January 8, 2014 Dream

I was having a huge party at our house.  There was a ton of food and lots of different people attended from all parts of my life.  Guests included friends, family, students and their families.  One student's husband got really drunk and challenged another husband.  The second took it to him, while I walked inside and found his son.  I knelt down to hug him because I knew he was scared.  He was immense for a child, incredibly wide.  As I hugged him, he sobbed.  I attempted to lift him in my arms, but he was too heavy, and rolled back onto his back like a turtle might.

Within a second, he rolled himself over, became wiry and thin, and ran around the room laughing and doing the Spiderman web shooting from the wrist thing.  I followed suit, knowing strangely that it would make me more attractive to the guests.  We ran around the room jumping, doing the Spiderman, until I jumped against a window and knocked off the board that framed its upper portion. As I attempted to replace it, I realized that it wasn't long enough anymore. I did my best.

I walked outside to make sure things were going okay, and approached the gate to lock it.  I didn't want the drunk man who'd been beaten quite badly to return and cause more trouble.  Right before I did, a group of young teenagers I didn't recognize approached the gate and snuck in.  There must have been 5 of them.  I asked who they were connected with at the party, and one of them said "15." They were a mixed group racially, but seemed about the same age, were all outwardly males.

I soon realized that they didn't know anyone there and I locked the gate and ventured after them to expel them.  Before I knew it, I found the party overrun with these kids, though now there were females as well.  They weren't wearing a uniform of any kind, although they did sorta match with black t-shirts and usually dark colored pants.  In the midst of booting them out, I continued circulating the party, trying to have a nice time, looking for food and so on.  Each time, I would discover a new bunch of these kids and would expel a group of 3-7 of them.  They never resisted, though they didn't make haste in their exits.

After about 10 such groups, another walked down the steps on the front of the house, and were lead by a young man with bright red hair, light grey shirt partially covered by a checkered sweater, and light grey pants.  He seemed a tad bit older.  As I moved them towards the front gate, he asked, "Are you sure this is the front?" As he did, he walked to the left, approaching the wooden fence that demarcated the property line.  "Are you sure it's not...the side?" He said this with a quite ridiculous air of mystery, likely magnified by his youth.  While I thought it absurd, I watched him walk towards the fence, at which point a gate appeared, through which he passed.  When he did, the brick pathway seemed to slam up against the opening of the gate, but in a distorted way, as if you had shone an image of bricks onto a semi-flat, tilted surface.  It was skewed and appeared saturated and digital, though there it sat.

I refocused on the dozen or so shuffling slowly out the front gate.  (As an aside, I found it interesting that none of the others followed this kid, though he clearly seemed to be their leader.  On their way out, I noticed that one of the graphics on a t-shirt said Orin Industries.  I nearly lost it.  Then I awoke.

(Orin is the name of a character from the film The Ballad of Narayama, from 1958.  The film tells the story of a family in a period of great change.  The grandmother is reaching the age of her honorable expulsion from the community.  The son has recently lost a wife to drowning, but has been given a new wife from across the mountain.  The grandson is indolent and rude, assuming he's old enough and mature enough to start his own family with the young girl he's gotten pregnant.  Orin, the grandmother, becomes somewhat manic about her trip to Narayama - the mountain where she will starve out her last days.  In particular, she is ashamed of her healthy teeth, which are evidence that she's been greedy in times of meager rations.  In her desire to be old dentally, she smashes her front teeth out on the side of a bowl, and thereafter pecks around town with blood running down her chin.  This, of course, is shameful for the family, as she is mocked by the youth in the community as a crone.) See this film!

Dream 12/12/13

Last night, I was dreaming about what I wanted to write about for my final paper for T-440, Teaching and Learning: The Having of Wonderful Ideas.  The first idea I had was about the alterations of a person's reality or epistemology if they (it was a young lady, not sure who she was/was meant to be), if they lived with a homeless man for about a week.  What is food, shelter, health, rest, anger, happiness, a shoe, cleanliness, sunshine, etc...?

The second was, sadly, rooted in truth.  My grandfather, Pappy, has been having trouble with his eyesight over the last few years.  It is very frustrating for Pappy, who is still the toughest sum'bitch that you'd ever wanna meet.  Autonomy's a helluva thing.  Anyway, I was thinking about writing about the change in a person's reality or epistemology as they begin to lose their sight.  What is bright, hot, tall, checking, feeling, running, etc...?

Of course, a portion of the issue is that we're flies stuck in the jar, which is language (Wittgenstein, 1958).  What is the concept or the object that we attempt to name when we say "food," "tall," "happiness," or "shoe"?

Quite obviously, this is the biggest fucking problem I've thought about in a long time, especially because I can ONLY think about it in my language and filtered through my epistemology.  FUCK!

References

Wittgenstein, L. (1958). Philosophical Investigations. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

Gender in Education talk with Jennifer Bryan

Went to a talk, had some thoughts.  The talk was fantastic.  While I wasn't necessarily blown away by anything she spoke of (which probably speaks more to only having an hour than to her expertise or my advanced understanding of the content), it was yet another in a long line of discussions that I think refer back to a larger paradigmatic issue.  More on that later.

