Wedding week, all you need to know.

This Saturday around 5:45 pm, I will be a married man for the first time in my life. When I'm asked if I'm 1) nervous; 2) exhausted; 3) getting cold feet, I say no. And I'm not. If I were doing this for the first time 15 years ago, I'd at least be considering 1 and 2 with some gravity. But I think waiting until 41 to do the deed has eliminated any possibility of Bridezillas-style stress, and I'm thankful for that.

So if you want the answer, it is to wait until you're 41 to get married. :) That, and buying a house with your betrothed two years prior to the marriage date. And prior to that, dating for six-plus years. I know not everyone chooses to wait that long; on the other hand, I knew one couple who'd been living together for 10-plus years and still hadn't sealed the deal. For me (for us), it was about time. I haven't followed the recipe in most areas of my life, and why start now?

Even this week is, so far, drama-free. I have the distinct advantage of getting married to a super-organized and -motivated woman, and we're on top of all the arrangements as we can be. We've had some deals fall through, and some re-thinking, and plenty of doubt and stress, but it's already happened. This week is going to be a lot of little errands, driving around, and entertaining family. I don't foresee any major 11th-hour fuckups.

Then again, it may be easy for me to say that since I'm the groom.

I haven't written extensively aboout wedding prep because, well, that's our business. But all is as well as can be six days in advance.

Bye bye, miscreants and ne'er-do-wells.

Today I gave my only final exam, as noted before; I had exams graded and grades entered by 11:30.

One student missed the exam. I got back to my office to find an email from him time-stamped 9:43 a.m., asking what day the final was. I was all prepared to e- him back with a smile and say "Too bad, no go," but then he softly tapped at my chamber door about 10:45 all contrite. And I had other work to do anyway, so I let the little piss-ant take it. Obviously I didn't have to. My fiancee said I'm too nice. She's not wrong. Did I do the right thing from a Buddhist point of view? (Or is there no "right" thing in a Buddhist point of view? My knowledge of Buddhism is scant.) If I hadn't gone right back to my office--if he had shown up when I wasn't there--I would have said no go.

Oh well. I made a decision and went with it. As an old boss once said, nobody got maimed.

I also noted and recorded writing sample results. Two students who made B's in the course failed the writing sample and now have to retake the whole damned thing. I wish we had some kind of short-course remediation for students in that boat.
I suppose a writing sample is like an at-bat in that anything can happen on a given day, but still. You should be able to write five frickin' coherent paragraphs if you make a B in learning support English, for cripes' sake.

Oh, and it also means these two students failed two writing samples, because all who fail the first one then get rated on the second one. And there has to be a consensus of two raters out of three. I doubt the raters got it wrong. So many variables: focus, choice of topics, amount of sleep the previous night, whether they're gettin' any.

These two surprises were counterbalanced, though, by several passes from students I had serious doubts about. One guy came to see me looking for the posted results, so we walked down the hall, found his code, and he was positively giddy. He may have been my best student this spring--not in terms of grade (he got a C and worked hard to get it), but of tenacity and stick-to-it-iveness. I was rooting hard for him.

Other bits and bobs occupying my mind:

Been reading good stuff in this month's Atlantic on the banking/financial meltdown, and I think we're not at the bottom of the pit yet. I'm mildly concerned about nmy 403b but somehow can't rouse myself to be more so. Maybe there's something to the advice given by one expert, which is if you're nervous about investing or shifting your money short-term (five years or less), then don't invest at all. Writ another way, you can't take it with you.

Allison Iraheta may give Lambert a run for his money on Idol. I'd buy a whole album of duets by them. (But I'd fear a remake of "Almost Paradise.") If Cowell exits after this season, I can't imagine there's any reason to watch. [EDIT: I wrote this without the knowledge that Iraheta was booted this week. So it's down to the boys now. I say Lambert prevails, but Allen may surprise.]

Tomorrow and we hopefully get our blinky A/C fixed. Not a moment too soon with wedding madness kicking in and family zipping into town next week.

Mowed the front lawn this afternoon and again achieved Zen. There's something oddly comforting about mowing grass, even when wedged in tight spots. Something about keeping a careful straight line all around. It speaks to the orderly in me.

Have I mentioned we're headed to Napa Valley for our honeymoon? I will be playing the wine-tasting role of Thomas Haden Church in Sideways--the one who's just ready to drink. We need to plan it out a little more, but we have our accommodations in Sonoma. A mud bath and massage are musts.

A slow fizzle, and smoke.

That's the sound of the semester burning out its last ashes. For me, anyway. I give but one final this spring, on Thursday, and then I plan to hurriedly grade the exams afterwards, enter final grades, and enter a long waiting period.

My learning support students wrote their second writing samples today and thus finished the second of a three-step process in exiting the learning support English sequence. Now, those who pass the writing sample get to (re)take COMPASS. The samples will be graded by Wednesday night, but my classes don't take their COMPASS until Wednesday of next week, the 13th.

In addition, those who don't pass COMPASS are allowed one retest on any of several dates and times up through Friday night, the 15th--which is the night of our rehearsal dinner. The wedding is the next night, and hangover recovery is the next day, Sunday. Any COMPASS retests completed Friday night won't post to the system until the following Monday, the 18th. This means I'll have to monitor the system up through the morning of the 18th, because any failing grade on COMPASS means I have to go back and change that grade from passing to an IP (in progress). Just a little wrinkle I'll have to deal with, an annoyance.

