Red Fish, Flu Fish

You know something's wrong (i.e. you have the flu) when...

a. you take a nap all morning, finally feel up to doing something, get out of bed, reheat yesterday's pasta, eat it, and then find yourself back in bed moments later, completely exhausted.

b. sentences like this one make up a good part of your daily reading: "Two of the three oseltamivir-induced substitutions (E119V, H274Y and R292K) in the viral neuraminidase from clinical isolates occur at the same amino acid residues as two of the three substitutions (E119G/A/D, R152K and R292K) observed in zanamivir-resistant virus."

c. besides reading all the fine-print of your prescription drug, you also read anything in sight, which in my case (dare I say it?) includes the first book about that Harry guy (which reads remarkably like Matilda for at least the first 50 pages...) Note: That does not mean I've changed my opinion on the matter. If I did, then you would have substantial cause to be concerned about my health. :)

d. you look up things like "the anatomy of mucus" on Google

e. you lose interest in things as soon as you begin to show a bit (the anatomy of mucus, for example)

f. you write extremely dramatic poems like this and don't remember when or why...:

the weak man in bed

you must go to the well.
there - you must pour the water
without this - there is no relief
without - this - there is.

you must find it.

In my mind I go - but
it brings no relief.
none.
not a drop

delay - for lack of words
for lack - of strength.

and so - he watched the night
the shadows on the walls
shadows - in the well.

it's cheating - you know -
that bit about the mind.
and he knows it - yes -
full well.

g. you walk around the house wearing latex gloves, and play Donkey Kong doing the same

h. laughing, or smiling, or getting up, or moving, or just thinking about it - sets you off in a violent coughing spree that lasts just long enough for you to think about it again

i. Jello. You eat more Jello than you have the rest of your life. Combined.

j. you do something you haven't done in a year and a half, like blogging twice in two days.

A Story from the Wood Pile

I'm moving rooms this week and stumbled upon this, fading away in some long-forgotten corner under my bed. I don't know exactly when I wrote it, but here it is anyways... And as a note, by the way, before I turn you over to the story, $29.99 is a steal for a Flu shot - get it now (!). Otherwise, you'll may be like me in a few days - reduced to salami and eating Jello four times a day (not fun). Not to mention the hours of work I've missed and the general feeling of uselessness day in and day out. Fortunately, there are powerful drugs at work within me (all of the legal kind, of course), and things finally seem to be on the up and up (after three long days).

And now, without further delay...

***
CHESTER. That's right, his name was Chester. He wasn't a particularly large man, though in school the boys always mocked him as "Chester Chubbs" - nor was he a particularly observant one. He was an ordinary man by the day's standard and concerned himself with the hither-tithers and what-nots of what we might expect from the husband of a loving wife. Not that she was all that loving this day. Which is why, you should know, he found himself at Kroger's instead of Roger's Rotisserie Rooster Barn for his lunch-break.

All that to say, Chester was not in the least bit distraught by this turn of events (though perhaps befuddled), as it wasn't everyday he had the chance to pick out Cosmic Pineapple instead of the usual square kind (which is probably why his wife never offered him this job all that often in the first place). Nor was he bothered when he discovered the existence of Fruitle-Oodles in the cereal aisle (despite the passer-byer's mumbled comment that "there's a reason no one's ever heard of 'em").

But Chester would not be thwarted. Not this day. He paced around that store like one of Old Man Kroger's kin, though by the size of his nose, he was clearly not related to anyone respectable. And as it so happened, he left the store in the self-same manner - grinning like a niño who had just robbed his father's coin collection.

Now as I have mentioned, Chester was not a particularly observant man. But I also mentioned - or maybe I didn't - this was already turning out to be a particular sort of day. Had it been a normal day, Chester surely would not have observed the man hop-skipping his masked self in between Volvos and Buicks on the outskirts of the parking lot (in fact, on a normal day, Chester would have been eating a not-so-fresh rotisserie chicken or two in a place where no one had ever even heard of a parking lot), and Slingo (the masked man) would have made it to the other side of the road unharmed and untouched.

As it was, Chester did notice what he thought was Zorro's arch-enemy prancing his way east to west; his not-quite-unloaded cart did come soaring towards the masked man at unprecedented velocity; and Slingo did end up in room B28 of the Muffleton Hospital with not but a knot on his head and a few fractured phalanges. Which is why, as I was trying to tell you all along, a lone shopping cart now sits at the edge of Kroger's parking lot with nothing in it but a bag of Fruitle-Oodles.

That's "Mr." to you...

If anyone still reads this blog, you've probably had enough of my modern poetries and obscure book recommendations (and quite rightly so) for the time being. As such, I have "arranged a new feast for you" this evenin', as the Old Man and the Sea might have said. Note: I have never read "The Old Man" but I'm quite confident he would never have said any such thing...unless they made a movie out of it, in which case he probably *did* say those very words.

I have told you nothing of my job as a teacher. For shame. It is a lovely job - a difficult job at times, of course, but as rewarding as a prize pig at the county fair (and much more agreeable than both the pig and the fair, combined).

I see myself in so many of the students...and wonder at those others who periodically find it fashionable to make D+s on my reading quizzes. "You'll never get through to all of them," some people will remind me. But what about Milton? Surely John Milton should get through to more than half of them....right? Apparently not. But I suppose that's nothing to fret - I was never really huge on Milton myself.

