woods

I'm a bit stuck in the dissertation.

I am on page 52 of the second part, which is good.

The first bit was about 20 pages, so I still have around 130 to go.

The 52 pages are about settler memoirs of the Cariboo Chilcotin. They are, generally, crazy books. The writers are in love with their own heroics. They are frightened by dense stands of pine trees. They hate wolves like the Ahab hated Moby. By the 1970s, the writers grow pot and flout "convention;" meaning they hunt out of season, drive their pickups without a license and engage in, ahem, free love.

So while these are books set in "nature," they are not about nature. They are about self-adoration and settling - stealing - land.

I'm at the end of my chapter, and I need a doozy of a conclusion. I have it roughly worked out, but it needs to be tight and good.

Here's to wolves and dog's-hair pine forests and pickup trucks.

mmmm

Hi.

I'm posting again.

I just bought two pounds of mushrooms on sale.

Did you know what mushrooms grow in?

I've got to wash these guys quick, and then sautee them with white wine and garlic.

I'm blending them up into mushroom-barley soup.

Levon Sold Cartoon Balloons Until I Wrecked Everything

I'm re-writing my teaching philosophy.

A teaching philosophy is a short description of what I think college teaching should be, could be, and how I do it. All ideally, of course.

It's going alright. I'm resisting the urge to quote Spinoza. I'm also resisting championing unlearning, my new obsession. Rather tricky to be a teacher who thinks, really, we learn more hanging out with friends, making dinner, and laying around in shorts reading in darkened rooms.

I like my kid. I think he's funny and sweet.

I almost lost it a balloon man at the park yesterday.

Hugo: Ballooooonsss! Wheeeee! I LOVE balloooons!

Balloon man: scowl

Hugo: Hi!

Balloon man: Could you take him to the side? (flat palm point to his left asscheek) This is a private function.

Me: This is a public park, balloonman. And your vest with little stars is faded and very 1991, and my son is fucking awesome. So make him a balloon puppy or fight me right here, right now.

OK, What I actually said: (nothing)

I did scowl at him.

I also kicked woodchips at his balloon table. Like really kicked.

I also let Hugo poke the balloons a few more times.

I get all proprietorial about public parks. In a public, socialist way.

Does that make sense?

OK: I share all our toys, frisbees, balls and fun with other kids.

I let other reindeer join in our fun and games.

So when any douchey parent or balloonman-capitalist doesn't want to share balloons, toy excavators, or sparkly balls, I get all cranky.

This is my life.

One minute: grandiloquent teaching philosophy.

The next: adult tantrums in the playground