But I'm glad I give only one final. The last day of the semester is tomorrow, but my one class that day is not meeting, since I finished singing my song last Thursday. I'm going in for a few office hours, grading the last two research essays, and cutting out early, hopefully before noon.

There are few other feelings like this, the feeling of another chapter being completed written and a door closing behind me. I can leave this one and begin again in the summer. That may be the best thing about teaching: the certainty that it will be done after 15 weeks. No matter what, it will come to an end.

What I'm reading.

I have moved on to the latest collection by Mark Halliday, Keep This Forever, in which is contained one of the funniest poems I've read in a long time: "Tim Off to Charlotte." It nails the weird associativeness of one side of a cell-phone conversation and the spirit of the traveling businessman.

The lines are rarely end-stopped with punctuation or enjambed, which creates a delicious sort of surrealism. Have some:

Jim, this is Tim McCurdy, just getting back to you about the Big Boys project
Not sure your people are up to date on this
Just to be sure we all shoot in the same direction
Christine, something I didn't mention
The reason Herman Schmitt was calling
He said the contact person would be a Biff something
I'm thinking Biff? Where do I go with the name Biff?
I mean are we in a cartoon here?
If you could just check the database

It's just a zany, random, short-attention-span kind of poem. Four or five conversations with different people at the same time. It's America. And it really is laugh-out-loud funny.

Crunching the numbers, a/k/a another semester in which nothing is accomplished, part 2.

Tomorrow, research essays come due in my freshman comp class. About 18 students remain. The number of students who will have their folders ready to hand in at the beginning of class will be less than 10. Of those 10, the number of essays that will have the correct formatting and fulfill the conditions of the assignment will be, say, 7 or 8. Of those 7 or 8, the number of essays that will actually say something interesting will be 3 or 4.

The class has been a train wreck in the making for several weeks. Ain't nothing to do but stay off the tracks.

On the bright side, it may mean I have fewer essays to grade.

Crunching the numbers, a/k/a another semester in which nothing is accomplished.

I present to you another installment of Great Moments in Mediocrity.

Two learning support classes taught this spring, about 38 students. Without the numbers in front of me, I can say that 85% got C's, 10% B's, and the rest either IP (D in this system) or F. No A's, yet again. It isn't as stinky as a year ago, but there are still poop odors I'm trying to get out of the room. And I so wish we could assign pluses and minuses, because it would be more accurate. I had about 10 students who came within 1-2 points of failing.

Why? Why would you spend good money to take these classes which a placement test said you have to take, classes you would not choose to be in voluntarily, go 15 weeks, and get to the end just to learn you've done average work? You can do average work anywhere--why continue to do only what's expected? Why would you not take an active interest in your education?

I know, I know--we're talking aesthetics.

I hate to say it again, but today was another day in which I barely controlled my temper. One class was stubborn as all hell. Didn't do their homework prior, didn't want to do the work in class, bored, listless, thinking of who they're gonna screw this weekend. Today was the day they found out their final grades, which in this course is but the first of three hoops they must jump through to get through our learning support exit procedure. Some of these guys, the C-minusers? I worry for them. They could pass if they manage to squelch their ADD for a day. Me, I'm ready to get through this and get on with the wedding.

O yard work, ivory, fine timbers!

Well, better late than never. Today, Apr. 8, is the first time I've set mower to grass since, oh, last October or late September. Spring seems really late this year. Last year I trucked out the ol' cutter in early March, I am certain. In any case, the grass needed the cut. And that's just the front yard. The back "yard" is more properly assorted patches of dirt and little flowering grass clumps--many trees back there so a lot of shade, plus rocky soil, hence not much to mow. But the upshot is I didn't mow the back tonight. I'll get around to it at some point.

Not much motivating me to write in here tonight, oddly. Maybe by blathering for a while I'll discover a subject. Here:

Baseball! The season has started. The Braves are, lessee, 2-1 as of this afternoon. They got out way ahead but then gave up eight runs in the seventh. Still, they appear to have brighter spots this year than last. But I figure I should give 'em 25-30 games before I pronounce judgment.

And speaking of baseball, we're slowly finalizing plans, me and the boys, for my bachelor party Saturday in less than a month. The plan is to see the May 2 afternoon game against the Astros, beer it up a little bit, then adjourn to a lovely watering hole and/or restaurant and beer it up some more. No strip clubs, please. I'm young and innocent.

Bits and bobs: a miscellany.

I know I need to end this abominable practice of not posting for weeks and then spewing out two or three in a mad rush, but it will probably continue. Now, a laundry list of other current events.

--The last 3-4 weeks have seen the most poem writing I've done the past two years. It shouldn't be surprising, I guess, that I'm more productive when many other things are going on: wedding planning, usual school stuff, parents' visits, friends' visits, et al. It's not like I've been writing feverishly for eight hours a day, but I've been making the time. I have perhaps seven or eight poems in the hopper, all in various interesting stages of disarray and half-completion. Let's hope one of these days I'll get on the wagon and send out some of these bad boys.

--We are on the ball for most of the wedding's finer details. We need to spend some time hashing out the vows, but we have some models and ideas to work with. I think we essentially have the larger structure in mind and just need to get from point to point. Aside from that, a lot of deposits and balances will be due the next few weeks.

--The way this semester worked out, I only give one final exam, and it's the Thursday prior to wedding week, so I will be able to fully devote myself to the logistics.

