Theme for Movie/Book/Ponderances

2009-06-24T09:17:00.000-07:00

I´ve realized a really wonderful theme that makes me really happy to think about. I think it rivals, in how much I think about it and appreciate it, Kurt Vonnegut´s near obsession with "extended families."

This theme is basically adult men spending friendly, platonic time together, just as buddies. I´ve seen it all over the world, and I´d like to provide a few examples, including some from here in South America.

In the states, especially in San Antonio and at times (like during the condo building craze of the 2000s, I´ve noticed groups of fellas who work on construction, likely immigrants from Mexico or Central America, likely in the States alone (which is to say without wives, children, mother-in-laws, who live together in large houses, almost like college houses. I am very much enamored with the idea that they cook together, gripe together, work together from time to time, fight with each other, pay bills together, and drink beers and coca-cola together. I often see these fellas at Fiesta on 38th Street in Central Austin, purchasing bags and bags of jalapeños, tomatoes, onions, and cilantro. I want to join their meal and their conversations.

There is a great example in a movie, a movie that has recently become a real favorite. The movie is Cool Hand Luke, starring Paul Newman. It´s about a fella, Lucas Jackson, who gets sent to a roadside prison after defacing public property (cutting the heads off parking meters) while inebreated. Anyway, the bulk of the movie is about this population of fifty men spending time in said roadside prison, all suffering under the weight of the Boss´ iron fisting reign. They, naturally, find time to divert their attention away from the dismal situations they´re living in, through card playing, bet making, and an occasional squaring up in the boxing ring. I am very much interested in this idea of mutual suffering across a diverse group of adult men, as well as the coping mechanisms they employ to ameliorate and live through such circumstances, maintaining a sense of humor, diversion, and hope.

Other examples I´ve seen here in South America are the groups of older men, generally existing on some point of the continuum between sober and pass-out hammered, who spend hours and hours chatting in the park, sometimes sharing a bottle of aguardiente. Interestingly enough, a common Ecuadorian drinking tradition says that there is generally one bottle (of caña, aguardiente, chicha, punta, beer, whatever) and one small cup, sometimes plastic (which can be attained from the store selling the hooch) and sometimes glass, generally in a home or restaurant. Each drinker is given the cup, asked to down the contents, after which point the server (generally the purchaser) refills the cup and passes it down the line. It goes like so, in a circle, until the bottle is finished, after many a joke, argument, handshake, etc...I really love this, and would love to take part more often.

Another really wonderful and dynamic situation in many parts of Ecuador (and possibly South America overall) is the bus driver and bus caller relationship. I am very much enamored with this interaction, and have likely mentioned it on this blog before, but I now realize one of the reasons it touches me so much. Basically, one man drives the bus. The other hangs out the front door, yelling to those on the street the destination of the bus. It is his job to sell the bus, so to speak, to the potential passengers who line the streets of Ecuador. Therefore, they are a symbiotic beast, both depending on each other to work seamlessly to accomplish two things: One, fill the bus to capacity (generally 150-180% of legal capacity). Two, get the bus to the destination as quick as possible so as to facilitate more trips per day. These two jobs are somewhat in contradiction with each other, and therefore the two men (only because I have yet to see a woman fill either position) are to work in a really wonderful way together. Naturally, there are teams that work quite well and others that don´t. This interests me a great deal.

Gritas heard from Ecuador

2009-06-09T11:29:00.001-07:00

¡Comercio, Extra, Comercio!
¡Lleva un dolar de limones!
¡Seco, seco! (de gallena, chivo, pollo, etc…)
¡Jugo de coco!
¡Aguas, aguas!
¡Qúe rico, helado de mora!

Dream 6/6/2009

2009-06-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

This dream involves a person who is very real in my life. I have had an interesting relationship with this person over the last six years or so, when I first met her. Some of the happenings in the dream are conceivable and some are not. Some are totally out of her character. For the sake of the dream, the person will be named Gertrude. Don’t try and read into it too much. That’s my job.

I’m in Gertrude’s room and we’re discussing what she’s to do about her old boyfriend. He has mob ties. It’s clear that they’re done with each other romantically. We’re trying to figure out what he might try to pull. It’s also clear that he doesn’t want Gertrude around ‘us’ (Gnubbi, Cam, Ster, one or two others).

Gertrude has most recently broken off her relationship with Gnubbi. Gnubbi is a real life friend. He is a German friend that I met at Comuna Rhiannon in Malchingui, Ecuador. Rhiannon is an organic farm with goats, piggies, doggies, and a jackass named Nessy. We’re (Gertrude, Gnubbi, Cam) in Gertrude’s room trying to figure out how to even the stakes, so to speak. Some of Gertrude’s stuff must go to Gnubbi. Don’t as me why.

A decision is made. The decision includes seeds and land, amongst other things.

We go outside. We (Cam, Ster, Gnubbi) get into a high truck. Ster is a ‘real’ person. He is my big brother. First name, Brian. Middle and preferred name, Sterling. Nickname, amongst others, Ster. His actions could or could not be reasonable according to his ‘real world’ actions and behaviors. It doesn’t matter.

Ster drives from the right side of the truck. To his left is Gnubbi, in the middle. I am in the lefternmost seat of the truck. He navigates the truck directly down the road. At the end of the block, directly in front of the perpindicular road, is a lot. It looks vacant, though not totally empty.

Ster, with Gnubbi and I along for the ride, arrives at the face of the lot. He doesn’t stop driving when he arrives there. He just keeps on keeping on. There is a wooden, seven-foot fence in our way. He demolishes it with the nose of the truck. There is a second, parallel fence, a meter after the first. He demolishes it with the nose of the truck. There is a third, parallel fence, a meter after the second. He demolishes it with the nose of the truck. There is a fourth, parallel fence, a meter after the third. He demolishes it with the nose of the truck.

Each time, Gnubbi and I use the soles of our shoes to help knock down the fence. It is surprisingly easy to do.

Meanwhile, I’ve been eating the seeds and herbs. They’re all in a brown paper sack. I know for a fact that I was eating basil. As Ster finally stops his rampage, which has been quite calm and emotionless, I throw the herbs into the corner of the lot.

The parents of the lot, and presumably Gertrude as well, have been watching our actions from the middle of the street where we began. Anguish occupies their faces. We’re destroying what used to be theirs and has now been turned over to Gnubbi.

We jump ship. We meet with the family in the street. The family consists of who I know is the Father and the Mother, who is the old white lady from Be Kind Rewind. She is drinking a Newcastle out of a bottle. It is not very cold. It is about three quarters empty. We discuss how much space a female lioness needs to be healthy. We’re considering putting the lion in the lot. We also discuss if the lion can be a vegetarian.

The Mother spills the Newcastle on her off-white t-shirt.

Dream 5/6/2009

2009-06-09T11:26:00.002-07:00

I’m attending a State Board of Education meeting. I do not know if it is the State of Texas.

I have trouble getting into the meeting. I know that this is because I am not a member.

I make it in the meeting. My method has something to do with sticker nametags. I am not alone. Besides the other teachers, I have a partner. I do not know, nor do I care who this person is. I doesn’t fucking matter.

I’m chatting with this identityless person, hereafter IP before the meeting starts. We’re being sure to chat quietly. Even still, I feel that IP doesn’t pick up on my nonverbal cues to zip it. Just as the meeting begins, a lady to my left raises her left hand. She asks the presenter to remind us that we shouldn’t be talking during the meeting. I want to curse her or hit her with a water balloon.

The presenter is a stunning and professional black woman. As she begins to outline the points of the meeting, I find myself extremely impressed by her savvy. This feeling is almost an admiration much like a crush or even full-blown love. It’s very genuine and not overly sexual.

I find a job working at a photo laboratory. It is very similar to an actual photo laboratory that I used to work at. The name of this ‘real’ photo laboratory was Club Photo. Was because it is out of business. I worked there with my brother, Sterling, and my friend, Nick. The other people I worked with there became friends during my time there, which is why I name Nick specifically.

One person with whom I worked at Club Photo was working at the photo lab in my dream. His name was Jay. He was a nice feller, sorta nerdy, and really quite intelligent. He worked on computers and stuff. I’m being ‘shown the ropes,’ as the saying goes, in the photo development lab. Suddenly, my little bottle of rubbing alcohol, which I actually have with me here in Ecuador, spills and runs over about a dozen stacks of photos. Each stack, incidentally, is topped with photos or index prints of me and my family. I tell the guy but he’s not impressed.

I’d like to say one small thing here which I find significant. I try not to read too much into dreams, though I do find them interesting and telling from time to time. For example, I was thrilled when I had my first dream in Spanish while here in Ecuador. In this dream, I am happy to say, the photos of my family included not only Ma, Pa, Brosef, and myself, but also my brother’s wife, my sister-in-law, Kathryn. I’m happy that my dreams have caught on to reality. Moving right along:

I get angry. I am not angry with the man. I am partially angry with myself for being clumsy. I am also really quite perturbed with the damned bottle of alcohol. I throw the bottle of alcohol, hoping that takes care of any day one problems.

Jay tells me to follow him. On a bike. He speeds off. I have to rustle up a bike to ride after him. I find my shoes. They are yellow corduroy house slippers. I tell myself, ‘Good job, for being yourself and wearing those shoes. You like them and that’s just fine.’ Slippers donned, I straddle the bike. It is a mountain bike.

Jay is missing. He is riding all over the building. The building has turned into a Samsesque store. It has food in large quantities, office chairs, and Airheads by the 6-dozen. I’m dodging products and people as I speed through the aisles. The customers aren’t amused with my antics.

Finally I find Jay. We’re now outside and it’s muddy. The village we’re in is akin to those I’ve seen in Andean Ecuador, or those I haven’t seen in Hawaii. By this point, I’m flustered, overwhelmed, and focused on the ground as I travel precariously through the muddy trail. My bike is sucky. The right pedal is quite slow.

We arrive. The bike ride has seemed to take hours. We arrive at the place where we’re to turn in our bikes. We didn’t actually rent the bikes before leaving the photo lab, of course. Baptiste has now joined the crew. We’re three.

We give our bikes to the guy who is on the poster of Hostal Residencial Sucre (see Drawing in sketch book). He charges me over twenty dollars. $20.20. I realize that, as the new guy at the office, I’m expected to pay for everything.

Baptiste and Jay have made it across the rope bridge by the time I pay. I take a first step and the rope bridge breaks. It doesn’t break in half. All of the ropes save one and the wood planks fall to the ground. I’m hanging there, now with a seven foot, five inch surfboard under arm. I yell in Spanish at Baptiste. He yells back in Spanish, although what he says and the way he does is bullshit.

I then slide down the rope that is above my head. I use a chain or a rope and the surfboard to balance myself on the way down. The surfboard sails across the top of the rope. It looks like a skateboarder is grinding on the thing. Only there’s no one. It lands safely. I land safely. I’m surprised at how well the stunt worked.

Things to Remember from Comuna Rhiannon, Malchingui, Ecuador

2009-06-09T11:26:00.001-07:00

“Tell her I think she’s fancy.” This was said to a fellow comuner by her inebriated brother about a girl he was interested in. I love the shit out of it. Really.

Costeño Tradition, Colombia
My friend Zamir, a Colombian from Bógota, told Baptiste and I about this tradition of many Colombians on the coast. It goes like this. Evidently, around the age of 13 or 14, young men living in certain parts of Colombia’s coast, ‘comer una burra.’ Now, don’t take this literally, they don’t actually eat the burra. In fact, they are having sex with the burra (donkey) so that their members can become strong and sturdy. Evidently, the burra likes it after some time, according to Zamir. In addition, if you as the wife of a Costeño what she thinks about the tradition, she will reply that she fully accepts it, and in fact would be upset if her mate had claimed to be a Costeño without actually having taken the steps to ensure membership in said club.

Fútbol rematch in Malchingui

2009-06-09T11:25:00.002-07:00

Yesterday was the rematch between the nutjobs at Rhiannon and the camioneta drivers from nearby Malchingui. A camioneta is basically a truck taxi.

I missed the first game on a day in which I felt throughout work that I was about to faint, puke, fuke or paint. Incidentally, it would be painting that would dominate my work schedule over the following three days, a welcome change from maize picking and tent tent repair (referring, of course, to the tarp that covers tents that are not waterproof. We treat our campers nicely at Rhiannon.

After nailing some grommets with a fellow communer, I had to back out and head to the house for a nap and a worry. You see, sickness is no stranger in Comuna Rhiannon, and while I understand my general ability to ward off most diseases (punch a tree), I was somewhat more apprehensive about this current set of circumstances. It probably didn’t help that the day before the match, we had ‘entrenarnos,’ which consisted of about an hour of grueling gravel fútbol. Long story short, I, the starting keeper for the gringo team (sorry Zamir, Emmanuel, Zoellie, and Pancho-the only non-gringos among us), spent the afternoon of the game in bed, which also meant I missed beers in the school watching the UEFA final. Sound like the beginning of a Matt Christopher book? I know, (s)he has a style that has begun to determine events in my life. So it goes.

