I work here, at the LeDoux Library on the campus of LSU Eunice.
in his sleep
four and a half years ago
wrapped in maroon flannel
the day before payday
he was full of food, medications,
yearned to do good
aspired to be a better man
but gravity weighed him
down, and sex
mechanical wheels moved him
electricity propelled them
after a visit to the VA
which cleaned him out
he was emptied
and so he died
By the time it was over (equinox yesterday* at 9:29 pm CDT), I too had regained some equi-librium. After a day encountering the shortcomings of higher education in Eunice, I went to the local coffee shop. At a sidewalk table was a fellow orchestra member, who asked how I was dealing with that troublesome passage of sixteenth notes in Dvorak’s “American Suite.”
“Slowly,” I answered. As a novice violinist, I am not in his class. He claims to have no talent, just persistence. We shared our practice methods and lamented the lack of interesting writing for second-violin. Don’t worry, audience; we’ll sound pretty good by April.
After the refreshing little chat, I went to meet my writing group. We discussed work we’d done, writers we liked, how to analyze a short story for revision, and the limits of humanity. It’s a fun group. I felt much more energy, and some more optimism, as I walked in the dusk to my car. On Highway 13, low in the southwest, the teapot of Sagittarius was pouring out stars.
*Monday, September 22, 2014
This is a short note of correction to my previous post, “The Old Canvas Is Almost Gone”: Walter de la Mare might need to “go down to the sea again,” but he was reading John Masefield’s poem, or perhaps singing John Ireland’s setting of it. Russell Malcolm performs it on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X82NNkkjSYI . “de la Mare” reminds me of “La Mer,” hence the confusion.
The poem is so perfect that several parodies have been written, and it’s been quoted by everyone from Vin Scully to Capt. Kirk. In Spike Mulligan’s lampoon, the writer has left his clothes at the beach and (to rhyme with “sky”) wonders if they’re dry.
A state university (attended by my niece and nephew) has just announced its decision to convert its library holdings from books to digital files and databases. This has brought home to me the current future of education, the creation of knowledge, and its preservation. Librarians are raising their cool-factor, even appearing at the ultracool SXSW, the South by Southwest culture and computer festival in Austin, Texas. (But I wonder how public librarians afford the $825 entry pass for SXSW Interactive). Their slogan is “not the same old shhh.” Clever, no? From storytellers and instant reference on the streets to the now fashionable maker-spaces, librarians in the twenty-first century are actively embracing electronic multimedia as well as the old-fashioned personal interactions at information desks.
In 1890 William John Gordon wrote that “Now all the old canvas has gone, with its snowy wings from the watersails to the moonrakers” (Foundry, Forge, and Factory, p. 37). The Industrial Revolution and the progress of material technology used steam, then oil, and now atoms as fuel. Wind and horsepower were left to historical fiction, ecological dreamers, and the poetry of the past. Walter de la Mare might need to “go down to the sea again,” but finding a “tall ship” is increasingly difficult. Writers from Nicholson Baker to Neil Gaiman to myself are lamenting the passing of the book in its paper form, as the codex of recorded knowledge is being replaced by glowing electronic screens of hypermedia. Yet it’s too early for an obituary for print. Some educators are warning the enthusiastic early-adopters about their effects on learning. And the dire state of education in the United States is well-publicized.
So. I don’t know, but we live in interesting times. I’ve been on a wooden ship, even hauled on a sheet. Now I’m dusting my bookshelves again and reorganizing the proud paper books, just as though they were a library.
–from Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Dirge Without Music.” Collected Poems (HarperCollins, 1958), via poetryfoundation.org
It seems to me that the major oil spills of my time–first the Exxon Valdez in Alaska, most recently the BP in the Gulf of Mexico–are an indicator of the moral confusion of our post-industrial society. Even worse than hurricane damage on the Gulf coast, oil damage is in some sense deliberate in that the spillers value profit more than safety, environmental responsibility, beauty, or life itself.
Yesterday in federal court, Judge Carl J. Barbier found BP “grossly negligent” and responsible for 67% of its 2010 catastrophe.
The New York Times story focuses on the judicial impact of the spill, but the featured comment gets to the center of the dilemma:
Of course BP is primarily liable. However, as in nearly all such cases, we the people self-righteously ignore our collective culpability. We buy their fuel. We drive with it. We heat with it. We buy tons of the plastic made with it. We dump down tons of the fertilizers made with it. We bemoan all the impacts of fossil fuel use yet, when it comes down to sacrifice, we are partners with global corporate powers.
Carl was overgeneralizing, as some replies to his post indicated: “we” use organic, locally produced, fuel-efficient, recycled etc., when we can. Yet I think he’s right about complicity. Remember the 1960s Pogo slogan: “We have met the enemy and he is us.” It’s about time for a new grass-roots movement (while there’s still grass left on the planet). Bienville House, may we come home again?
This post is a jumble (a new genre, looser than an essai).
I wanted to share a word new to me, “merlion” from the Oxford English Dictionary, but after typing and pasting below, I saw this warning:
“Oxford University Press (UK) Disclaimer
This message is confidential. You should not copy it or disclose its contents to anyone. You may use and apply the information for the intended purpose only. OUP does not accept legal responsibility for the contents of this message. Any views or opinions presented are those of the author only and not of OUP. If this email has come to you in error, please delete it, along with any attachments. Please note that OUP may intercept incoming and outgoing email communications.”
Why is the venerable Oxford University so paranoid? The dictionary is in print, online, in most libraries, and therefore even more public than the university itself. Yet this free, anonymous WOTD e-mail is anchored with a warning of confidentiality, legal irresponsibility, surveillance potential, and caution excessive even for Brits. Hmmm… Well,here goes. Below is an excerpt, in quotation marks, properly documented. I post this not to breach confidentiality, steal intellectual property, nor to bring legal charges, but to spread the literal word, to celebrate the OED, and to encourage its proper use. I trust this does not violate any of the Ten Commandments of Computer Ethics (CEI). For a more restrictive viewpoint, see the Government of Guam’s Internet Code of Ethics. [Guam is a Pacific island outpost of the United States, where my father was stationed while I was in elementary school.]
[You wouldn't know that my zodiac sign is Leo, since I'm neither golden, resplendent, nor outgoing. But the king of beasts is also regal and reserved, and the version below loves the sea. Hence, he's me.]
“OED Online Word of the Day [for August 11, 2014]
Pronunciation: Brit. /ˈməːˌlʌɪən/, U.S. /ˈmərˌlaɪən/
Etymology: < mer- comb. form1 + lion n.
A mythical creature with the head and trunk of a lion and the tail of a fish, regarded as the protector of Singapore.
The merlion is represented on a celebrated monument installed in Merlion Park, Singapore, on 15 Sept. 1972.”
Via the © Oxford University Press 2014. www.oed.com
Trying to find the good in the trend toward the business model/Googlization of education, I am taking a MOOC about how to teach online. Which aspects of a course are better when conducted online and which face to face? Take a class discussion, for example. Introverts might feel more comfortable typing on a keyboard; make sure the activity is explicitly related to the course; students are used to computers anyway, and isn’t multimedia more fun than musty old books?
Here is a random screen shot from YouTube of comments on a video, made by a writing class in the UK, about digital literacy in the age of Google.
Is it too small to read? Try again, knowing that some names are nicknames, several words are mistyped, a few are misspelled, one comment repeats a previous comment, and one seems irrelevant to the subject. (And the page isn’t much worse than the discussion board posts I’ve read in the MOOC.) Why is this sort of thing preferable, in 21st-century pedagogy, to typed papers written well and proofread carefully?