--Here is the first semi-public place I reveal that I have given in to season 8 (9?) of American Idol. The little lady has watched it from season 1 on, and I watched and resisted simultaneously for a long time. Now? What the hell. And I predict Adam Lambert will go far but not necessarily the whole way. He's gonna have to cut down on that oversinging, methinks.

--The lawn needs mowing. Badly. But with so much rain of late, not much can be done. On the bright side, Georgia is officially not in a drought anymore.

What I'm reading, and why.

At present, it's David Kirby's collection The Temple Gate Called Beautiful. I have told myself for years I've wanted to write a Kirby-esque poem, and I've managed to sort of write one. Kirby has this long-lined, discursive style which a lot of people probably find too chatty or, worse, unpoetic, but which I find a compelling high-wire act. Charles Wright's latter-day poems walk this same wire, too. I just know that my work tends sometimes toward the multi-syllabic and declarative, so I'm always interested in those poets who seem to manage it and/or give in to it.

Is Kirby's stuff just lineated prose? Mmmm, there's more of that in this collection than in his previous collections. The problem isn't so much with the lineation as with the occasional dullness. But when he manages to pull off this sort of lowbrow, chatty persona with the more refined, learned, artiste persona, as in "Elvis, Be My Psychopomp," it's delicious. This book occasionally tips too far toward the purely philosophical, though, and I'm not always a fan of him telling in his poems how much he's read. But that's kinda his subject, marrying the high and the low, kind of a Southern-genteel Baudelaire.

A subtle but definite paradigm shift.

The following may seem strange, given my past posted obsessions with teaching and learning, and my periodic fretting that I'm not doing anything right.

But over, perhaps, the last 12 months, I have noticed some changes in my teaching style, if one can call it a style. Perhaps "presence." I am, I will readily admit, a control freak in most areas of my life, but never more so than in the classroom. I'm kind of draconian, in fact. I want students to stay in their seats, do their work, and be an active part of the proceedings. How radical, right? But you'd be floored how many students have to really check themselves to simply be still for 30 minutes--let alone 105 minutes.

Anyway, I'm noticing a reduced tendency on my part to sugar-coat things. I am, gradually in bits and pieces, slowing down and letting the real me (whoever that is) emerge. I used to want to smooth things over, be the nice guy whom all the students loved, but that desire is disappearing. It's not that I'm trying to consciously be an SOB, but I feel myself (again, incrementally) caring less what students think of my style, content, or mannerisms, and I'm just plowing forth with what I believe is valuable material.

And, paradoxically or not, this allows me to feel more relaxed and confident, and more able to settle into the groove of a class. I'm putting more on the students and feeling less bad if no one responds or if they do half-assed work. In the last post, a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned a few students who are torpedoing their chances of passing by simply not doing their work. One of these guys has turned it around as much as he will be able; he turned in an essay two classes late and got 20 points deducted, but he turned it in, and he even completed a little written response--not long enough, but he turned it in on time.

Another of these dudes, though, has only written one of three essays, and as mentioned previously, the one essay he wrote was in class--and it scored in the 80s! The other two essays? Both are zeros. He can "revise" either of those essays for a chance at having the impact of the zeros lessened--but it would take a minor miracle for him to pass at this point. The most curious thing is he keeps attending; he's only missed one class in ten weeks.

I could be all up in arms about how he's throwing away his chance (and in the last post, I probably was). Or I could, as I have been lately, take it all in with bemused distance. It's really kinda comical to see this guy bumble into class twice a week and not have a thing prepared and not contribute. He has said maybe ten words the whole semester. So he's wasting his time and his money, and that's his unfortunate concern.

This may not be a paradigm shift as much as a small adjustment. And regretfully, it is not yet a constant feeling, but it's happening more and more. And it's about freaking time, after 14 years in this profession.

Vacillations of the spirit.

It's weird how my teaching mood and attitude toward my job fluctuate. Yesterday was, simply, a great day: I was on top of my game, I was an expert, I was even a little cocky and gently confrontational. I knew there were the usual dullards drifting off, but when I feel confident like this, I absolutely don't care. I hadn't had a teaching day like that in a long time.

I came in today and almost immediately I knew it was going to be a long slog. My Comp class had an essay due. Of 22 students still coming to class, only 16 turned in the essay. And almost immediately, I started boiling inside and taking it personally. Even though I know it's foolish to think I had something to do with those six students' lack of motivation, still I thought it. This week is the week after spring break, so likely, most of them put off the assignment too long and forgot it was due until too late.

This class has shaken down as follows: about two thirds of them are reasonably into it, keeping up, doing their best. The other third is simply killing time, and I don't even know why they keep attending. Two dudes have not yet turned in an out-of-class essay; their second essay was written in-class, so only one of their three essay grades is not a zero. I should bring a length of rope for them next week.

I know I should be chanting this mantra: "You can't teach motivation." But when I run into this sort of passive resistance, it has the potential to ruin my day. Probably because I care too much and/or expect a certain level of performance. As long as I have a heart, this will probably go on.

I'm not as bad now as I was just last fall, but these feelings of anger and utter bewilderment still grab me. I fundamentally can't understand why someone would choose to bury himself by not turning in work. This is a freaking two-year college--it's not like we're Yale Law.

I want to enter the mindset of someone like that for a day. Maybe that's my next poem.

Notes toward a theory of messiness.

I suggest, nay implore, my students to write off the cuff when just getting started, to write whatever comes to mind, to get messy, to not worry about the rules which normally hang them up. Yet how often do I let myself go, even partially?