On rematch game day, which I like to call Easter Sunday Back From the Dead Rematch Bonkers Fútbol Event, I spent the day, along with the majority of the community, watering the trees, flowers, and herbs across the entire property…a lofty job, if you must know. Now, all that water has to come from somewhere, and we have a few options at Rhiannon. First, there’s the tap. Stolen, bogarted, free, unreliable. Second, the brown bucket. Unreliable, filled by the well. Third, the well, which fills in two ways, both rain (ha…I wish…but not really) and the hose from the tap overnight.

The option on this fateful day became clear enough, as a handful of people rob the poor brown bucket of all its contents within the first ten minutes. I decided to be well-master, which just happens to be the most romantic job on the farm. It’s just you and the damned well, filled to about 3 inches, and you’re on the clock, with an army of ‘regadores’ arriving after what seems like no time, ready to rob you of all your hard work. I thoroughly enjoy jobs in which my main challenge is my own ineptness, as I spend the day trying to overcome the hurdles in my way.

Long story short, I got every damn drop of water out of that damned well. The plants got watered and felt great, but likely not as great as I, the well master, who had in a John Henryesque feat of strength, defeated a concrete and steel creation of this luddite hating 21st century. Pretty overdramatic, isn’t it? I like it that way.

After three hours of work, a Minnesotan friend and I cooked lunch, both keeping in mind the magnitude of the afternoon’s upcoming events. She, a very conscious athlete, probably did more to regulate the menu than I, who played nary a hockey game without a little booze in his gullet.

Our menu consisted of the following: salad (of iceburg, tomato, cucumber, lime and panela dressing), lightly boiled broccoli, white rice, lentils with tomatoes, cumin, black pepper. A four-course meal for your face, which the two chefs washed down with a Boa Constrictor (a drink that, at the time, we thought may or may not have caused said Minnesotan to have difficulty breathing…hence the Boa, get it?)

After dressing out, which ideally consisted of donning an Ecuador national team jersey, we linger outside in front of the house, waiting for the camionetas to arrive to deliver us to our destiny. Some juggle the fútbol, others take shots of a liquor called D’Brandy, some stretch their legs (though I think this was more show than anything-I know because I was one of the ‘stretchers.’)

The camionetas arrive, and we’re paraded through the streets, looked on by many familiar faces with smiles as well as some that are less acquinted, who seem to be asking why we’re so goofed up and in the jersey that represents their country. Either way, this all adds to the excitement, nerves, and anticipation.

We arrive at the stadium, dubbed Estadio Central de Liga Deportiva Parroquial Malchingui. It’s complete with grass, ticket booths, concrete bleachers, and possibility. We walk through the throngs of people, probably 15 or so, into the stadium, and are greeted by a beautiful and massive fútbol field. Equally effective in stirring emotion is my first vision of the opponents with whom we’ll battle over the next hour and a half…Junior, Gordo, Beto, Profe (the school director and also camioneta driver), Juan, Diego, etc…we’ve reason to be nervous.

Minutes into the match, my breath has been taken away by the powerful and stunning siren called Altitude. It is clear that I’m in some sort of shape, just not the kind you need to be in to play fútbol. After the first few shots, I fall back into the comfort akin to my hockey mindset, and the game begins to be fun, in an intense way. The intensity is somewhat challenged when Juan, neither old, fat or a camioneta driver, makes a fool of your beloved narrator by dancing around him for the first goal of the game. That first one I always like, and this one was no exception. It’s why I hate shutouts…I prefer to be imperfect and human.

We go into halftime down 3-2, which is more than I could have hoped for.

Into the second half, I find that my expectations might be selling us short. Riding the back of our trusty and skilled Mexican steed, Pancho, we notch a couple of goals early in the second and find ourselves staring at a possible victory…an unbelievable upset, I would imagine…think Miracle on Ice.

In the end, however, lessons are learned, limits tested, passion manifested, and bittersweet pride fills us all after what ended up being a 6-4 loss to the home team.

After the game, we’re lead by the opponents, who now have their chance to show their human side, to a Malchingui bus that takes us to a local restaurant. At the restaurant (more like a garage with an oven), we’re filled with beers, choclo, and hava beans. The atmosphere is naturally somewhat divided, mostly a language thing, though some of us crossover and converse.

It’s clear at the end of it all that we have earned their respect, not only as fútbolers, but also as people. And that’s what counts in the end, now isn’t it?

List of my 6 and 7 year-old students and their favorite colors

2009-06-09T11:25:00.001-07:00

List of my 6 and 7 year-old students and their favorite colors in Malchingui, Ecuador.

Jordan-Yellow
Darwin-Brown (changed from Red)
Jefferson-Green (changed from Brown)
Javier-Red
Marco-Red
Rafael-Blue
Alex-Brown
Javier-Black

Name for a Historical Pornography Movie

2009-06-09T11:24:00.002-07:00

Don’t Shoot Until You See The Whites of Their Eyes

Dream 1/6/2009

2009-06-09T11:24:00.001-07:00

I was watching a lady chew and spit into a bag. The bag was clear and contained a milky liquid, seeds, fruit, and the skins of fruits. I knew that this was a spirit.

Farm work songs.

2009-06-09T11:23:00.002-07:00

Mierda (I was finding and smashing donkey shit this day.)

Mierda en mi boca,
Mierda en mis ojos,
Mierda en mi Corazon.

Translated:
Shit in my mouth,
Shit in my eyes,
Shit in my heart.

Litter Along the Middle of the Earth (to be sung in the voice of Woody Guthrie)

Pickin’ up garbage, staring at the middle of the earth,
Searching for refuse, scattered along the middle of the earth,
Trying to find trash here, don’t ask me what it’s worth,
I been picking garbage since the day of my birth.

Tent Grommets (this day, I was building a tent to protect other tents from wind and rain.)

Some people say that grommets are useless,
But that kind of talk, I think it’s just foolish,
If the whole, damn point is to protect from the wind,
Then I see no other place to begin.

You see the first time they tried, they glued it together,
But that only held for a day, much less than forever,
So I’ve come along to rectify,
The weakness in the structure that one just can’t deny.

Dream 23/5/2009

2009-06-09T11:23:00.001-07:00

I’m fighting Randy Quaid. It’s the Randy Quaid from The Last Detail. At first the fight is really serious. We’re clearly on different sides of a larger issue. After hours, we’re both exhausted. The fight is now funny. Every minute or so, one of us will lazily slap our opponent’s face or sock his gut. I punched his eye. We cracked up about it. I get up and head for the bathroom. There is a sign that tells me not to enter. I do anyway. I start peeing on the floor.

I wake up now, and am about a millisecond from peeing the bed. Phew.

Schedule for Travel to Cuenca

2009-06-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

Leave Rhiannon at 15:20
Leave Cuatro Esquinas at 15:30
Arrive in Quito at 17:00
Leave Quito at 20:45
Arrive in Cuenca at 6:15
Leave Cuenca at 20:45
Arrive in Quito at 9:45
Leave Quito at 17:00
Arrive at Rhiannon at 19:00 just in time for dinner

Dream 5/9/2009

2009-05-22T13:13:00.000-07:00

I meet up with Ster, my brother, and we`re on bikes. He tells me to meet up with him again in a few minutes, and I reply that I will.

I accidentally drop a bar of soap in the middle of the street. The bar of soap blazes down the asphalt a distance of exactly 100 meters. I know it is 100 meters, no more and no less. Naturally, I go chasing the bar down the road. By the time I catch the bar and meet up with Ster. By this point he is disappointed in me for being tardy. I feel disappointed because I can tell he is geniunely upset.

Next I am swimming in water which is moving. It moves like a river, although I never once checked to verify that there are shores. In the water with me are boats. The boats are very different. I only know they are boats becuase they navigate in the water. Otherwise some might look more akin to planes.

The boats have propellers. I am very terrified of said propellers. I duck and dodge them successfully. Some of the boats are made out of PVC pipe. I don`t notice another person in the water or navigating a boat on the moving water. The boats are endless and densely crowded.

From time to time, I duck under the water to escape the props. I look under the water and notice mail trucks. The mail trucks have matching paint jobs. The paint jobs spell out the name of their business and their offerings. There are so many mail trucks riding along the bottom of the water that I know that it is a fleet.

On Expectation

2009-05-08T10:43:00.002-07:00

Reflect on the idea of expectation and how it leads to different opinions, degrees of satisfaction and comfort.

I’m currently traveling with a young man from Belgium. He reminds me in many ways of my friend Nick, also from Belgium. Nick is much cooler, and much more relaxed, however. The two dance similarly, both enjoy liquor drinks, dislike slamming beers, and are keen on simple food. The following description of Batiste (his actual name, no one is protected) is nowhere near what one could say about Nick. It applies to a great many people in this world, however, which is why it interests me.

I have found that Batiste has trouble with expectation. I should say that he has trouble with realistic expectation. After two months in Ecuador, I expect that the bus will not offer sufficient leg room. I expect that the person in front of me will elect to recline the seat to its maximim capability. I expect that the windows in the bus will shake, rattle and roll, creating a cacophony of noise which adds to that which already exists on the bus. These noises, according to my expectation, might include vendors, selling ‘helados, coco, discos, secos,’ and the like. There will possibly be chickens squacking on the bus, and I expect that before I board.

Because I expect these things, which don’t really bother me anyway, I am not disaapointed or angered when they do occur or appear. My expectation being that which it is allows me to accept these aforementioned conditions, and enjoy the absence of those that don’t exist. If all are present, I have merely met my expectations, and there is no reason for discomfort of mind.

My friend Batiste has trouble being realistic about expectations. The bus, mind you, is just a convenient example. The issue goes above and beyond commute, believe you me. Batiste enters the situation without the above expectations and thusly is highly affected when they exist. He has been known to huff, sigh, groan and moan at the existence of such common conditions. I find this to be a terribly tiring way to go about one’s day. I find that he spends a great deal of time complaining about things that one could have anticipated from the get-go.

I don’t know why this occurs, nor if one inevitably becomes more realistic as they experience similar conditions and situations over a long period of time. I really hope so, for Batiste’s sake. It seems he might appreciate things much more, such as the terrain outside in our bus example, if he would learn to be a little bit more honest with himself when developing expectations.

I certainly have had nothing but lovely bus rides in my time in Ecuador. This statement, incidentally, acts as both a literal and metaphorical statement.

Dream from 5/2/2009

2009-05-08T10:43:00.001-07:00

I generally listen to music while I sleep. That is to say, that music generally plays while I sleep. However, last night, I listened to music while I slept. I also dreamt. Here is that dream.

First, for your information, I was listening to two very specific songs. The first is “Blood Embrace,” from Matt Sweeney and Bonnie Prince Billy’s album Superwolf. The second was “81,” from Bonnie Prince Billy’s album Get on Jolly.

At the end of the first song, there is a dialogue from a film that goes like this. This dialogue, verbatim, was part of the dream. Here are the words:

“
Female: Charlie, I’ve uh…I’ve been with another man. Aren’t you going to say anything? You’re just gonna sit there. Charlie, I didn’t know when you were coming back, or if you ever would. I tell you, the men around here don’t respect anything. I told you all the guys that called me up…and then Cliff. He didn’t make a pass at me, I mean, he didn’t even do it at all. I knew what he wanted, but…he never did anything about it. And then it seemed like the two of us just had to.

Charlie: I don’t think I’m up for any more of this. Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll work this all out.

Female: What are you gonna do?

Charlie: I’m just gonna sit here.”

So that’s the dialogue. Now, I’m watching this conversation happen between two people in my dream. It is exactly word for word. Neither one of the persons is recognizable, neither then in dream sense, nor now as I think back on their faces.

The man, Charlie, is wearing a maroon knit shirt and has a flat top haircut, although nothing about him is extreme. That is to say, nothing about his appearance. He is, at the end of the dialogue, sitting in a large yellow truck. The truck is no regular truck. Rather, it is some sort of work truck, such as one that carries water. The woman, for her part, is similarly plain. Her hair is a bland blond color, shoulder length, and her bangs are split down the middle. Her clothes, which are a dull grey, gave me the sense that they were from the fifties, although even still, were nothing to stop the presses about. The woman is speaking with her back to Charlie, and she is clearly upset about her transgressions. As the dialogue closes, Charlie is in the driver’s seat of the truck, which positions his head about 7 feet off of the ground.