The atmosphere was receptive, although there was some hesitance on the part of the audience (myself included) to engage with Dr. Bryan.  I feel as though she wanted a little more from us, and I'm not sure what made it that folks weren't more forward with thoughts.  I certainly was more interested in thinking than blabbing.  "Are gender and sexuality topics that should be discussed in school?" Some comments.  Bryan's answer - yes, because schools are sites of development (identity, sexual, cognitive, etc...), because reality will find its way into schools, and because we all have genders, sexualities, and other facets of identity.

She presented us a series of questions from children at different ages, starting at Kindergarten.  "Can I be a boy if I don't have a penis?"  Moving through second, third, eighth, high school, we explored what seem like reasonable developmental questions, thinking about the role of the teacher (rights and responsibilities) in addressing them.

The most poignant part of the talk was the discussion of destroying the binary present in many pieces of identity.  Male/Female, Gay/Straight, and so on.  Again, nothing is surprising here (modernism is very present in my mind).  What I really appreciated, however, was the visual of the continuum of all of these aspects of gender and sexuality.  Not only were they anchored by various benchmarks, such as the aforementioned polar positions, but typically there was a midpoint (bisexual, androgynous, etc...).  She had a series of letters show up on the various continuums, sometimes once, sometimes multiple times, to show that people's identities can be so incredibly complicated.  This speaks to my thinking about CRT, personal epistemologies, Freire, T440, and so on.  I think underlying this idea is post-modernism, which shatters the binary.

She introduced the metaphor of the finch, which varies greatly from species to species and whose gender can only be determined by hearing them sing.  The metaphor, obviously, speaks to the variation present in human beings.

Her book is all about starting and continuing these conversations in the school context, with any age student, based on the postmodern vision of identity explored above.

Dream 11-5-13

A bit of set up:  I've been in Somerville for a few months now.  I've been sleeping on a gourmet air mattress, about 4 feet tall (thick), and really quite comfortable (though sometimes a bit squealy).  It had small circular lumps in it, that traveled down the length of the bed, from head to toe.  Each one was probably about 6 inches when flat, and I'd say about 1.5 inches tall when fully inflated.  One night, the seam that created the middle between two little lumps tore, and it became a 12 inch hump.  The next night, another seam tore, creating an 18 inch hump(ón).  This disastrous form took up a good bit of prime real estate on the bed, and I've since ordered another cheap bed to replace it.  Here was the dream on the last night sleeping with the hump.

I'm inside a wooden fence.  There's a huge dude (dude cause his cap's on backwards), wearing jean shorts and a dark (probably black) t-shirt.  Shortsleeved.  I'm wielding my Wusthof 9" chef knife, and I'm doing my best to slit his throat.  Unfortunately, my darned knife is not nearly sharp enough for the job.  I keep moving in, slicing, doing some sort of damage (as evidenced by the blood), but not sufficient to debilitate the dude, who seems to want to fight back.  His method is simply grabbing my arm to which belongs the hand wielding the Wusthof.  I wriggle it away like a little prick, and proceed to slice again.  Again and again (I'd say 4 times), we repeat this deadly dance.

Dream 11-3-13

I relayed the following dream to a friend, Eric, which included a man named Chester, which may or may not be a pseudonym.  Don't worry, you don't know him.

I had a dream about Chester last night.  He was the headmaster of my (British) grammar school, and he had plans to beat me for something or other.  He took me away from my room, and walked me into a large hall.  At this point, the left sleeve of my blue cardigan extended well beyond my left hand, and Chester was carrying it.  I swung it back and forth as I followed behind him in the large auditorium, which was filled with my prepubescent classmates.  They giggled at my antics, and I knew their affection for me diffused the situation.  The performance started (think the midpoint between music, film, and theater), and my genuine affinity to the content further rendered his abuse unlikely.  Seems there's a heart deep down in that massive barrel chest after all.

Writing About Thinking About Writing

In recent weeks, I've been thinking quite extensively about writing.  Specifically, I've been ruminating on my writing style - or lack thereof.  I'm concerned, as I get deeper into my graduate school education, that I've so long written in a style that was self-determined (and sometimes unconsciously so), that my ability to write academic papers is dormant.  To make matters worse, the writing that I've done thus far, excepting two papers, has been very, very open - taking the form of journal entries; reactions to readings and classes and what not.

To make matters still worse, nothing I've read (fun reading, that is) lately is likely to do anything but destroy my ability to succinctly and directly announce anything.  Rather, I'm possessed by a tautology, a circumlocution that isn't necessarily welcome in many circles.

I hereby pledge to myself that I, Cameron Allen, will refocus myself on writing often, in hopes that I'll be able to create engaging, meaningful text.  At the very least, this will allow me to flex the muscle, which ideally will translate into better writing experiences, as well as increasingly useful and worthy experiences for my readers (most of whom are obligated to read my drivel, as they're my profs and teaching fellows).

Out.

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Dream 8-26-2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream 9/31/2009

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

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

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