Messiness is scary, a time-suck, a waste of time. Yet it's no more a waste than staring at a blank screen or piece of paper.

I thought I knew where I was going with a current poem I'm working on, and at the end of my writing yesterday, I was in a stuck place. Words piled up on themselves like the police cars in The Blues Brothers.

I'm working toward some mysterious messiness in this poem, by fits and starts. Not randomness, but messiness--emotional messiness, I suppose, and that old messiness (interesting to me, anyway) about art being partial, always failing to capture reality but (weirdly) sometimes more whole than reality. As Thomas Lux would call it, a "made thing."

I thought the poem was about watching Game Show Network but it's about something hazier and more undefinable. It's the same feeling I get when I'm on YouTube and Facebook.

If anyone ever asks what this poem is about, I'll say I don't know. Grasping, reaching for something long gone, even as it persists. Trying to step on your shadow. The idea of "subject" is moot.

The messiness is partly of juxtaposition, placing Johnny Olson next to Bert and Ernie next to an orange velour lounge chair. It's also of memory, of selectivity. All I can say for sure is that Match Game used to be on TV, and there was your announcer. All that I fancy was there is a cipher.

It's somewhat Derridean, this move which I'm interested in (and have, in hindsight, pursued for a while), away from the center. It's all a riff on "I don't know. I never knew." Hopefully it's not a concession of defeat.

We look back at the past, which isn't there and wasn't much there even when we thought we were there. We look backward, but the past is always eating itself in forward motion. That dude I was when I'm tagged in a Facebook photo ain't there anymore. Come to think of it, he's not here either.

Messiness can be truer, if more difficult. Messiness needs time to marinate. But what I have in front of me now--longer, more tangled lines, confusing moves from past to present to past--is more fun.

The curious case of Heath Ledger.

How did the Oscars shape up for you? Did it make sense that there was a dramatic upswing in viewership this year? I don't usually froth over the set design of a relatively staid ceremony, but man, they did a number on it this year. I loved the nightclub-ish feel of the stage, and Hugh Jackman made a fabulous host. His stock has skyrocketed.

I haven't seen all of the winners, but I can say that WALL-E, Man on Wire, and Slumdog earned everything they got (WALL-E, not enough). As for Ledger in The Dark Knight, yeah, he's unforgettable, but after a while the Joker (and the movie) is kinda one-note. Maybe it's my taste, but TDK just wouldn't let up. It's a skilled, above-average action movie with a great performance that's nearly buried; I was ready for it to be done at least 20 minutes before it was done.

Haven't seen Benjamin Button, The Reader, Milk, or The Wrestler. I'm the least curious about the first two. Anyone?

Spring break can't get here soon enough.

As soon as I wrote that title, I thought of everyone in this land who doesn't get a spring break, and I thought anew that I lead a pretty charmed life. It's pretty good, viewed a certain way. But the 15-16 weeks per semester that we do work are sometimes chaotic, frustrating, and insanely mechanical. And since many of us do not have the financial luxury to take the summer off, the down time between spring and summer, and between summer and fall, is much less. There's somewhat of a misperception that teachers have it easy, but believe me, we're working. (Secondary and elementary teachers, I bow down to you, because you're working harder than I am.)

That said, I am much looking forward to break. Just not having to deal with irritating students for a week is reason enough. We're not traveling anywhere for it--the wedding's around the corner and we need to scrutinize our pennies--but that's okay. I plan to get grading done, work on poems, maybe even (gasp) send out a few poems, and take care of some wedding tasks.

Let it snow, let it snow...

The above is from today at about 1 p.m. I post it as proof that we've seen snow (belatedly) this season. But what gorgeous snow--fluffy, big flakes started cascading down around 11:45 and have now tapered off to a light dusting. Tomorrow it's supposed to be in the 40s again. Beauty is fleeting.

Basking in the lounge chair of a lighter load.

And that was an awful metaphor, but I press on.

Today marked the last day of my 7-week prep class for this stupid statewide essay, nothing more than a graduation requirement that lets the bureaucrats crunch numbers and proclaim how well our students are doing. Instead of class, though, I held my second round of 15-minute conferences with each of them. (The class only had 11, so that was easily done.) And conferences better served the purpose anyway: they had to know their score on their last in-class essay, they had to get admission tickets to the test location for their designated days, they could ask questions of me if they chose.

This marks only the second time I've taught this course--the first was 4 1/2 years ago, and I feel the same now as I did then in the sense that I can only do so much for them after a certain point. (Sound familiar?) The m.o. of this course is drill and practice, on the theory that one becomes better at writing by writing. So they wrote eight essays, all in class and all without knowing the topics in advance, in seven weeks. And all but one of the original 12 survived. I'm not sure how well I would do with that kind of intensity, so kudos to them all for making it this far.

The common course outline stipulates, among other things, that students are to write at least three passing essays (2 and 3 are both passing ratings) to get a passing grade. Well...easier said than done, sadly, at least with our students. In a mere 7 weeks, it's really difficult to make big headway, but I did see signs of it. Only 2 of the 11 wrote all unequivocally failing essays, 5 or 6 of them wrote at least one passing essay, and the rest had 2 or 3 passing essays. When I didn't see consistent progress, I did see little hesitant stop-start signs of it: perhaps fewer verb tense shifts, perhaps more compelling development now and then. Little signs are all it takes to keep me going.