Charlie, while speaking his third line (I’ll work this all out) pulls a pistol from his lap and points it at the woman. She speaks her line, and as Charlie finishes the dialogue, he shoots her in the back of the head. She never knew it was coming.

As the gun discharges, our angle of the situation changes, and immediately, we’re looking at a close-up of Charlie. We never see any blood that likely resulted from the first shot. Charlie is quite a bit more rotund than earlier, and seems distraught. He is shaking and sweating as his focus shifts from what we can only expect to be the lady to directly in front of him. He is now John Goodman as he raises the gun to his temple. The gun is in his right hand and thus pointed at his right temple.

There is a horse, donkey or mule in the back of the truck, and we get the feeling that Charlie wants it to be dead as well. He fires once into his right temple, shifts the aim to the back of the truck and discharges a third time. The fourth shot is aimed directly into Charlie’s mouth, angled up towards his brain. He discharges a final time.

At this point, the second song kicks in. Specifically, these words are spoken by a narrator, words sung by Bonnie Prince Billy in the song, “81.” “You make seeds into sprouts, and hidden in the heart of things, you make buds into flowers, and hidden in the heart of things, you make flowers into edible things…” Then a line from my brain kicks in, “you had my dad blow my mom’s head off.” Again, these words don’t exist in the song, but they did in my dream. And again, these words took on the sense of narration in the dream. After my words came these, which belong to the song and appeared directly, “…what majestic treats do you still have in store for me? A breath of death, a day of rest.”

After this, Michael J. Fox pulls up to a curb with a mailbox. He is narrating our story. Charlie was his father, and the female his mother. His car is a small sedan, silver or gold, and foreign. He steps out of the car, wearing a Domino’s Pizza jacket. He is talking about how now he is an old man, an old man with grey hair. He is wearing a style of pants that are quite baggy, and upon seeing these, I comment (either aloud or intrapersonally) that “choosing to have him wear these pants was a good idea because I’ve seen people wear pants like that.” I think this is a reference to the Back to the Future films, and how terribly they predicted the future.

As he steps out of the car, Michael J. is approached by a young child, who is clearly his son. His son is wearing a matching, albeit much smaller, Domino’s Pizza Jacket. Michael J. grabs his son by his upper arm caringly and lifts him into the air. This he does lovingly and gently.

Things from the Bus Part IV

2009-05-08T10:42:00.000-07:00

Restaurante Kayla
Comedor Kathryn
Bus Caller punches timecard
Banana fields
Jungle
Steam
Restaurante Carlin
High School Harry throws chicken bits and rice in a plastic bucket out the window
Single bus with following decals-Panther, Pit Bull, Tiger, Scorpion, Bull
Violent pore cleaning (this was occurring on the bus between two lovers)
km 29
Rio Chisinche
Abandoned Homes
Billboard about narcotrafico. There is a family portrait on the billboard, presumably a mother and father, mother holding a baby. The father (I assume) is missing, which is to say his body is cut out of the billboard, I assume representing his death or disappearance.

Something to Think About-Indigenous Justice

2009-05-08T10:41:00.001-07:00

Rafael Correa added a segment in the Constitution that gives indigenous groups the right to continue using traditional methods of judgment and punishment. Recently, there have been a number of really violent manifestations of this Constitutional allowance. In one case, a man was severely beaten and burned in the street. Eventually he died.

Think about this, a lot.

From the Bus, Part III

2009-05-08T10:40:00.000-07:00

Bar-the Pirates Club
Pet store called “Pibe,” pronounced Peebay
´Bible Shoop´
Jardin Escuela John F. Kennedy-La Libertad
Escuela Gandhi-Olón
Live stick in the spokes trick
Water park called “Texas Ranchero”
Palms
Mules
Mines
Outside pool match on International Workers’ Day (May 1st, May Day)
Headlock effectively executed
Men’s huge stomachs, naked
Barquero organic shrimp farm (world’s only organic shrimp farm)
Ring Around the Rosy (they all fell down)

Ecuadorian Political Parties, Presidents and Colors

2009-05-08T10:39:00.002-07:00

6, Partido Social Christiano, yellow and blue
12, Boya, red, yellow, and white
82, Movemiento Igualdad, red
76, Movemiento Encuentro Democracia, red and blue
35, Rafael Correa, Patria Altiva y Soberana, green and blue
40, Movemiento Justo y Solidario, Carlos Gonzalez, orange and black
15, Movemiento Popular Democratica, blue and orange, rainbow
7, PRIAN, Noboa, yellow, blue and red
3 , Lucio, Sociedad Patriotista 21 de enero, red, green
1, red and green
17, Partido Socialista, black and red
151, Socialista, red, white and yellow
18, Pachuktik, white and rainbow
24, red, yellow, blue, maroon
70, black, red, and yellow
66, red, black, green
61, red, blue
63, red, black
74, orange, blue
5, green
29
50
73
71, baby blue, black
155
45

From the Bus, Part II

2009-05-08T10:39:00.001-07:00

Really crosseyed guy
Wheelchair (unrelated)
Tires
Paulo Freire Centro Educativo
Shirt Made by COMPANY (since 1970, company didn’t exist in 1970)
Little girl climbing political sign
Water slides
Soccer stadium
Box of chickens (inside the bus)
“Del y” Panederia y dulceria
Perfect toobing river, outside San Antonio, outside Gualeceo
Ecuaquera Orchid Tours
Lady atop a pile of sugar cane eating an ice cream
Swastika and ANR Revolution in spray paint on a wall

Movie Idea

2009-05-08T10:37:00.003-07:00

So in Ecuador, buses work this way. There is a team of two who operates the bus. There is the driver, naturally. There is also who I name the Caller, who announces to all those on the street the route that the bus will be taking, hoping that more people join the ride. For, you see, you need not enter the bus at the terminal terrestre, or bus station, to travel by bus in this lovely land. Nay, simply waving one’s arm is generally sufficient to become a passenger. After boarding the bus, The Caller will travel down the aisle, collecting tickets from those who have come from the terminal and decided to purchase a ticket to the final destination. The vast majority of riders haven’t done this, however, and furthermore aren’t headed to the final destination, at least not to the terminal there. Rather, they have boarded somewhere along the way, and are likely to have a specific stop along the way. They pay cash depending on where they boarded and where they’re headed. The Caller is responsible for charging passengers, and accounting for each riders’ fare.

Generally there is some sort of dynamic between The Driver and The Caller. Sometimes, it’s fairly relaxed, without much interaction. On other occasions, it’s very friendly, with The Driver and The Caller switching roles for a matter of kilometers.

I find this relationship to be fascinating, as I generally do with groups of adults interacting. Specifically, adult men who have really close relationships is interesting. That juxtaposed with the idea of machismo and trying to act tough.

I would like to make a film with the above ideas and situations as the basis. There wouldn’t necessarily need to be a narrative, rather interactions between the two men as they travel across Ecuador and other spots in South America. In the meantime, we would see the various foods and beverages vendored by people young and old. These comestibles would naturally mirror the region in which the bus has paused for long enough for the vendors to board.

Passengers’ items would similarly tell the story of the area. If the film expanded its focus to all of Central and South America, imagine the variance in passengers, cargo, language, weather, and so on. Surf boards, chickens, herbs, briefcases, paintings, statuettes, fruits, etc. Additionally, think on the land and the sites that one would pass. The land and cities I’ve seen just here in Ecuador have been so amazing, so telling of the people who inhabit them. The bus would naturally become a character in the film. Attitude, style, condition, all these would help tell the story of the bus…its language.

Narrative unnecessary, though fairly easy given the elements of the situation. The bus and its tribulations, the relationship between two men, the terrestrial additions. Good stuff.

Possible Menu for Future Ecuadorian Restaurant, Vegetarian, in Austin

2009-05-08T10:37:00.001-07:00

Fanesca (only on special days)
Empanada de Verde
Humitas
Quimbolitos
Ceviche de Chochos
Patacones
Empanada de Queso
Sancocho
Ají
Jugos (maracuya, pitajaya, melon, sandia, frutilla, tomate de arbol, guanábana, mango, etc…)
Locro
Llapingachos
Pilsener
Papitas (veggie salchicha)
Menestra de lentajes
Arepas estilo Patate
Choclo a la parilla
Maduros a la parilla

Dream 4/30/2009

2009-05-08T10:36:00.001-07:00

I am in a house with Mom and Dad. Mom and Dad are my mom and dad. I know that I’m at home, though it’s not a home I’ve ever resided in before. It is much bigger. I am emotionless about the size of the house. I just know it’s quite large. I have to read a bunch of articles. I don’t know the content in the articles. The articles are arranged in two large binders. The pages of the articles have sticky notes on them. I am sitting near a window.

Outside the window walks an old lady, hereafter Shuffling Aunt. Her hair is black, but I know that she is 87. She is frail and her back is curved. She shuffles through the garden, and I know that more than anything, she is an aunt, either normal or great. That matter influences me not. Trivial. As Shuffling Aunt passes by, I make a screw face. I know that she isn’t my aunt or great aunt. I do not, however, know why I chose to be an asshole.

Next door is Joey Laney’s house. Joey Laney exists, though possibly not living, and was our next-door neighbor for a number of years when we lived in the house on Sir Philip. I am not concerned with knowing the status of Joey Laney. In Joey Laney’s yard hangs a swing. I assume the swing was attached to a tree branch, though I can’t confirm the validity of such a claim.

Pushing the wooden swing, which is painted an ugly terra cotta color, is a fat kid, hereafter The Fat Kid. I know that he is a fat kid, not a fat boy nor a fat youth nor a fatso. The Fat Kid pushes the swing, which has no rider. He does this listlessly. He seems bored or melancholy. A fatso appears, hereafter The Fatso. The Fatso is a woman. I know that the fatso woman is The Fat Kid’s mommy. The pair of fatties sits on the steps of the house. The steps are few and lead to the front door of the house.

The Fatso puts The Fat Kid on her knee. She wears a moo-moo decorated with flowers. Its main color is navy blue and the flowers are mainly white. Her hair is yellowish orange. It has been dyed and her roots are black. Her hair is large and looks uncomfortable to touch or to own. Her face is coated with pale make up. It looks thick and uncomfortable to touch or own.

The Fatso asks The Fat Kid questions. The questions are of a hypothetical nature. She asks him what he should do if someone puts their hand down his pants. For each question, The Fat Kid answers with in a mechanical manner. I know that he has memorized the answers. I know that the pair of fatties has participated in this exercise before. The exercise makes me uncomfortable, and now I am watching this as a movie.

After asking a series of questions, probably 4, The Fatso begins to cry. Her tears I know represent her fear that her son, The Fat Kid, will encounter dangerous things in his life. She has begun to feel her control slipping away. The world is too large and scary for her dear Fat Kid. She knows that she can no longer protect him. This is what the tears say to me.

The Fatso then says something about Satan and evil. The camera that captures the moment pans to The Fat Kid’s brother, hereafter Sickly Brother. I know that he is The Fat Kid’s brother. He is a very frail boy. He looks sickly. He is atrophied. He has a wound on his lip. I know, given the above sequence, that Sickly Brother is the very embodiment of evil. The Fatso resents Sickly Brother and wants The Fat Kid to realize the possibilities that exist with regards to becoming evil.

The camera then pans along the fence of the yard. The fence, which is no more than a meter high, is made of wood. The wood is painted a dull grey color, and the paint has begun to chip off. Snow has nearly overtaken the fence. There is a human hand sticking a few inches out of the snow. It is purple. It is purple because it is frozen. To the hand belongs an entire human body. The human body belongs to Shuffling Aunt. She is dead. Frozen stiff in the snow by the fence.

Incidentally, the final thing Shuffling Aunt saw before she kicked the bucket was my screw face. I feel for her now.

Some stuff from Ecuador

2009-05-08T10:35:00.001-07:00

There’s a brand of foodstuffs that made me chuckle. The foods are higher end things, rarer things here sold in the supermarket. Things such as olives, jam, pickles, and the like are produced by an Ecuadorian brand called ‘Snob.’

Today I saw a young child being assisted by two adults, a man and a woman, whom I assume were his parents or legal guardians. The child didn’t need help with homework, bullies, or making a sandwich. Rather, he had a political sticker wrapped around his head, and it was tearing his hair out as he tried to remove it. It was a sticker for the political party number 40, whose Presidential candidate is named Carlos Gonzales, whose party moniker is Movemiento Justo y Solidario, and whose party colors are black and orange. Mr. Gonzales lost the Presidential election to current President Rafael Correa. I noticed scissors in the hand of the man, most likely the father, and thusly assume the child’s hair was a disaster after the unfortunate event.

