| pedagogy of the oppressed |
[Jul. 29th, 2008|05:34 pm] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | agalloch | ] |
a book i need to look up.
being a teacher at an education centre whose philosophies everything within me stands against, the onus is on me to find my voice and to openly subvert the established, systemic wrong-doing. suddenly Ondaatje's Alice Gull, her echoed poundings of the wooden stage, resonates with my own heart beat. the irony that the fool behind my school's immoral truth is also named Alice.
i've always had no problem with reiterating the fact that the owner and manager of the school is a money laundering whore. the school is more like a business than it is a school. the bitch has always been on my ass for 'teaching so slow'--and you can just see the fear in her eyes of her losing her clients when she explains, 'the students will get bored'. i'm sorry to fucking dissapoint you but the students are bored because you do not teach the passion, the utter love for reading here; you gorge these children with booklets and expect their report cards to suddenly show As; where do you even get off in telling me how to teach, you who somehow has her masters in sociology and has no awareness for what kids need in order to grow? the point is to fucking make reading fun, to extract what can be contextualized in the lives of these children, to forge a better cognitive understanding of the process of reading itself, even if they cannot love to read. piling on stacks of so-called homework will not benefit the students; in fact, i see the kids being turned off by literature because of the mindless workload. where does this fucking bitch get off? all her efforts are towards painting this facade that the school is helping, towards securing a loyal clientelle, towards cunning practices to ensure profit streams. and then she has the fucking chutzpah to attempt to hold my hand in my teaching practices. fuck you bitch. i'm outtie.
handing in my resignation letter this week motherfucker. |
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| some things never change |
[Jul. 24th, 2008|01:08 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | radiohead | ] |
i remember how i fell in love with a woman for a single evening. writhing, suffocating. me sitting in the dark van overnight on my way to montreal, intoxicated by her image, her unique demeanor, a shy grace. my missing it. and struggling to retain her in my mind, to etch her beauty along the surface of my cavernous senses, for fear that i would lose it all quickly.
i sat with her yesterday, playing catch-up in the shade. the water in nathan phillips square flickering mosaic patches of sunlit sky. it is strange how she smells just as i had last taken in her scent years ago, in the car. when we had parted.
"hmmm smth abt you is diff"
i wonder what?
+++
i find that my life is full of these moments. these moments of deep profundity and lasting memory. of immeasurable change. these moments that i can conjure up as if they were substance at my worn fingertips. something voodoo-like. memory qua constellation, introspection qua redemption. how the extreme looseness of experience conglomerates, collectively, gesturing as metaphor, its flash. |
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| respect |
[Jul. 12th, 2008|01:51 am] |
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a commodity that is gained with monumental moments. i will always rise to the occasion. |
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| sensations |
[Jul. 11th, 2008|04:27 pm] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | tiesto's in search of sunrise 5 in los angelas | ] |
whilst my head is immersed in the atmospheric world formed by the dt990s and tiesto's magic, i read about alice and clara dancing into the thunder of the dark field. there is sheet lightning, and moonflowers that posture towards the absent light. patrick is sleeping, emitting purple and orange auras. ascending in stomach high beans and corn stalks, alice and clara meet the rain with skin, freedom, their skirts tossed aside. the skirts hang onto stems.
+++
"All night long Patrick and Clara have talked, the name of Ambrose like a drip of water in their conversation. All night they have talked about her plan to join her 'beloved,' the sound of his name like a poison, like the word nicotine. She will leave tomorrow. She will not tell him where Small is. She demands that he not try to follow her after they drive to Toronto to put her on the train. Patrick feels he knows nothing of most of Clara's life. He keeps finding and losing parts of her, as if opening a drawer to discover another mask." - from Ondaatje's In The Skin Of A Lion
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if someone told me that ondaatje had lived through similar experiences as i had, i would believe it. |
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| in the skin of a lion, musings |
[Jul. 8th, 2008|12:36 am] |
darkness--there is only form, details unseen. presence takes on a new, sublime feel. one hears only a voice, for example. and quite suddenly, faith is required in the other to remain there, seated beside you, and real. what is heightened by the night is not the fact of merely being there, of existing in space-time dimensional being, but rather this belief in one another, this other-worldly connection. communication, one could call it. a dialectic.
+++
"She felt as if she were the only one alive in this building. In such formal darkness. There was a terrible taste from that one drink still on her tongue, so she walked behind the zinc counter, turning on the tap to wash out her mouth. She moved the dial of the radio around a bit but brought it back securely to the same station. She was looking for that song he had half sung along with earlier, the voice of the singer strangely powerful and lethargic. She saw herself in the mirror. A woman whose hair was showing, caught illicit. She did what he had wanted to do. She ran her hand over her hair briefly. Then turned from her image.
Leaning forward she lay her face on the cold zinc, the chill there even past midnight. Upon her cheek, her eyelid. She let her skull roll to cool her forehead. The zinc was an edge of another country. She put her ear against the grey ocean of it. Its memory of a day's glasses. The spill and the wiping cloth. Confessional. Tabula Rasa.
At the table she positioned the man comfortably so he would not fall on his arm. What is your name? she whispered. She bent down and kissed him, then began walking around the room. This orchard. Strangers kiss softly as moths, she thought."
--from Ondaatje's In The Skin Of A Lion
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this moment of rebirth. a once fumbling nun, subverted, and now a woman, alive. tabula rasa. how chance and chaos can metamorphose a human being in an instant. probability lurks at every corner, awaiting to jar one's totalities. a most cunning trickster. the subtly of the parabol/parable/parabola.
+++
the sheer juxtoposition of structure and chaos. ondaatje astounds me time and time again. it is how so much can be extracted by so little said. he has the presence of a thunderous whisper. |
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| summer goals, 2 months to go, and onward |
[Jul. 3rd, 2008|05:02 pm] |
1. Inspire 2 more reps and get licensed w/ Primerica. Start quick, build my business big.
2. Re-read all university notes, i.e. relearning the forgotten.
3. Excel to the best of my abilities at Oxford Learning Centre. Make a difference.
4. Begin my portfolio for teacher's college and future interviews.
5. Continue to love literature and read as much as I can.
6. Get stronger via olympic lifting and work on my ball game so that I can win NAs '09.
7. Re-do my room, cuz my sexy bed is not getting sexy vibes from my ball posters.
8. Chill with family and friends. Meet new people. |
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| you know how we do |
[Jul. 2nd, 2008|12:22 pm] |
grade two girl: "Why is 7 bad?"
*i think about seven sins*
us: "I don't know. Why?"
grade two girl: "Because 7, 8, 9."
HAHAHAHAHAHAA oh man. |
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| you know what's hot? |
[Jul. 1st, 2008|11:17 pm] |
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when you're in that dealing stage and you're dancing in a packed club. nothing around you matters. only her, music and how good it feels. |
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for_vengeance's journal