But I have to say I wouldn't be sorry to see this stupid state requirement go the way of the hula hoop. One has to take it as many times as is needed to pass; after two failing attempts, one has to sign up for the prep class. If one fails the essay again, they once again have to sign up for the prep class. Repeat as necessary. It penalizes many otherwise good students and delays them getting on with their academic lives. For at least two of my students, this essay is one of very few obstacles still in their path before they transfer. It broke my heart recently to see one of my students in this remedial class poring over a calculus text for another class.

And I'm not sure what is proved by passing the essay. That you can produce safe, bland, formulaic writing?

Swimming back to shore and thoughts on the profession.

As of today, at app. 4:30 p.m., of 42 learning support in-class essays brought home on Thursday, 35 graded. I am a machine. I have really had to battle myself this round: resentment, dismay, anger at some of the most unbelievably flawed writing known to man.

I have concluded (as if I hadn't known already) that I perpetuate the system that protects me and my job. I don't know that I really expect many of these students to get better in 15 weeks, and I don't see much steady progress. Most of them are seeking to stay afloat and safe. Here and there I see a few points' improvement between assignments, but so many factors can influence that. Each assignment is a separate test of our abilities.

Most of my students (and I'm trying to be realistic here) don't possess 1) the time; 2) the discipline; 3) the self-interest to really grind it out and work to improve their writing skills. They see writing (as they see many college courses) as having to eat their veggies. It's a hoop to jump through so that they may be legitimized. They've overcommitted themselves. They don't have the leisure.

And don't I feed into that? Am I not marking the same ten errors again and again? It's been said many a time that you can't teach motivation; sadly, I don't think motivation is enough with some of these guys. I mean, it's one thing to say you want to pass; it's another to acknowledge that you have writing deficiencies that could lead to failure and to get yourself to work on them, consistently, and try to reduce them. That means doing more than what's expected.

Our college certainly feeds the monster, with its constant push for more students and its emphasis that (to quote a recent billboard around town) "You're ready." I surmise many of our students see that, equate convenience with ease, and go adrift after they enroll.

Those of you out there, what do you think? Can someone improve his writing skills in a semester--like, improve significantly, where he's writing with more confidence and with fewer annoying surface errors? What have you been able to do to facilitate that?

Why won't Johnny read (a/k/a my blood is semi-boiling)?

Came across today's post by Miss Kitty and I shook my head in sad, sober acknowledgment.

I have cut way back on reading assignments in all my classes--even lit. classes, which I seldom teach anymore because...I got sick of students not doing the reading. I'm not a sociological expert so am genuinely wondering why so many of mine still don't do it, even with the constant threat of quizzes and other grades.

One answer is they have not made a lifelong habit of it and therefore see no need to start now; perhaps this is part of the strategy to skate by. Another answer for a smaller set of them is that they have an undiagnosed learning disability and it's painful and/or difficult. A third answer is they never had parents or teachers who emphasized its importance. A fourth answer is that they simply don't see the importance of it, or the joy of it, and that's most discouraging of all.

Yet another answer is that they don't make the time for it, and reading requires time and space and attention and isolation. Having taught college success last fall, I know that words make their way into our brains at a slower pace than TV images into our eyes.

But now to ditch fairness mode, I'm pissed right along with Miss K. I wanted to reach through the monitor and smack those students upside the head. My equivalent experience is also from a lit-based class, when I'd assigned "Paul's Case" by Cather for the first time and had made careful notes and discussion points, and had prepared a quiz just in case. And in fact, I'm sure I'd announced the possibility of a quiz the previous meeting.

So I gave the quiz at the beginning of class, saw how few were writing, and started seething. Made it through 10-15 minutes, getting responses from perhaps three or four students, and adjourned early without going on a rant. We went on to the next story the next time, and they were still responsible for "Paul's Case" on the final exam.

God, how good it felt to end class early because I was pissed at them and to not try to slog through the mud like a good soldier.

I guess many students will continue to not read for eternity, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't stiil require it. As for me, I don't assign as much as I probably should. If I taught only one or two courses a term, you can bet I'd require a metric ton more.

The (partial) return of Mr. Mopey.

It's not a big deal, actually: just got kinda ticked at my afternoon class for not doing their homework, or rather, because 4 of 10 people did their homework. I asked how many were burning to go over it, and no one said a word, so we moved on. I stayed professional and buried my anger, and soon enough we talked about apostrophes and it passed.

So I'll have to close another loophole when I teach this course again. It's a prep class for a statewide proficiency test of sorts--it's in two parts, reading and essay, and I teach the essay portion. All students who eventually graduate from this system have to pass the test. It doesn't affect GPA or the ability to register for most other courses; it's just a stupid graduation requirement.

So the majority of these students are in the prep course because they've failed the essay at least twice; a few take the course voluntarily, simply for the extra practice. It's a not-quite-half-semester course, and we're almost done. And we're at the point now where they write an essay in class every time for four straight classes, and they're a little weary.

Or maybe they just didn't find verb forms and verb tense enthralling topics today. Nor, maybe, did I. No biggie, right?

That said, they've actually been my most enjoyable class this semester. These prep classes can be hit or miss, especially since so many who have to take them are resentful that they haven't passed the test yet and that they have to, essentially, get drilled for 7-8 more weeks on things they've never been much good at.

Before this spring, I'd only taught the course once four years prior, and as then, I feel that after a certain point there's not much more I can do to help them. If they're in the same ruts at the end, it's up to them to seek help. Right? Is this thing on?

Post-AWP, part 2: Wednesday evening QB.