I bought a soccer ball with Adidas logos on it. It was a full size ball, and was neon orange and blue in color. I cared for it dearly. One evening as I juggled the ball on the third floor terraza of the Perla Cuencana hostal in Cuenca, I accidently kicked the ball over the short wall of the terraza. The ball fell in the middle of the street, bounced once, and landed safely on the second story balcony of a neighboring business. The business was closed, and the next morning the ball was gone. The employees of the business subsequently played dumb. I understood what that meant.

I wonder if there’s a name for stuff like this

2009-05-08T10:33:00.000-07:00

I thought of this on the bus, and wanted to send it as a salutation to my parents in an email. I wonder, given the profundity of nomenclature that exists in the field of linguistics and grammar, if there is a name for things like this. I would like to be able to think of more of these things. The statement to follow.

A sun kissed son kiss.

Meditation On Adventure

2009-04-24T14:24:00.000-07:00

Two days ago, I walked into the kitchen at the hostel, expecting to see nobody save possibly Lucia, the young lady who works here at La Perla Cuencana. What I found was quite a surprise, and a pleasant one at that. It was my friend Dario, a Spanish chap that I met in Quito and found in Baños, along with his girlfriend Ji from Korea. They are really interesting people, and easy to get along with and travel alongside.

As we told of the month in between our last meeting, we discussed the various places we’d visited, and some quick ideas about what the immediate future might hold for each of us here in Ecuador and beyond. Of course, my month had been spent partially in Salinas, Alausí, Patate, and Guaranda, though the majority was spent here in Cuenca.

Now, during our time in Quito, these two joked a bit with me about having moved into the Hostal Residencial Sucre permanently. You may remember I had some problems with my visa and ended up in the national capital for nearly two weeks. The manner in which they poked fun was overwhelmingly friendly, and I never took offense to it, rather chose to get involved and play along. We joked that, ten years from now, they will return to Sucre to find me living upstairs with my wife, my children running wild and playing with their Ecuadorian great uncles, Don Jose Miguel Abad Carrión and Sargento Rodrigo Lanas. I hope they’re not offering the children liquor as frequently as they did me.

Of course, when Dario discovers that I, again, have been in a single place for nearly a month, he jokes about my tendency to linger. I laugh, and again am not offended in the least.

As I walked around the city today, in what has been perhaps the most beautiful day here so far, I began to ponder what it is about my personality, my strengths, my challenges, my curiosity, my fears, my identity, whatever, which makes me enjoy the idea of staying in a place for a number of days. This led me to wonder if I’m totally devoid of a sense of ‘adventure.’ Having met a slew of people who have ‘done’ South America in a matter of a few months, I’ve often thought about this idea of ‘adventure’ and ‘being adventurous.’

My initial thought was that there was some part of me that feared the unknown, the adventure, the spontaneous. Such fear would likely have its roots in real difficulties that come with arriving in a new, unknown place, with little more than a guidebook of suggestions. I know these difficulties well, despite only having been in half a dozen towns here in Ecuador. They are real, palpable difficulties that represent for some, adventure, for others, sheer terror. I somewhat enjoy the act of searching out a place to stay, a nearby spot to eat, the town’s point of interest, and so on. I also have somewhat of a healthy (in my opinion) fear or desire to avoid such challenges, which is to say a comfort in having knowledge of my place.

Thinking beyond this, I began to ponder what it is about staying put for a while satisfies me so. I think I may have come up with the solution.

I believe that, for me, the adventure, or perhaps the challenge, is not simply delving into the unknown, simply aiming to survive another day, ready for the next destination. The challenge for me is striving to be oneself, searching out those things that interest one, maintaining principles, viewpoints, and ideals. By staying in one place, one is forced to evaluate one’s daily actions and activities outside of judging whether or not they perpetuate survival. That is to say that I think that the adventure comes in staying in a single place, discovering what it has to offer a person, offerings that allow the person not only to survive, but rather to flourish, in a natural, empowering, and progressive manner.

In other words, I now think it more simple to bounce from place to place, eating crappy foods because you just have to eat, never making lasting relationships (with the local community, the climate, the land, the food, the culture) because it’s on to the next stop, never taking time to advance oneself in terms of ideology, beliefs, identity, because one’s mind is clogged with bus fares, city maps, hostel recommendations, arranged tours, and backpack maintenance.

I’ll give an example. I spent one night in Guaranda, on the way from Riobamba to Salinas. In that evening, I ate too much shitty Chinese food (MSG monster), drank 6 beers, and watched Dr. No on television in my hostel. Now, I have had my fair share of crappy food, beer, and movie nights, I’ll tell you. And for one night, the damage is minimal and evanescent. It’s not profoundly harmful here and there. However, consider the impetus for having such a night. Purely and simply, I just needed to survive so that the next day, I could move on to the next stop.

If this point of view, nay, this driving force dominates one’s brain, consider how difficult it is to slow down and challenge oneself in regards to personal development. Nearly impossible, at least for this guy.

Living day to day is wonderful, however leaving behind one’s interests, curiosities, beliefs, passions, and desires simply to guarantee making it to the next day, the next stop, or the next country is not acceptable for me. I need to know that wherever I am, I am making a conscious effort to use the things (people, land, music, buildings, newspapers, soccer games) around me as catalysts for my growth, and at the same time, sharing the person that I am with that world by truly living my identity, in a clear, open, honest, and proud way. That’s the challenge. That’s the adventure.

Quito Word Smash

2009-04-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

These words will forever remind me of Quito, but they probably don´t mean a thing to anyone else:

Mí pan
Ministerio de Gobierno
Brphphrp Brphphrp Brphphrp
Trópico
abogado
Mamita
rama
gente baja
chuta que...
marido
gripe de quito (french accent)
sargento
palacio presidencial
vecino
todo bien
eso
Torres, Sanchez, Cueva, Carrión
que linda, que bella

Indian Food Challenge

2009-04-23T11:26:00.000-07:00

So, the other day, I went with some kids to an Indian restaurant. I had already eaten, but rather enjoyed the combo they offered (3 large beers for 3 dollars). Done.

The kiddos with whom I sat gave mixed reviews of the stuff, but it looked interesting nonetheless, and it was nice to have some veggie options. I decided to check it out yesterday, after having a wonderful, but generally meal-less day in a small Panama Hat producing village called Sigsig. It was a lovely day, and a comfortable dinner with some beers seemed the thing to complete the cycle.

I sat drinking my beers, eating a samosa, which was quite nice, and debating what to order. I decided to ask for the hottest thing they had, becuase I figured it would give me the added desire to drink the three huge beers. Sometimes, I just don´t want to finish an ice cold Pilsener. As rare as this occasion is, I figured I´d be safe and go for the spicy stuff.

I think the fellers in the kitchen decided to test my gangster, as the saying goes. The plate they brought out was comprised of about three green beans, some chickpeas, jalapeño slices (the first I´ve eaten in Ecuador, assuming they were jalapeños), ajì, which are the local favorite chile, about as hot as a serrano, and some flaming hot orange stuff smothering the whole package. I don´t know how much it was Indian food, now that I think about it.

I noticed, as I ate and sweated, the waiters, the owner, and some kitchen staff coming out and looking, grins on their faces. I figured out the game and decided to play along. I ate all the chutney, and another spicy sauce they had provided. This after about 1/8th of the meal. I proceeded to ask for another of each of the two. Astounded, the waiter acquiesced. I ate those two. Crying, snotting, sweating, I ate those two. I asked for another batch. Crying, snotting, sweating, I ate those two, leaving myself a quarter piece of naan and half a beer to finish the job.

Long story short, I did my stomach wrong, and thank the heavens that it didn´t take its anger out on me this morning. But it was fun to play along, and the food wasn´t half bad, for pepper noodles and satan sauce.

Dream Part II, The Less Direct Metaphorical

2009-04-20T08:47:00.000-07:00

After having the first part of the dream (see previous post), I think I was ready to relax and have some fun. This one will likely be short and sweet.

I’m in a large grocery store. I have an understanding that it’s HEB, which is a store we have in Texas and a few in Northern Mexico. ¡Viva Mexico! (Subjunctive).

I notice, as I’m standing in line to check out, that self-powered scooters are rentable here in the store. I don’t know how much they cost, though my understanding is that they charge by the hour. I decide it’s a good idea to rent one, and do.

I’m not alone in doing so, no. I’m with a friend, who remained, for the duration of the dream, nameless and faceless. The important part is that I knew this person was a friend. It could have been any one of you out there, in fact. Thank you for your friendship.

I’m zooming around the store, barely missing people with my front tire. The scooter, incidentally, was of the three-wheeled variety, and felt quite rickety as I made turns in and out of isles of comestibles. At certain points, I am no longer in the HEB, at least it looks that way. Instead, I am in patches of grass, crossing small wooden bridges, themselves quite rickety.

All the while, however, I get the feeling that there is a single person who, more so than any of the others in the store, wants to kill me. Literally, I have the sensation that if she got ahold of me, she would commit homicide. She never gets to me before I wake up.

The scooter itself is quite interesting. As aforementioned, it has three wheels, one in the front and two in the back. The seat is from an elementary school classroom or library. Someone must have removed the plastic portion of the seat and bolted it down to the scooter. As for the self-propeller system, it’s quite simple. There is a PVC pipe, about one inch thick, which rises from the bottom of the scooter to about two feet above my head. It comes out from the back of the scooter, and runs along the vertical midpoint line of the plastic seat. I reach with my right hand above my head and grab the handle that’s on the end of the pipe. The handle is made using a 90-degree elbow, also made of PVC.

As I’m zooming, controlling my speed with the handle, an older gentleman with a mustache and glasses tells me that I’m doing it wrong (see Nelson from the Simpsons, petting Santa’s Little Helper, “You’re doin’ it wrong, you gotta pet him hard so he can feel it”). He instructs me to move the handle to the front of the scooter, and it’ll be much easier to get power. I do, and it is. Good Samaritans.

That’s all.

Important Dream from 18/4/2009 (First dream entirely in Spanish)

2009-04-20T08:45:00.000-07:00

This is very likely the first dream that I’ve read much into, not about the reasons certain things were happening as related to the past, but in such a way that relates to a larger thing in my life, bringing together past, present, and future. Maybe that’s a mistake. Maybe now if I’m taking this dream seriously, I should do the same for all of them. Frankly, that would probably drive me insane.

The dream was a very interesting one, for a few reasons. As I mentioned in the title, it was the first dream that was conducted entirely in Spanish. Of course, there are, in the dream world, certain unspeakables; messages whose point gets across without the need for language as we know it. These ‘unspeakables,’ while not communicated with conventional language, had a very poetic manner to them. They seemed to flow in and out of the events of the dream seamlessly, though their effect was that of a threaded needle, keeping the entire thing together. It was really quite unbelievable. Furthermore, the dream occurred between the time I first awoke, and awoke for the final time. Thusly, the events therein were very vivid, very palpable.

Our artfully poetic narrator opened the dream with a really intriguing idea. The idea was that, like the clouds atop the TeleferiQo ride, all things metaphysical would blow away hastily, and we’ll be focusing on the tangibles for the time we spend together.

I’m on a raft made of logs, floating down a river. I have a pretty strong feeling that the river that we’re on is the Amazon River, though this is never spoken, in any one of the ways aforementioned. The water is green, as is the surrounding flora. With me on the barge is an unrecognizable man, an older man, with grey hair and a dark cloak-like robe on. He is standing, pushing us along with a long pole of wood.

Atop the raft is a large, metal pot. It seems quite clean and modern. I would say it holds about 20 gallons of whatever one desired. Inside the pot is a hot batch of what looks like fanesca. Fanesca is a very traditional soup made in many parts of Ecuador during Semana Santa, which leads up to Easter Sunday. Of course, there are different traditions here than in the States, as is natural, but the dates are the same.

As we move slowly down the river, which is moving at a tranquil pace, the old man and I are discussing the value of various objects. He seems to know quite a bit about the idea of quality (see Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance). He shares his opinions in Spanish and we come to a conclusion. The value we observe determines whether or not each object will be put into our cauldron of fanesca. There develops a pattern that is quite simple. It is explained below.

There are two different types of objects. First, there are objects that ooze a sense of ‘tradition.’ They are the ‘traditional’ objects. ‘Traditional’ objects are dominated by two physical characteristics: they are either made of wood or knitted yarn of some kind. The second group of objects is those characterized as ‘modern.’ The ‘modern’ objects are similarly dominated by two physical compositions, either made of metal or glass.

The pattern is as follows. First, we grab an object, from where I don’t know. On the first turn, we appreciate the ‘traditional’ objects. If the object we have chosen is a ‘traditional’ object, we put it into the pot, stirring all the while. If, on the first turn wherein we’re appreciating the ‘traditional,’ and we happen to select a ‘modern’ object, it is thrown into the river. Somehow, and not by colliding with the surface of the water, the object we toss aside shatters into any number of pieces.

After the first turn, the ‘traditional’ turn, we have a ‘modern’ turn, so to speak. In this turn, if a ‘traditional’ object is selected, it is subsequently, and with a level of disgust, thrown into the river, shattering at some point between leaving our hand and breaking the plane of water. Of course, as follows, if during a ‘modern’ turn, we select a ‘modern’ object, the object is ogled as if it’s value is beyond belief.

This is the end of the first part of the dream, the part that I’ve thought quite a bit about today. Here are some thoughts.

I feel like, as I’m here in Ecuador, I’m constantly developing an understanding for the customs, traditions, foods, languages, land, people, attitudes, points of view, challenges, skills, problems, unknowns, etc…of the people with whom I spend time. This sounds very obvious, but sometimes I think it’s important to realize that progress is being made.

The combination of all of these tidbits of information comprise my holistic attitude towards the place I’m in. Inevitably, this attitude will be that which I project on the entire country that is Ecuador, whether that’s fair or not. I can’t help it. I don’t think you could either.

I see the pot as a representation of my brain and heart, and inside of it are the aforementioned pieces of learned information and visceral feelings. Together, they make up the fanesca that tastes like Ecuador to me. A little about fanesca, because I think it adds to this idea in a very nice way.

As I said, fanesca is a traditional soup made only once a year here in Ecuador. For that reason, Ecuadorians generally eat the stuff in three bowl portions for the entire day, which is Friday, the Friday Jesus died (I think). Outside of the Friday of Semana Santa, fanesca will not be found. I will, however, bring my recipe back and make the toot out of it for friends and family…it’s really good, hearty stuff.

Fanesca is not only traditional, but also representative of the day on which it is eaten. The soup itself has twelve different grains and vegetables, including peanuts, rice, zucchini, zapallo (winter squash), peas, green beans, and others. These twelve ingredients represent the twelve apostles of Jesus Christ. Additionally, fanesca is generally served topped with boiled eggs, Spanish cheese, Parmesan cheese, and dried bacalao (codfish), likely a representative of Jesus. The base of the soup is traditionally milk and cream.

I made fanesca on the Friday of Semana Santa, however with a few variations. As a vegetarian, the bacalao is out straightaway. As one who appreciates the effects of a vegan diet, the eggs and the cheeses are out. As far as the base for the soup, I used soymilk, both in liquid and powdered form. Thus, my fanesca was somewhat traditional, and yet totally vegan. In this way, I feel as if the whole idea of the dream is perfectly manifested in the fanesca that I made, which in all likelihood, is the very fanesca present in the cauldron on the raft in the dream. Tradition is being honored, although, according to principles and present realities, it has been altered so as to be modern as well.

Beyond this, I thought a lot about the idea of the boat, and it’s slow progress. I have yet to be near large bodies of water here that weren’t either cascading down the side of a mountain or raining down from storm clouds, and although I have skeletal plans to visit the coast, I haven’t pondered much the Amazon, or any river, for that matter. Where might this have come from?

At the risk of sounding like a goofball, I think the boat represents that, no matter how slow and calm the trip, we’re all moving forwards towards something. I don’t quite know if that is some sort of enlightenment in the future, just a general growth in knowledge, a comfort in oneself, death. Or it could be much more hopeless. It could be that we’re constantly on the move, slowly, yet never having a defined destination, perpetually drifting, not taking time to stop and appreciate it (see Ferris Beuler).

As an optimist, and one who would rather dwell in romanticism and positivity, I prefer to think that the movement of the boat represents that regardless of whether we’re getting somewhere, we’re moving. I just like the idea of progress and forward movement (see my rant with Praveen, Adarsh, and other friends about the importance of Process over Product….see also Punished by Rewards by Alfie Kohn, a book that discusses the damage waged on children who are constantly taught to strive for rewards that come with completion of a product, who thereafter generally lose the ability to appreciate the path it took to get them there).

On the journey, there’ll be things that don’t matter a damn or that deserve to be shattered, and those things one leave along the path. In Ecuador, those things for me have been the chauvinism that dominates the male attitude here, the political, economic, and social power of the Catholic church, the tough guy attitude of youngsters here, Daddy Yankee, pollution, Quito.

The things that are beautiful, important, challenging, intriguing – those things go into the fanesca that is one’s holistic view of a situation, an event, a country, or oneself. In Ecuador, those things are a connection with indigenous blood, the idea of conservation of such a beautiful land, healthy nationalism, involvement in politics, fruits and veggies, fútbol, vegan fanesca, chochos.

Is one’s fanesca ever complete? Probably not, but it gets more tasty with every well-thought out and complimentary ingredient (see Mexican mole). The key is to have a strong sense of personal taste, which is to say personal identity, strengths, challenges, interests, principles, etc... With a good understanding of oneself, the ingredients in the fanesca will inevitably complement each other, and will leave not a single idea unanalyzed.

The moral of the story is to taste your fanesca. Think about things that sour the entire batch. Keep in mind that when you encounter that ingredient on your journey, you have the power to remove it from your ideological stew. Exercise that power, and be accountable to yourself first and foremost.

Ecuadorian TV Moments Part II

2009-04-20T08:29:00.000-07:00

Short and sweet is this one.

I´m in my room doing homework for class. On the television is a game show that is much like Family Feud (see also "The Feud," a drinking game popular in the hearts of two people more than any others, those being Bobby Perez and Andy Lofton). Incidentally, I´m not drinking, but am taking a slight interest in the answers given to certain questions. It helps my vocabulary.

Anyway, I´ve always been interested in the backbone of the game. Essentially, for those that never partied in the afternoons (which is to say mornings) at Crossing Place, the game is based in trivia questions. There is a point system that ranks answers, generally from about 3 to 6 answers. However, the ranking, and hence the point system is not based on correct answers, but rather the most popular answer among a group of 100 random people. Therefore, one could totally nail each and every question, but unless the group of 100 agrees, you could end up without a single point.

This brings me to the Ecuadorian example. The question is, "What kinds of fruits do you eat without removing the skin, shell, etc...? The following examples were included on the board: grapes, apples, peaches. The following were not accepted: kiwi, pear, strawberry. The number one answer, which was the most popular answer to the question above was, Mango. Mango. Next time you buy a mango at the store, stop outside the store and eat the damn thing. Trust me, mango skin sucks.

The funny part was the reaction of all those involved in the show. The families are dismayed and angry. The audience offers boos. The host apologizes, basically calling the tested group a bunch of morons, and reminds us that the rules of the game have nothing to do with reality...only the reality that exists inside the heads of 100 randoms. Whoa.

Some things I´ve discussed with my teacher

2009-04-17T11:26:00.000-07:00

-the origin of the term Chicano
-Latin American chauvanism
-Rafael Correa and his relation to other world leaders (both contemporary and historically) My teacher actually compared him to Pinochet and Hitler, amongst others. She later said that she´s somewhat conservative.
-Catholocism and it´s hold on Latin America, both spiritually, politically, and socially. We discussed the sexism that exists in the doctrine of the church, and how that sexism many times manifests itself in machismo, chauvanism, and even domestic violence. She also told me the story of a priest in Ecuador who, after years as a priest, was running for a government post. He had been accused of having affairs outside of his priestly promises, and indeed had borne a child with a mistress. Evidently, during the campaign, the secret came out, and the priest admitted his indisgression. However, he was running on a largely moral platform that found its roots in Catholic thought. A young man, during a public debate or meeting, raised his hand and asked the priest how in the world he expected the public to vote with their morals for a person who had violated, in such a grave way, the morals to which he had devoted his life and his very soul. The priest commented that the child he had borne was the biggest mistake of his life, and indeed a manifestation of the devil´s power of influence. The young man, seemingly a stranger, replied with the following question: "Would you have preferred that my mother aborted me?" Incidentally, the priest was forgiven by enough voters to win a seat in the Assembly.
-We talked about the public education system in the states. I tried to explain my view of the hidden curriculum of schooling, commenting that traditional schooling breeds competition, a departure from critical thinking, preparation for the workforce, and others. My teacher Isabel strongly disagreed, commenting that the public school system (of the United States, where she had previously lived during her college years) was less of a factor than the parents in the development of ideals in children. We had to agree to disagree.
-She also was of the opinion that African Americans were the most racist citizens of the United States, going back to here experience as a Latina in California.
-We discussed OJ Simpson, and what might have occurred had he been convicted criminally in the murder trial of the bizarro century. Her feeling was that OJ had been acquitted largely because the jury felt sorry for the poor black man, and that the US Justice System has some sort of a pity for black people. I couldn´t have disagreed more, I said. I said I thought (based on conversations I´ve had with all different types of people) that moreso than OJ Simpson´s actual guilt or innocence was the idea that black people, if they were famous, beloved, rich, etc...could have the same rights as famous, beloved, rich white folks. The right to get off regardless of the facts. The right to use affluence to melt tip the scales of justice, just as has been the norm for whites for centuries.
-veganism, and Ecuador´s obsession with rice and meat
-the lack of tortillas (flour and corn) in Ecuador and the food you get when you order a tortilla, which is a sucky, eggy, omelety thing
-the structure of the traditional Cuencan household, including space for horsies, guest area, two patios, a small garden, space for house workers (maids, cooks, etc...)

One of those nights, worthy of telling

2009-04-13T10:47:00.000-07:00

In the middle of the day, I'm cooking something amazing. I can't help it, it's just something I do. Anyway, as it cooks, I notice that the terraza at the Hostel La Perla Cuencana has been taken over by a group of dancers. The group is made up of three gentleman, on of whom works in the Hostel. His name is Christian. He has always been very amiable.

I look on, along with a friend from Portland, as the three fellers totally rip the space apart. They're quite sassy, and it's clear by the music they've chosen that this is no accident. I'm surprised at the control they have over the direction their hips move in relation to the rest of their body. It's not something I've ever been able to do, nor would I really feel the need to if indeed was able. Their facial expressions are provocative. They've decided to use water bottles as stand-ins for microphones.

We, I along with my friend from Portland, ask the fellers if they plan on performing their baile in public at some point. The expected answer is that which they offer, which is that they will indeed be performing, and that very night as was our luck. They're to begin promptly (which means little in Ecuador) at one in the morning, at a discoteca called Manú. We'll be there, we say.

Hours later, as we sit drinking a bottle of aguardiente, another fella who's family was in town for the weekend from Guayaquil decides he'd like to accompany the two of us. His name is Antonio. The dueña of the Hostel has told Portland where the discoteca is. It's across the Rio Tomebamba (a place whose mention almost caused my teacher to gasp as I told her this very story. Evidently, it's robberville, and she said she wouldn't even go that way after dark. Whoops.)

We walk from about midnight til 1 in the morning, getting directions from security guards, bartenders, passersby. It's clear that nobody knows where the bar is. I know this not because anyone has said, "I don't know," but rather because they have all given different directions. I think it's the national game - one person tries to catch another person admitting that they don't know a place, and the other does their damnedest to be definitive about the information they offer. It's one of those games wherein everyone loses.

By now, Portland and I have given up on the chance that we'll see Christian and his homies perform. We're now more interested in finding a place on our side of the river to have a beer and a seat. Antonio, however, is intent on finding this bar. I decide to shut myself up with a small bottle of rum. That'll keep me from whining. As we're walking in the bar zone, I notice that no one is actually in the bar. Rather, the streets are filled with little pockets of 6-8 people, all of whom are drinking aguardiente out of little plastic cups. Incidentally, there weren't cups for everyone. Instead, the little cup would be passed amongst the drinkers, one at a time. Good stuff.

As we walked through the throngs of aguardientistas - most of whom make screw faces at gringos - our friend Antonio saw a buddy of his. In the buddy's group were a few kids from the school that I'm attending, and we thenceforth were one group, united. Having missed out on the initial reason for going out, we were faced with a two options. One, we could make the short walk back to the hostel and get out before things got drastic. Two, we could join our new friends in whatever hairbrained schemes they had planned for the evening.

We chose to take part. We piled into the vehicle of one of the gentlemen. Of course, as we were doing so, we noticed a guy break a bottle and try to stab another guy with it. In the car, we get word of a serenade that will occur shortly at the home of a girlfriend of one of our new comrades. As we drive (across the river, where my teacher said never to go), a feller in the front seat practices his guitar and sings. Before we know it, we (a caravan of 3 cars totaling about 18 people) have arrived at said house.

Standing outside, my small bottle of liquor in my hand, I notice that some fellers are writing "Te Amo" in the street with what appears to be sawdust. Another feller follows this by carefully dousing the sawdust with a clear liquid, which I assume to be gasoline or something flammable. The dudes approach the door, ring the bell, light the words, and sing about three songs for the young dame who, naturally, is dressed in her jammies. From what I could tell, she seemed quite surprised, which is not to say that she was particularly thrilled with the flaming street which her balcony overlooked. All in all, I'd say it was successful.