My good friend (and AWP companion) seabird78 makes this comment about AWP on her blog, and I have to say it sets me straight. It is indeed refreshing to see so many little/medium mags surviving and even thriving, and one really doesn't have an excuse not to send work into the world.

I have a feeling that the bellyaching I did a few posts ago wouldn't be there if I'd been more productive with my writing the last year or so. But wishing it were otherwise doesn't do me much good.

And it occurs to me I let the conference swallow me up even when I wasn't at the Hilton. And it further occurs to me I've felt like this at many a conference, AWP or otherwise. And that I'm not alone. The grass is always greener on the other side of the ballroom.

I just keep telling myself that 1) it's impossible for 95% of poets to make a living doing only that; 2) those poets who are successfully published and have some name recognition are pretty busy much of the time, just in different ways from me; 3) the pleasure comes in the doing and that I need to get back to it. And I will, come Friday.

But how easy to envision publication and audience and "success," whatever that entails. Of the seven deadly sins, y'all, envy's mine and you can't have it.

What I'm doing to stay busy.

Here's what being out of town half of last week got me: four stacks of essays. One I finished up this morning at school, the next one I got started on tonight at home. The other two will probably wait until this weekend. Oh, and actually there's a fifth set which will probably wait until next week. Sheesh. One of my colleagues said long ago, "We aren't teachers, we're pack mules."

Luckily, the stack I'm working on now is in-class essays, which don't get as much written commentary, as are those to come this weekend. But it's a net effect, a piling-up effect, after a while. Again, sheesh. It's a blessed thing that we don't have research expectations, because who has time for research teaching 27-32 credit hours a year?

That said, I plan to work on poems this Friday whilst my car is getting a once-over. No essays for me, no sir. I've been doing a lot better today and yesterday about containing my resentment over not having time to write--and I'm making me some gd time.

What I'm reading now: Letters to a Stranger, a reissued lone volume of poems by Thomas James, who killed himself in '74 not long after its release. Apparently his work is in "deep conversation" with Plath (so says the intro), and I can see it in places, but he has his own thang going on. He has a knack for pithiness, which I dig, but he also has this way of pulling out the most unusual but fresh comparisons--the familiar made strange, but fresh.

The end of alone?

Persuasive piece from yesterday's Boston Globe about technology and connectedness, both real and virtual. As for me, I take it all with several grains of salt. I don't know if it makes me more or less connected, but I do know it sucks up time that I should spend on other pursuits.

The top of my head blown off.

I'd be remiss, though, if I didn't mention how blown away I was by Mucca Pazza on Friday night. They played as part of the Literary Rock 'n' Roll event at AWP, after readings by ZZ Packer, Joe Meno, and Dorothy Allison. This is another (outdoor) performance of theirs, and doubtless a whole different vibe than a huge ballroom of non-rhythmic writer types.

The audio is a little distorted, and the video doesn't convey their full brash joyousness, but believe me when I say I've never seen anything else like them, ever.

Post-AWP: Saturday evening QB.

Got home from Chicago about two hours ago, knackered and in serious need of networking detox. Not that I went to AWP to network per se, but one cannot go and not get caught up in the hobnobbing. Before lunch today I ran into a colleague where I teach who confessed that he wished he could leave today instead of tomorrow; he looked like the crush was beginning to get to him, too.

So I find, once again, that AWP has inspired contradictory and ever-warring feelings within me. The dizzying array of panels, sessions, readings, and one-on-ones is a joy to see, yet more and more I'm convinced that this conference is for publishers, editors, and grad students, and not for the average workaday writer striving (in my case, grasping) at his craft. (It could be that the sheer tonnage of offerings is what makes me say that.) Even if it is for that person--and there were several delightful panels I went to that seemed to have craft and that person in mind--it's just as much, if not more so, a place for contacts and networking. My fiancee makes the case that marketing is important, too, and I know she's right, but marketing is icing on the cake in the poetry world, by and large--it's not a money-making proposition.

So I found myself wandering from ballroom to conference room, book table to book table, feeling a little overwhelmed and honestly, a little jealous. At the same time, I talked to a few of the small-mag editors, two of whom had just launched their independent mag last fall and had high hopes for it. I and a friend lingered for a while at the Sport Literate table, where we had a nice conversation about baseball poems and such. And I got energized to submit again soon, and I was thrilled, in a way, to see there's such a presence and passion for the written word.

But after it was all done, and I said goodbye to my friends outside the Hilton, zipped up my jacket, and jumped into a cab, I felt like crying. Mostly I felt bad about ignoring my duty to write, and it was all I could do to shake this nagging impostor syndrome. It was like how Joe Christmas walks past all the front porches at the end of Light in August, wanting to be included but feeling forever an outcast. And I wish I had the gift of gab more often, the ease of chatting it up with editors and publishers. The fact that I made myself linger at a few tables and talk for a while was nothing short of amazing--but all the same, what I wasn't saying was "Take my poems--please!" And I realized that sounded like groveling, and then I felt bad for feeling the need to grovel.

Here's what I believe, and I discussed this at length with my friends over lunch. AWP can be fun and stimulating, but it's a distraction from what we all need to be doing, and that's creating. The marketing and publishing happen if they're meant to happen, and a lot of stars have to align. Until then, one has to take pleasure in the work. That's where life is.

It's time for an intervention.

I have requested one-on-one conference time next week with, let's see, four students from one learning support section; another student requested one-on-one time herself without prompting. Interesting, in that this section is shaping up to be delightful to teach but chock-full of weak writers.