Capitalizing on the relative success (at least she was home) of the first session, we decide fairly undemocratically, actually, to go to the house of another girlfriend whose man was one of the fellers with our group. This one didn't turn out too well. Nothing happened. No windows. No door. No lights. Nothing.

This seemed to tell the fellers in charge that the night's possibilities were waning, and that bed might be the best place for each of us to be at the moment. It wasn't until this point that I decided to ask what time it was. Five minus a quarter, or 445.

Yeah, bed time, indeed. A good night, an interesting night, and the kind of night I hope I never am too cool to stumble upon...de vez en cuando.

Culture Mashup

2009-04-13T10:32:00.000-07:00

So, I found this moment to be an interesting one full of cultural surprises. Kinda like peeling the layers off of an onion that's full of confetti, champagne, and song.

I'm in Cuenca, Ecuador.

I'm sitting on the terraza of my hostel, Hostel Perla Cuencana.

I'm drinking a Pilsener, which is the de facto national beer of Ecuador.

I'm overlooking the city skyline, which contains a number of catedrals and terra cotta roofs.

In my ears is playing Three Six Mafia's "Late Night Tip."

I've donned my Ecuadorian national fútbol team jersey.

It's Semana Santa, or Holy Week, in Cuenca and most of Ecuador.

In the kitchen of the hostel simmers a soup that I've prepared.

I've decided to cook a soup called fanesca, which is only eaten on the Friday of Semana Santa.

I've altered the soup so that it's vegan.

Below me marches a procession carrying, amongst other things, dried bacalao (codfish) which will top bowls of fanesca city-wide.

Anyway, thought this all somehow went together really well. By the way, I will violate tradition and cook vegan fanesca for anyone who is hungry. It's incredible. Look it up, if you don't believe me.

You have your whole life ahead of you.

2009-04-08T13:20:00.001-07:00

I'm thinking about this quote and in the manner in which it is generally offered as advice.

Generally, a person is at a crossroads. Generally, there is one option that represents an opportunity which provides some level of security, such as a steady job. Accordingly, there is a second (or third, fourth, etc...) option which represents some level of risk or unsteadiness, such as traveling or pursuing an art of some kind without realistic expectations of lengthy sustainability.

At what age, or at what percent of one's life, is one's whole life no longer ahead of one?

Indeed, what would a life look like if one were to operate with this concept in mind at all times? What would a life look like if one acted as if one's entire life was perpetually ahead of them? Would they always choose with their heart, ignoring external influences and pressures? Eventually, would the initial secure option (which was, at the time, ignored) arise as one that now speaks to the heart as the better option?

I really don't know.

Response to Letter to Dean of UT College of Ed.

2009-04-07T10:52:00.000-07:00

The following is the response I received from the college of education at UT. Prepare yourself for substantive words.

"Dear Mr. Allen,

Dean Justiz has asked me to respond to your letter on his behalf. We appreciate the time and thought that you gave to outlining your feedback and suggestions about the teacher preparation program in the College of Education at UT Austin. I have forwarded your letter to Associate Dean Sherry Field and she in turn has provided a copy for Dr. Hoffman, who was your cohort coordinator. I am confident the faculty will discuss your recommendations.

We wish you the best in your position in Ecuador.

Sincerely,

Marilyn Kameen

Senior Associate Dean

M. K. Hage Centennial Professor in Education

University of Texas at Austin

College of Education"

Letter to School in Salinas (Spanish)

2009-04-03T14:00:00.000-07:00

26 marzo 2009

Sr. Chávez, Maestras, Maestros, Niñas, Niñas, y Padres de la Hermosa Escuela Quitillano Sánchez,

Quería dar mí gracias a todos Ustedes por invitarme con brazos abiertos a su escuela ayer. Fue realmente un día interesante, informativo, y muy chévere. La realidad es que ya no estoy cómodo en mi nivel de Español, especialmente acerca de la pedagogía.

Por eso, he decidido irme a Cuenca para tomar unas clases de Español, y posiblemente clases acerca de la cultura y historia Ecuatoriana. Ojala que a través de los meses siguientes, hablemos mucho acerca de nuestras ideologías de la educación de niñas y niñas. Es muy importante por mí tener las palabras para que pueda hablar sobre mis ideas y mis opiniones. Después de un ratito, espero que pueda volver y estar activo con su escuela en cada manera necesaria.

Eso dicho, no puedo pensar de ninguna razón de que no debo visitarles y seguir conocerles. Espero que sientan similarmente.

Otra vez gracias y nos vemos,

Cameron Allen
(maestro de los EEUU)

Letter to Dean of College of Education at UT

2009-04-03T13:42:00.000-07:00

April 2, 2009

Dear Dean Justiz,

Maybe it’s a cop-out. Perhaps I’m a coward. In all likelihood, I’m just a romantic idealist. Or maybe I’m onto something. Either way, I’m not in the classroom.

Having graduated about eighteen months ago EC-4 certified, the expectation, both internally, as well as of family, friends, and instructors is that I would be teaching. However, as I neared the end of my Professional Development Sequence, I began to supplement my student teaching with readings dealing with various elements of pedagogy. My interest was cultivated after being asked by my program coordinators some questions dealing with the macrocosmic issues of education, such as the purpose of education and the various approaches to curriculum development. Meanwhile, the inquiries of many of my classmates dealt with specific issues in teaching which they were having to address in their specific field experiences, and most of them tended to become frustrated when ‘inundated with theory.’

Upon graduation, I realized that there was a host of questions whose corresponding answers were necessary facets in developing and internalizing an ideological framework that I had yet to answer, at least inasmuch as an answer can be formulated thereto. In place of these ‘bigger questions,’ I had been led to answer for myself many of the smaller, situational questions that exist. I see this exploration as helpful and as the job of the Professional Development Sequence, as is presupposed in its name.

The aforementioned task of the PDS was completed as interestingly, efficiently, beautifully, and connectedly as possible by the facilitators of my program, due mainly to the nonstop efforts of the amazing Jim Hoffman. The group also includes, but is not limited to, DeeDee Davenport, Sherry Field, Nathalie Hunt, and Ann Quarles, as well as my Cooperating Teacher, Crystal Marchand, most recently at Allan Elementary and currently working on a charter for Austin Community School.

In having been introduced to various questions regarding the theoretical aspect of education, I went on a personal and continuing quest during the last eighteen months or so, to add some substance to the base I had developed in class. What I discovered was quite alarming. I realized that in having earned a degree in Early Childhood Education, I had never been asked to explore the history of education, the various movements advocating alternatives such as holistic education, democratic education, or specific alternative approaches such as Waldorf, Sudbury, or Montessori education, all of which represent viable and caring options. Indeed, the ideals of such theorists as John Dewey, John Holt, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Sylvia Ashton Warner, John Taylor Gatto, bell hooks, Jonathan Kozol, Herbert Kohl, and countless others were not a part of my base pedagogical knowledge. In having been introduced to Paulo Freire, Alfie Kohn, William Ayers, Deborah Meier, Nel Noddings, and Maxine Greene, amongst others, I am forever grateful to my professors in the PDS and Ms. Marchand.

I write this as one of the lucky ones. Lucky in that the effect of compulsory schooling that generally breeds competition, and canonizes the product whilst ignoring the process that creates it, did not completely debilitate my natural sense of inquiry, nor did it train me to see that the power of knowledge is beyond my reach; that it is contained wholly in those greater than me.

Upon my graduation, I had become dangerously close to actually believing that I was ready for the classroom. Indeed, I still feel as though I could have done a fair job given my experiences over the course of the PDS. However, I likely would have become yet another teacher who has an inchoate theoretical sense of the social and political reasons for and inherent responsibilities of education, the true role of the teacher, and the need to remain constantly critical of a system that is largely damaging to the nature of children, especially to those living in poverty, who I see as the necessary targets of my future work. Without a strong sense of such an identity, I am acutely aware of the propensity for teachers to revert back to teaching the way they were taught, which, for the majority of us, is a dangerous prospect.

Learning about the history of education and the availability of options that have been conceived as well as the historical environment that cultivated them invites a young teacher to explore their personal view of the child, the teacher, the school, and education as a whole. By not offering, much less enforcing, undergraduate courses which require each student to invest in the development of their own personal and theoretically based ideologies of pedagogy, we are only serving to perpetuate the problems that exist now in terms of unmotivated or overwhelmed teachers, overtly damaging schools, and generally apathetic citizens.

Thus, I propose the addition of prerequisites to the PDS that force each and every student to develop and internalize a belief system for themselves, rather than asking questions that are embedded in a public school setting. In doing so, we are implying that there are no other schools of thought, much less tangible movements that embody alternative pedagogies. This seems to be elevating public schools as the sole viable choice, and that our only real option is creative maladjustment within the public school system, which I have learned is not at all the case. As a university with such high regard for its liberal and progressive identity, I feel as though you would be remiss in denying future students courses that introduce educational alternatives, theoretical aspects including critical and holistic approaches, and a historical overview of education in our country and globally.

Sadly, as I have experienced firsthand, the current system has been generally successful in its tendency to debilitate creativity and personally inspired inquiry development, beginning in the earliest grades. There are those of us who have simply chosen the job of a teacher, while others have dedicated their lives to the betterment of society, and feel we can be of most influence involved in educational situations.

As for myself, I am in the process of unlearning much of what I learned in pre-PDS classes in an attempt to develop and internalize my belief system, including a critical aspect in that development. Being that I realized my underdevelopment late in my schooling, I am currently avoiding the classroom with the expectation that my teaching could have a negative effect on students. To use a metaphor, I have a beautifully decorated attic in a house whose foundation was missing, and I don’t even know if I’m on the right block, because I was never introduced to the options in the neighborhood. I can only hope that the apathy that was so rampant outside of classes will not plague my fellow graduates, although I have seen evidence to the contrary. Many of them will feel the element of being theoretically unprepared and insufficiently convicted in their ideology, and hopefully they will respond by going back to the basics, so to speak, and asking the questions they were never forced to at the onset of their schooling.

We must be sure that higher education serves more than an internship, and that we allow and even foster a sense of responsibility to continue being a lifelong learner, especially in the College of Education, where we are turning out those who will immediately and drastically change the face of our society. In limiting this desire to be the driving force behind one’s learning, we are merely reciprocating the job currently done by many of our public schools.

It has now been over eighteen months since my graduation, and though I haven’t yet taught in a conventional sense, I have developed as a teacher in ways that I never thought possible. I have been lucky enough to attend a few conferences, be involved in movements to save Austin schools, read dozens of books about pedagogy, and be part of countless discourses, with groups as well as internally. I wouldn’t trade the learning and experience that I’ve gained over the last eighteen months for a year of frustrated, overwhelming, and disheartening teaching.

The comfort that I feel with my personal pedagogy is something I never anticipated. There are gaps, of course, in my understanding. However, rather than ignore them, I have come to appreciate that which I do not, or cannot, know, such as a true understanding of the philosophical concept of ‘knowing.’

I am currently in Ecuador, working with a school in a small town called Salinas de Guaranda. I have found that having worked through many of the assumptions I had internalized about schooling would have been challenged by the methodology of said school. Had I not already been on a critical journey that aimed to dissect those assumptions, I would be overwhelmed, frustrated, and disillusioned by my experiences in Salinas. As it turns out, I can appreciate the differences and similarities with this school and with what I believe. Furthermore, I have developed the language with which I can support my beliefs in dialogue with colleagues, something that has proven to be terribly helpful for all involved.

I truly hope there can be drastic changes in the way the College of Education approaches preparing its students. In my opinion, the College of Education should represent one of, if not the, most difficult Colleges, not only regarding admittance, but also in content. Sadly, as you probably know, this is not the case. Nationwide, colleges of education are maligned as being in the easiest tier of programs university-wide. This is a disgrace. The intricacies, decisions, nuance, and theory that come part in parcel with a true education in pedagogy are quite possibly the most difficult challenges as with any program in the entire university.

This is something we should pride ourselves in at the University of Texas. I see no reason why, with the right leadership, and with the application of the theory that we discuss in classrooms to our own institution of schooling, we can’t be at the forefront of progressive colleges of education. All we would be doing, truly, is applying our standards to ourselves.

Naturally, this will cause a stir. Classes will no longer be havens for athletes, and high marks might not be so easy to come by. Indeed, there will likely be a drop in enrollment as we change the reputation of the College. However, consider the alternative, the current situation. We have students graduating, armed with little philosophical understanding of their art, equipped only with the confidence of having earned good grades, along with a few months of advised experience as a student teacher which provided them with a few dozen grade and school specific lesson plans.