When I say "weak," you have no idea exactly what I mean. One student with whom I'm conferencing next week has so many problems we won't have time to cover them all in 20-30 minutes. Her first essay is a microcosm of the most common problems, but all lumped together: sentences that don't hold together, inexplicable punctuation, random capitalization, missing verb endings, wording that just doesn't make sense. Spelling, too, though that's hardly the worst sin.

We have a writing lab on campus, and I'm steering all these guys toward it. They have to pass an exit writing sample at the end of the semester, and writing like this ain't gonna cut it.

Adventures in meme-land, the return.

Okay, here's the latest meme from seabird78. The idea is that you comment on this entry, and I get to ask you five questions, which you answer in your journal, and then I comment on your entry, and you ask me five questions, and the cycle begins.

1. What made you choose poetry as your primary artistic medium?

Because I liked it when I heard it, because I'd taken two great poetry-writing classes as an undergraduate, and...I don't know, just because I thought I might be decent at it. More specifically, this poem was one of the first poems I ever read which made me think, "Wow, I want to write something like that." And because I always opt for the difficult way of doing things.

2. If you could sing only one last karaoke selection, what would it be and why?

Just one?? We'll go with "An American Trilogy" by Elvis. It would be suitably grandiose for my exit.

3. What is the best live concert you've ever seen?

Ooo, toughie. In no particular order: Elton John pre-throat surgery in '86, Sam Bush in the mid-90s, Bob Dylan (thrice), Elvis Costello in '99 and '06, Lucinda Williams (last show of the Car Wheels tour in '98 or so), and John Hiatt with his band (solo he's great too, but he's a different person with his band). I gotta give props to Kingsized, too, who will be playing at our wedding reception; they always put on a solid, straight-up, fun show.

Inexplicably, I've also seen Aerosmith twice, and those shows were more loud than memorable. Like, really loud.

4. Do you plan to stay in Atlanta permanently?

Unless forces greater than me dictate a move, yes. My soon-to-be wife is here, my life is here, my job is here, great restaurants, great friends, etc.

5. What is something you like that might surprise me?

1) The humor of Jeff Foxworthy; 2) Smokey and the Bandit.

AWP is nigh.

It looms. It's a three-day orgy of readings, panels, boutiques, a bookfair, and hanging out with dear, dear friends. All I'm sayin' is I got $800 travel money from my department, and I'm using it. Reading the schedule is like walking through a ginormous buffet--so much food, so little room--and I am resolved to not let the buffet consume me.

Anyone out there going? What readings/panels are whetting your appetite? I know I'm keen on seeing the session with Stephanie Brown. If you don't know her work, check out this short three-parter from the NEA site. A poet friend calls her "one mean mother."

Slumdog and writing again.

Slumdog was one whiz-bang ride. It was thrilling in spots, sobering in others, even hilarious at times. And I got all excited again watching that Indian version of Millionaire with the unctuous host (is that for real?)--who would have thought it possible? Oddly, with its genre-blending pyrotechnics, it reminded me of what Baz Luhrmann tried to do, less successfully, in Australia.

That said, I wish I'd liked it more. It kept me at a distance, somehow, and I think the wham-bam editing was the reason--it was so kinetic at times that I was just holding on for dear life. Another reason, I admit, may have been our 10 p.m. viewing after (for me) three glasses of wine and fried chicken. But something made it seem like an exercise--elaborate and artful, and involving, but an exercise.

Yesterday I sat at this here desk (after shutting down, unplugging, and putting away my laptop--out of sight, out of mind) and wrote in pencil for two hours on a newly purchased Office Depot note pad. I didn't have much purpose behind it except to get back to that nonthinking, intuitive side when the words kinda go through me like a sieve. And I got there a couple of times, esp. when I was simply describing how full and awful I felt after that third glass of wine, trying to make me feel again what that was like. Before and after that bit, I was mostly writing about writing, writing about how I didn't have anything to write about, but sure as shit, the first five minutes passed and I got on a mini-roll.

Then I took a break and proceeded to try to write a poem about last night--nothing ambitious, just a few lines on overindulgence, sloth, bitterness--and cursed, crossed out lines, got angry, and declared the afternoon, nay the day, a waste. But of course it wasn't, even after I ripped up the pages and tossed them in the recycle bin. I had to write that in order to write something else. If it's the start of something else, something bigger, I'm confident enough to know I can get to that place again. Just as likely, I'll go somewhere else next session.

But I hope that was the beginning of getting back into...something. For about 10 minutes there, I was back in that great place of generating words without "monkey mind." And this is a different feeling from the memoir writing I did last fall, more animal and elemental somehow.

Nothin' much doin' of an afternoon.

Just working my way through essays, stopping to check Facebook and updating the blog. Nice day today, and "cold" for us--it lingers in the 40s. We haven't had even a rumor of snow this season, while all around us it falls without mercy. All I want is one snow day, and preferably not on Fridays when I don't teach anyway.

Tonight looks like homemade fried chicken and mac and cheese and then a taking-in of Slumdog Millionaire at the local cineplex. Anyone out there seen it? Some of the scuttlebutt has it as a surprise leader for Best Picture.