Of all these, the most damaging is the confidence we have on graduation day. I feel that there is a direct, positive correlation between level of confidence upon entry into the classroom and depth of disappointment upon realizing that there are situations outside of those dealt with in student teaching that teachers will inevitably face. Indeed, thousands of them.

The school reform movement has attacked the system from all angles, equipped with all types of panaceas. Indeed, no level of education has been untouched, no professional unquestioned, no institution without its attackers. However, I have faith that, until we equip teachers with deep, personal, theoretical understandings of the craft of teaching, we are doomed to repeat the present. Inasmuch as I anticipate and fear this, I implore you to take a stance of critical analysis of what we are and aren’t discussing at the College of Education at UT Austin.

I am terribly proud of my education. This statement is twofold. On one hand, I am proud of the accomplishments I made at the College of Education, along with classmates, colleagues, teachers, administrators, and most importantly, students. On the other hand, I am extremely proud of the journey of personal inquiry that has caused me to think critically on my years at the university, as well as assumptions solidified in public schooling. While much of this journey has been alone, due to the relative disinterest of my fellow graduates, there have been those along the way who have facilitated and challenged my development as a reflective teacher. In having met and spoken with a large number of people, I realize that I’m not alone in my hope that colleges of education can alter their approach. I think there is a more honest, hopeful and least hypocritical means in offering a program in Early Childhood through Grade 4 Education.

Regards,

Cameron Allen

Book Titles

2009-04-02T13:53:00.000-07:00

Just so that I don´t forget them. By the way, the book I´ll write about the ideology of cooperativism and it´s relation to the approach to schooling in Salinas doesn´t have a title yet, but maybe The Ideology of Cooperativism and Its Relation to Primary Schooling in Salinas de Guaranda, Ecuador.

Closing the Circle: Uniting Freire’s Critical Pedagogy with Ideologies of Various Educational Alternatives

Dusty Postcards: Rememberances of a First Year Teacher Not Spent in the Classroom

I guess we´ll find out.

I am thinking a lot about thinking right now.

2009-04-02T13:43:00.000-07:00

I have realized the value of six things.

First, I’m realizing how amazing the job that I had in Austin was, for a couple of reasons. I was able to work with friends, specifically Kathryn, Praveen and Josh. Additionally, I was afforded a good hour and a half to think, as I commuted to and from Dripping Springs daily. Of course, internet at a cool nine hours daily wasn’t bad for exploring inquiries of varying importance.

Secondly, I’m realizing the value of relationships, specifically in developing ideas and thinking. As I organized my computer files, I came across pages and pages of notes made over the last few years, the majority of which came out of drinking sessions between Praveen and I. I have realized how well we knew each other, and how wonderfully our thinking can work together. He is my best friend, and I hope that we’ll be able to get back to a point at which we can think symbiotically, without any higher purpose. He and all the other smart kids I hang with.

Third, I’m realizing the beauty of thinking for thinking’s sake. Having been in Ecuador for a little over a month, I’ve been largely in survival mode. This is partly because my Spanish doesn’t allow me to discuss, with others, things complex or abstract. At the end of such a conversation in Spanish, I feel as if I’ve run a hurdles course in sand with rollerskates on. We’ve made the finish, yet we’re bruised and bloody. Was it worth it? Absolutely, we’re getting better.

Fourth, I’m realizing the importance of silly and useless thoughts, thoughts whose existence might not necessarily change the course of the world. In survival mode, there is scant time for such ponderances, as bus times and hostel rates take over the mentality of the traveler. Once the survival things are done, there is generally a lack of energy or desire to have a real thoughtful night. There’s always tomorrow to think about, isn’t there? For this reason, I am very anxious to get settled somewhere, so that I can be weird again.

Fifth, I’m realizing how much I relied on the internet to act as catalysts for my musings. How helpful was it to have, literally, the world at my fingertips. Read or listen about racism, sports, books, news, diseases, whatever. My word, I miss the internet.

Sixth, I’ve realized one of the biggest things that’s missing from my life – guided study. In Ecuador, there hasn’t been much unguided study, actually. This is mostly from my small library, though I honestly haven’t done enough to read what I do have. Maybe bringing my two most read books, Pedagogy of the Oppressed and Breakfast of Champions, was a bad idea. Guided study is something that I’ll have, somewhat, when I begin classes here in Spanish. I aim to transcend functional Spanish and begin to find a voice. The classes are one-to-one, which doesn’t provide the camaraderie that a college program might, but it’ll be a start. Maybe I’ll apply for Cuenca’s University here.

Things I’ve Seen From the Bus Part 1

2009-04-02T13:41:00.000-07:00

On the way from Salinas to Cuenca, which was actually one truck, one cab, and four buses, over two days.

Donkeys kissing
Cows fighting
Dogs dead and rotting
Snow. Rain. Fog.
Candidate named, “Shitay.” He’ll not be getting my vote.
Two girls making Cat’s Cradles
Farms (this is a joke, because almost all of Ecuador is a farm)
Old school plowing
Rocks with algae grown in the shape of candidate’s names (again, joke…spraypaint)
Schwarma spot
Mudslide aftermath
Waterfalls
Graves
Orchids
A treehouse
Tombs
Mom spinning son in Superman costume in a park
Whole pig cooking on a barrel with a traditional Ecuadorian hat on it

Realization Station Cuenca

2009-04-02T13:40:00.000-07:00

I walked over today to the Universidad de Cuenca, about a mile from La Perla Cuencana, across the river. I talked to the Admissions Office about foreigners attending.

Being on campus, I realized what I’m missing so bad – school. Sure, a lady friend would be nice from time to time. But it’s the camaraderie that comes with mutual study and mutual interest for which I pine.

I’d love to find a school to work in, sure; especially one who operates in an ideologically acceptable manner. But it’s academia and the feeling of self-driven improvement that I want so bad. I want to be challenged to learn something that´s really difficult for me to wrap my head around.

The journey, successes and failures alike, along with a group that experiences the same – that’s it. That’s it.

Dream 2/4/2009

2009-04-02T13:39:00.000-07:00

I’ve been snowboarding for a long time. My hips hurt and so does my caboose, or rump. I know a trick that has to do with using my feet to spin. This is something most other people I’m with can’t do. It makes me proud to know I can perform something unique.

I’m now in a large library. I thought it was a bookstore. In Spanish, bookstore is librería. Perhaps that is how I was confused. The large library is full of reference books, many of which can’t be checked out by patrons. I decide to find the Education or Pedagogy section. This generally happens in real life, too. It’s not just a dream decision.

I find the section. I’m upset that the books are on the bottom two shelves. It would assuredly be more comfortable to stand whilst perusing. The books are terrible. They’re all really big and heavy. I realize that their heaviness doesn’t mean they carry any weight.

I’ve become familiar with a Burger King commercial during the dream. The content is as follows: there is a geriatric woman facing the viewer. To her right, the viewers’ left is a meat grinder. It is spitting out a tube of raw red (color, not necessarily cow) meat. The geriatric takes the tube of meat and scores it continuously with her teeth. When the meat comes out to the geriatric’s left, viewers’ right, it is brown, as if her scoring was in some way cooking the meat. The meat seems to defy gravity between the grinder, the geriatric, and the infinity that exists to the geriatric’s left.

I’m then, in the library, audience to a demonstration about making some sort of stuffed meat thing. Evidently, the cute host tells me, the meat must be scored, cut, and stuffed. She shows me how to do this. I’m to score the meat, the job of the geriatric in the Burger King commercial. I don’t seem to have a problem doing this. I don’t remember tasting anything.

The cute host is describing the meat. She’s telling me everything it has in it. In the meat are grains, like quinoa, and others. Quinoa is the only one I remember. As she tells me this, she makes the little meat pie patty things. They’re stuffed with some kind of cheese bullshit.

We get to the last patty. It comes out in a skin like a sausage. However, it is made entirely of grains, mostly quinoa. She is telling me how to hold it so that it will not fall apart. As she does, a man joins our group. He has dark blue Dickies and a shirt with a crying clown on it. He has some sort of mustache whether he likes it or not. His hair is faded. The last piece of patty will be for him.

I’m holding the ultimate patty for the cholo as the cutie pie describes the process to him. I seem to be losing control of the patty. The more she yams on about the process, the worse off his patty seems to be. Initially, only a few grains of quinoa are falling. I decide to place a small, brown trashcan under the patty to catch that which escapes. Before long, we’re losing lots of stuff. Amongst other things which escape are quinoa, M&Ms, little tomatoes, chochos, and other grains. They’ve almost filled up the little, brown trashcan.

The cute lady is talking about Dolly Parton. She says that her mom ‘wouldn’t teach [her] the oatmeal trick because Coat of Many Colors is her most famous song.’

Evidently, the cutie pie’s mom wanted her to learn some sort of sewing, rather than the oatmeal trick. I’m assuming the oatmeal trick had something to do with the patties we’ve been working with. At this point, the patty has become a handful of the aforementioned ingredients, wrapped burrito-style in a piece of brown butcher paper. The butcher paper looks as if it has encased something greasy because it’s really dark in color.

Ecuadorian TV Moments Part I

2009-04-02T13:38:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting in a Chifa, which is a Chinese restaurant, in Guaranda before heading to Riobamba en route to Cuenca. I am moving and would like to make the 4-bus trip today so that I can have all day tomorrow in Cuenca. Chifas, while unhealthy, saturated with MSG and cornstarch, are an easy vegetarian option. I stopped at a Mediterranean restaurant that didn’t have anything, anything, vegetarian. I asked about hummus and was greeted with a blank face.

On the tele is an American Idoleque show. The first young lady performs in a manner that seems to fit what I know about South American and Mexican television. Really sexy, or cute, depending on her age. Really cheesy, with costumes and loads of makeup. Her song is pretty poppy, and the performance garners her three 10s, which I assume is a perfect score.

The next performer is Patito, who is another young lady. However, Patito has been made up like a nerd, complete with thick glasses, fake freckles, and pigtails. Incidentally, she is likely a very pretty young lady as well. During Patito’s performance, the camera continues to show a tall, handsome man in the audience. He is enjoying Patito’s performance quite a bit, as is most of the audience. I’m wondering if he is married to Patito, or maybe her father, brother, manager…something, assuredly.

Patito’s performance is fairly typical, following the dweeb theme quite closely. From what I can gather, the song is an innocent one about a crush or something. It fits.

The first two judges agree that Patito’s performance was apt, rewarding her with 10s. The third judge, presumably the Simon of the bunch, is a bit more tough on Patito. He begins talking about her image, and how important image is in the business. The tall, handsome man seems upset at this, and is still somehow earning camera time. The curmudgeonly crab of a judge continues to rant about Patito and how she must change her image to fit with showbusiness.

His rant presents two viable possibilities. One, he’s not at all impressed with the purposeful nerd thing, and maybe thinks it’s been played out in Latin America. I certainly wouldn’t argue with that. Two, he doesn’t realize that Patito is clearly playing a part for the performance, and if necessary, could probably be as hot and sexy as the first girl. This possibility is almost beyond belief, given how obvious it is that she’s putting on.

Still, we’re getting a healthy eyeful of Tall Dark Handsome, hereafter TDH.

Patito is clearly upset, and I’m clearly confused. TDH is as upset as Patito, though where her emotion manifests itself as shame and embarrassment, TDH is getting pissed. TDH takes the stage and reaches for a microphone. I’m still confused. TDH is trading insults with Curmudgeonly Crab (hereafter CC) about this and that. Eventually, CC asks, naturally, who the hell TDH is anyway.

“Soy el padre de Patito,” TDH replies passionately.

The crowd, in unison, is absolutely stunned. Patito is stunned. Judges, stunned. Even TDH, the voice behind the surprise, seems stunned now that it’s become audible.

Here’s where it gets weird. Keep in mind, we’ve been watching American Idol here for about 25 minutes, had two complete performances with two complete judgements and a couple of rants to boot.

All of a sudden, we zoom out of the program, and we’re suddenly in a room of stunned preteens. The preteens, all wearing the same denim getup, are watching the American Idol program from their couch at home. We’re not watching American Idol, though we thought we were. The entire American Idol thing, all 25 minutes, was just a mere set piece inside of a bigger story, wherein Patito is a major character. Evidently, the three preteens are Patito’s friends and are floored by the secret about her TDH father.

I’m stunned, and feel I’ve been had, but for a totally different reason. Lucky I didn’t have a cell phone, or I might have voted for the first, sexy girl. Unbelievable.

Best Vegan Meal in Ecuador so Far

2009-04-02T13:33:00.000-07:00

Best Vegan Meal in Ecuador so Far

This was a meal that I ate with my friend Skye, who I met in Baños. Like me, she had been vegan for a time before arriving here, though she had about a year under her belt. We were both inspired by this meal.