Last year, according to my careful records, the two of us saw a movie together in a theater exactly twice: Juno on New Year's Day and Australia over T-giving. For whatever reason, we don't go much anymore. One reason is that Netflix and DVR and On Demand have spoiled us; another might be that we don't want to pay 9, 10, 11 bucks to see a current movie in prime time. Even matinees are fewer and farther between--one has to go to the frackin' 11:30 a.m. showing on weekends to get the matinee rate, and it's not even that cheap anymore.

John Updike (1932-2009)

RIP.

Rabbit, Run is worth the price of admission. I know a handful of his short stories but not many of the novels. His prose on the craft of fiction is also worth your time.

Is progress possible in 15 weeks?

Today my learning support students write their first in-class essay, one of four such beasts they will write this semester (one other essay will be composed outside of class time). I expect to see the usual variety of skill levels; many coherent, a few perhaps brilliant in spots, but many many with serious and multiple problems: incomplete sentences, punctuation irregularities, confusing or awkward wording, subjects and verbs not talking to each other. And the list goes on.

The most frustrating thing about teaching, without a doubt, is somehow finding a way to address these multiple deficits while laboring under the knowledge that every one of us has a unique hang-up with writing and may or may not need what I'm offering at that moment. For example, I will, until the end of time, always do a unit on comma placement, because they're tricky and frequently intuitive. Until the end of time, I will always do a unit on verb tense shifts and verb forms, because I am seeing more and more of those irregularities, even (especially?) among native-born speakers. But things like spelling and word choice are hard for me to generalize and "present," because they're idiosyncratic and really hard to improve--sometimes I feel all I can say is for them to read more than they do. Conferences help, but they don't do enough.

So in answer to our title question, yes, progress is possible in 15 weeks, but I long ago abandoned the idea of consistent forward progress with remedial writers, because every assignment is different, and each one of us is a different person every time we sit down to write. If I can get a student (admittedly, a motivated and somewhat self-aware student) to see his major types of errors and become more aware when they happen, that's a kind of progress--I hope.

Can I make someone love (or like) to write in 15 weeks? It hasn't happened much in my teaching life.

The inaugural poem.

Much has been written about it, so I as always try to wedge in my two cents. As a poem, it's not bad; as an oration, less impressive. Alexander's delivery style didn't bother me too much--I've heard plenty of poets declaim much more trivial sentiments in such a style--but the net effect of this halting, stop-start style is to cover up less-than-fresh language, which this poem has in places. Still, is it any worse than Maya Angelou's poem for the first Clinton term?

Too, Alexander had the unenviable task of going on after Obama, which must be the political equivalent of following James Brown.

The text of the poem is available on Ed Byrne's One Poet's Notes. (Scroll toward the bottom of the post.) It scans and "reads" rather well at times, I think. What do you think?

A look back.

Spring semester has been going for two weeks now, and this go-round promises to be much saner than the fall. In December I washed my hands of the college success course which I had so eagerly anticipated in August. Of the horrible evening section, all I can say is I gritted my teeth and made it through.

Looking at two or three posts ago, I'm not sure how apparent it was that my anxiety and helplessness was exacerbated by that section of students. It was the most volatile and resistant group dynamic I've ever encountered, just the most improbable mix of attention deficit disorders, class clowns, stubbornness, and laziness. Around mid-October, I was counting down the remaining meetings after every class meeting, and I cancelled a couple of meetings, simply because I either didn't have enough to make it through 50 blinkin' minutes or I didn't want to face them.

I had another section which was much quieter and (mostly) more respectful, but no more interested or interesting, and that was a whole different set of problems. But the evening section contained many individuals who were unmotivated and had no problems letting everyone know how unmotivated they were. The word that comes to mind is "shameless."

So I fretted over that course, and it doubtless colored my attitude toward my other courses. But they turned out okay. And just between you and me, I hope to never teach the college success course again. It's a valid course to teach, and so many of our students really do need tips on studying and taking tests and managing time, but I'm just not the man to do it.

Facebook and fighting nostalgia.

Well, I'm back for more of this stuff. I won't promise (as before) how often or timely my posts will be, but I'm gonna attempt it again.

Happy belated '09. So far, mine is shaping up well. Plans for the wedding proceed apace. Now that we have our reception venue nailed down, the other elements can start to fall into place. (Did I just sound like a bureaucrat? The lack of freshness in the above is disconcerting.) Still to come: the invitations, the food/catering, the logistical challenges ahead. Oh, and I need to pick up my tux soon. But before that, I need to find an appropriate pair of shoes.

I, like many, have now been sucked into the Facebook nation, and it has opened up many cans of worms--mostly positive ones. Last night I hung out with a college roommate I hadn't seen in six years, thanks to FB. I have struck up e-conversations with people I'd long written off or forgotten about, thanks to FB. Thanks to FB, I've found out one good friend from high school and college relocated to NC six years ago after his first wife died. He's since re-engaged.

Does Facebook convince me, a la Faulkner, that the past is never over, that it's not even past? Does it bury me even more in a time I foolishly think was more innocent? Partly yes. But it also lets me see that our lives have second, third, fourth acts, that we aren't buried by the labels we've created for ourselves or others create for us.

One of my favorite things about some novels of the late Carol Shields is how the chapters dip into the great well of time, and you see the arcs of lives in 200-300 pages. In Larry's Party, for example, you just get little slices of the pie, a year here, a year there, but in a sense you see the whole pie too. Facebook's like that. One gets to fill in the gaps. (There's also the vaguely unsettling ability to eavesdrop, which I won't get into here.)

But from what I can tell so far, Facebook is really a social network in the best sense. It's also a scarily easy way to fritter away time.