Nothing cooked, all crudo (raw). Except for the bread, of course.

A couple of rolls from the local Panaderia de la Casa.

Two raw beets
Two avacadoes
Two tomatoes
Three small carrots
One small papaya, for dessert
Half cucumber
Some sunflower seeds and pistachios
Lots and lots of lime juice.

This was such a wonderful meal. The raw beets were unbelievably good. Here’s the rub. A warning: the rest of this post isn´t really cute stuff. It´s sort of gross. I warn you, though I know that means you´re just gonna want to read it more than ever. Sorry. I tried.

As I’m sleeping later that night, I wake and realize I need to use the restroom. I go without much effort and without many solids, so to speak. No biggie, I’m somewhat used to getting that every week or so here in Ecuador. Traveling makes for a ragingly varied diet.

As I am cleaning, I’m realizing that there is some red on the hygienic paper. This is new. I don’t think I like this very much. Actually, I’m really not happy about this. I finish the deed, and glance to see the content in the bowl. Of course, in Ecuador, there shall be no hygienic paper in the bowl, and thus the visual information present isn´t at all compromised by it. I’m blown away by the amount of reddish liquid in the bowl. I’ve never seen this, and I’m immediately really concerned about it. ‘What the fuck’ would probably be aptly placed here.

I rush back to my room, thinking I’ve just shit a pint of blood, and the possible solutions bounce around in my head, not a-one seemingly up to addressing such an extreme problem. ‘What the fuck now’ comes now.

I decide to take the pearls that Dad gave me for stomach problems. I took a couple of weeks of these, and now take them sparingly. I pop two of these, and look for what else might be in my medical bag. There are now two different pills, one in a little baggie and the other still in its foil wrapping. I decide to pop a couple of the bagged ones, hoping they ameliorate bloody shits. ‘Oh, man, what the fuck does that mean.’ Now, I’m being reflective and trying to reverse engineer the problem.

As I lay in bed, I recount the activities of the day, which, in Salinas, is a pretty simple process. Walked here. Check. Climbed that. Check. Photographed those. Check. Said that to her. Check. Ate that…wait a minute, ate that. Ate the fucking beets. I ate beets! Beets! Red beets!

As it turns out, the greatest vegan meal I’ve had in Ecuador had me pondering my own death in the least honorable way.

I waited to write this, for fear that my Sherlockian problem-solving was a little too simple. For an update, there have been no problems akin to those mentioned above. Well, except for the other times I’ve eaten beets. Can´t stop, won´t stop, eating beets. Gotta love those raw beets.

Paternalism and Arkansas State University

2009-04-02T13:28:00.000-07:00

I’m in a small town called Salinas de Guaranda, a town known for it’s cooperative run industries. Amongst others, their soccer ball, soy, textile, cheese, and chocolate industries are all run on a cooperative paradigm. There was a religious man of some sort that introduced the idea in the mid 20^th century, and since then, the town has been a beacon of good business practice. Amongst other things, they set aside part of the monies gained to send citizens to universities in Ecuador and beyond.

The town is very proud of the rapid pace at which it has become successful. That said, it is also equally proud of having done the work on its own. The religious feller is now long gone, and they’ve taken his suggestions and run with them, making Salinas a truly unique town with a truly unique, and successful, approach.

I arrive in Salinas on the heels of some friends that I met in Baños. I find my friends at one of the two hostels in town, El Refugio. They advise me, in the extra day they’ve had, that Salinas is a lovely place with warm and welcoming people. However, they also relay to me the information that it has been invaded by about 20 fraternity and sorority kids from Arkansas State University. I decide to see for myself, assuming that if there is any truth to their claim, then it won’t be hard to verify in a town of a couple thousand.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, as I make the two-minute walk into town, I cross paths with a few fellows who look like they just might not be Salineros. “Hey, buddy,” they say with a smile. “How’s it going, fellas,” I reply in English, following their lead. “That’s good to hear, man,” the second fella says, presumably referring to my English fluency. So, it’s true.

Over the next few days, I get to meet and talk with most of the 18 or 20 international business students about their mission here in Salinas. Evidently, they’ve come to volunteer in the various coops around town. They’ll be audience to various presentations which aim to describe the history, development, and organization of aforementioned coops. At the end of their six short days here, they’ll give a list of suggestions and insights about how to improve business in Salinas.

Across these few days, I’m host to conversations and situations that, to me, were saturated in a paternalistic attitude that made me want to puke. Keep in mind, I’m reading Pedagogy of the Oppressed pretty much nonstop. Thusly, paternalism is something I’ve got a heightened disdain for. Aside from the paternalism were some Americanisms that just killed me as well. Here’s a list of a few quotes and doings that caused the hair to stand up on the back of my neck.

“We’re just here to do everything we can to help.”

“We’re gonna give a family a donkey. It’s only like 80 bucks, which ain’t much. But to them, that’s a lot.”

“Before we take off, we’ve all got business cards, in English and Spanish, and we’ll hook you up.”

“I just don’t think, even in a niche market, we’d be able to sell these patterns.” This was from the final suggestion session, which I sat in on. The group plans on opening a store in Arkansas to import Salinas’ chocolate, cheese, soccer balls, and textiles. The quote came from a girl who had volunteered in the textile shop, and was obviously turned off by the colors and patterns chosen by the members of the coop. She thought they were a little ugly and extreme. Of course, it’s not like the people of Ecuador haven’t been using said patterns and colors for hundreds or years.

I walk into the pizzeria, which is the only restaurant in Salinas with regular hours (it’s open from 9 at night until midnight, and doubles a bar thereafter). Immediately, I hear the sounds of The Band’s smash hit Up on Cripple Creek in the background. It doesn’t take long to notice the five tables that have been put together to accommodate the Staters. They’ve about 25 beer bottles, 3 bottles of rum, and maybe 5 super meaty pizzas adorning the table. They know the words to the song. They’re proving it by singing, loudly. Turns out, they know the words to many other songs. They prove this by singing. Turns out, they brought their iPod into the pizzeria and decided to have a karaoke night.

“Brad’s gonna ship him his Spanish book.” Evidently, one of the most pitiful Salineros, Jiovani, was trying to learn English. Poor guy doesn’t have a bilingual dictionary, so Brad’s gonna ship him his Spanish book. That’s right, a book made for English speakers to learn Spanish.

In a day at the elementary school, I noticed some good stuff. First, the Staters were unabashedly taking photo after photo of the children. Cell phones, iTouch, digital camera, disposable, whatever. Just capture this moment. What a beautiful moment. Remember when we bought chips and those little kids were so hungry. That’s so sad. Hopefully we made their day better.

"They´ve got a washer and a drier. Blew me away."

“The kids are really smart. It´s not the kids. Smarter than the adults.”

“Juanita doesn’t know English at all. She definitely needs help.”

“Man, he must not have eaten all day. He ate so fast!” Jiovanni made a head wrap for one of the dudes with a weed leaf on it. In exchange, they bought him a pizza. Jiovanni told me the night before that eating fast is a type of statement against aristocracy. He said that people that eat with forks and knives, really slowly and with blatant politeness, are looked at with disdain by much of the youth in Ecuador. His friend was describing how he eats with his hands only, even rice, beans, chicken, whatever, to make a similar statement.

All this ranting aside, the folks that I met from Arkansas were all really nice to me, as well as to the Salineros. It seemed that they were happy with what they learned from the Salineros. They seemed to appreciate the hard work and the organization with which the Salineros ran their cooperatives. Their intentions seemed geniune, as did each and every person with whom I spoke.

I think I just have a little bit different outlook on helping people that involves the people sharing their knowledge with me. I don´t feel as if the people in Salinas need me, but it would be nice if we could share some experiences.

Spanish Textbook Moment in 3-D-Capítulo 2

2009-04-02T13:27:00.000-07:00

Cultural Note

In Ecuador, as in many South American countries, there are a few different ways to ride buses. First, you can meet the bus before departure at the terminal terrestre, or bus station. Keep in mind, not all towns have a designated bus station. For smaller towns, you can catch the bus along the route between two bigger towns. Passengers board the bus, have a seat, and a few minutes later someone will come by to collect fare. Of course, the fares are different depending on the specific route you’re taking. Many people aren’t headed to the terminal terrestre in the final destination, but rather have a place to go that is one the way.

Situation

Humberto jumped on a bus between Ambato and Baños. The ride from Ambato to Baños is about two and a half hours long and costs 85 cents. Humberto rode the bus from Pelileo to Baños, a ride which lasted about an hour. Upon arrival in Baños, the bus assistant, Jiovani, asks Humberto for 75 cents for the ride from Pelileo. Humberto is furious. He thinks he should only pay 40 cents, but Jiovani is unwavering.

Your assignment

Break off into groups of two. One person act as Humberto. Explain why you should only have to pay 40 cents for the ride from Pelileo to Baños. The other person should act as Jiovani. Explain that, because the bus has arrived in Baños, Humberto has to pay whatever you say. Each person should use the informal, singular, command form from earlier in the chapter. Present your dialogue to the class.

Narrations of thoughts from Ecuadorians.

2009-04-02T12:58:00.000-07:00

From time to time, I cross paths with Ecuadorians who notice me. I´d say 100%. Sometimes, they look angry, confused, interested, humbled (joke). Sometimes, it´s only clear that they feel something. Instead of trying to be a personal advocate, and wish everyone would look at me like the complete person I think I am, I´ve decided over the month I´ve been here to narrate the words of some of the folks with whom I encounter. The following is a sample thereof. See if you can guess which one was my favorite.

“Whoa, what the fuck is that?”

“Get outta my country, Nazi.”

“Whaa, it’s a white guy. Seriously, he’s right there. Walking like the rest of us, with a bag of vegetables. But, he´s a white guy doing all those things we do!”

“He probably voted for Bush. Whatever that means.”

“That’s so totally weird!” “What, the beard?” “No, not really.” “The hair?” “No, that’s not it.” “Maybe the white skin?” “No, I’ve seen plenty of that.” “Glasses?” “No, I wear similar specs.” “Ah, it’s the clothes, isn’t it?” “No, he dresses like my dad, actually.” “I got it, the sandals…they’re really…white. Is that it?” “Well, no. I guess not. It’s just fucking weird, okay! Let’s stare the shit out of him.” “Yeah, why not?”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha…I love it. An Ecuador jersey, on a white guy, on game day. And just when you think you´ve seen absolutely everything.”

“There’s a person. He smiled and said, ‘Buenas tardes.’ That was nice of him. I’ll smile back and say, ‘¿Cómo estás?’ It felt nice to be polite, even to someone who is really different than me.”

“Man, I’d like to kick that guy’s ass, but he’s way larger than me, so I’ll just glare.”

“Mommy, will I ever have a big red beard like that guy, cause I don´t wanna?”

“Whooooooooa! Strange!"

"There´s...uh...it looks like...but...I...do you..."

Thank you, thank you.

Dream 20/3

2009-03-22T12:13:00.000-07:00

Dont recall most of this one, but here goes.

Im at a petting zoo with some friends and family. There are children there. The presence of the children give me the inkling that I've taken my children on a field trip to said zoo. There are tigers there, of bengal colors, but with bone structures like cheetahs or panteras. The fences are flimsy. Some of them don^t even connect correctly. Im nervous about this.

The reason for my nervousness is confirmed as accurate when the massive cat decides it wants me. Suddenly, Im in the cage with it. It doesnt care about the trainers. It doesnt care about the children. All it wants to do is eat me, and only me.

After struggle and retreat, Im overtaken. Im screaming for help as the massive cat munches away, slowly, methodically, without haste, at my right hand, consuming one finger at a time. I look into the cat's eyes, not really knowing what I expect to see. What I do see is pure, unadlterated rage and hatred. I'm very dissappointed with this, because I want the cat to love me as much as I love it.

I decide to gouge the cat's eye out. This seems to be fruitless as I wake up in my dorm bed in Baños, Ecuador.

Cameron and Interweb~Act VI

2009-03-17T16:02:00.000-07:00

Scene: Patate, Ecuador

A few days later.

C: Interweb!? (echo in the valley)

I: (nothing)

C: Internet!? (echo in the valley)

I: (nothing)

C: World wide web!? (On his knees. Echo in the valley)

I: (nothing)

C: Sorry I left without a word...I was hoping you'd follow me here. (Tearing up) O, God! (Groaning incoherently) My dear, dear Interweb. Will I never see you again!?

Camerón's words echo throughout the valley in which Patate sits. He collapses to the street, a bottle of wine in his hand. The only sounds to be heard are those of the packs of stray dogs perusing the towns' garbage bags for meat scraps, an activity which has and will continue to reward them handsomely day after day in the sleepy (or drunk) town of Patate.

Curtain