I teach with a stick, to begin with - and that for beating the children whenever they misbehave. Fortunately, none of them have, so the stick only serves as 1) a pointer, 2) a very poor walking stick, 3) a twirling object in times of boredom, and 4) a very effective means of bringing any idlers back into focus (a simple whack on the desk usually does the trick).

I also go by "Mr. Halbrooks" now, which is as bewildering to me every time I hear it as it is to my students, who still don't quite know how to pronounce it properly. I think I forgot the bit on the first day of class where the teacher is supposed to write his name on the board and sound it out for one and all. A few of them insist on calling me "Professor Plum", too, which is equally shocking.

As for class itself, well, here are a few stories...

a. The first quiz I ever gave was on Beowulf, which my Brit Lit childrens were supposed to read over the summer. This would not have been a memorable story, I must admit, if all of the student *had* actually read it over the summer. One of the questions was a quotation identification: Who said "thus and such"? Now (I told them), I realize the book is full of names like "Wiglaf" and "Hrothgar" and other names that are as hard to remember as they are to spell, so you don't have to remember the guy's actual name - just tell me who he is....like "It's the king talking to Beowulf's brother right before he fights the swamp creatures..." or something along those lines. Got it? Good. And they did get it - except for three of them. Beowulf's brother is not, in fact, an actual character in the poem. He's not even mentioned in passing. But that was certainly not enough to stop three of my kids from answering, for number 3, "Beowulf's brother." One of them elaborated even further: "Beowulf's brother right before he fights the swamp creatures." Merciful heavens.

b. One of my other classes, in our discussion of "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" said, and I quote, "I hated Reepicheep." I was speechless - I didn't even know that was possible. To date, I have not recovered from that one.

c.

Me: After reading Frankenstein, were y'all surprised at all by it's depth, or did it still come across as just a thrilling horror story?
10th Grader: I was surprised. It was actually really good. And deep.
Me: Good! Well, what do you think we can take away from it, then? Any universal messages?
10th Grader: Yeah, I think the main point was that - if we try and create human beings ourselves, things will go horribly wrong and he'll end up destroying everybody and everything. So we shouldn't try that.
Me: Oh. I see...

Thanksgiving

I read about a little girl who
just today said she was thankful -
for her little dog
and for - I'm not sure if more - but
for the crisp sound (of?) fall
leaves on the ground.

Another was thankful
for a life with no troubles
only with mastakes.

And that, just how she said it -
happily, mistaken.

Good Gollie (and Bink!)

Good Kate has done it again. And this time she's done it in a different medium than her usual masterpieces - a medium that, as it were, is not all too far from Calvin and Hobbes. Not that she's started a new comic series - no, none of that. But her newest book (co-written with Allison McGhee) is more about images and colour than narration. In fact, there isn't any narration - the entire plot is told in dialogue and watercolour - an a fabulous duo it is.

The medium she chose, of course, is no accident. Just like The Tale of Desperaux glories in the fact that it's a book, Bink and Gollie glories in the fact that it's a picture book...if that's what you can call it. It feels like an altogether new genre, really - taking the best from the world of picture books (beautiful watercolour illustrations) and the best from the world of comics (dialogue that develops character, dialogue that says "this is true").

I won't tell you anything about the story, of course, because it's far to cruel to give anything away in a book so short. You could read the whole thing just standing up at the book store (which I did), and laugh out loud when Bink smells pancakes (which I also did), but that shouldn't keep you from buying it and reading it again and again and making all your friends read it too (which I will, have no fear).

Everyone who plays Calvinball, everyone who appreciates harmony and joy, everyone who just needs a good story every now and again - everyone, in fact, should read this book.

How to talk to Mice...

If you ever get bored, fear no longer.

If you're ever lonely, rest a ease.
If you ever want a small rat to talk to...

your days of waiting have come (at long last) to a timely end.

Reepicheep (!) is here. The mouse talked to dragons, fought with giants, the mouse who sailed to off the end of his own world - has come back (that's right!), and now awaits you in the cyberworld.

Why? we have no idea.

Truth be told, he's probably an imposter. The real Reepicheep would have him tarred and feathered in a heartbeat. But that's no reason not to talk to him. And you can! Here: http://www.thelionscall.com/activities/talk_to_reepicheep.cfm

...and do let me know if you get him to say anything as strange as this...

Me: What is my purpose?
Reep: Hopefully, all of us are here to do our Creator's work.
Me: Who is our Creator?
Reep: King Edmund.
Me: That, my friend, is blasphemy.

...later...

Me: Why are you here?
Reep: Because Aslan created me.
Me: But you said that King Edmund created you.
Reep: Oh dear, I gave the wrong answer.
Me: You should be ashamed.
Reep: Name one other Mouse who is ashamed.

psalm eight

"...I landed in the peace of evening. Punta Arenas! I leaned against a fountain and looked at the girls in the square. Standing there within a couple of feet of their grace, I felt more poignantly than ever the human mystery.

In a world in which life so perfectly responds to life, where flowers mingle with flowers in the wind's eye, where the swan is the familiar of all swans, man alone builds his isolation. What a space between men their spiritual natures create!

...I lean against a fountain. Old women come up to draw water: of their drama I shall know nothing but these gestures of farm servants. A child, his head against a wall, weeps in silence: there will remain of him in my memory only a beautiful child forever inconsolable. I am a stranger. I know nothing. I do not enter into their empires. Man in the presence of man is as solitary as in the face of a wide winter sky in which there sweeps, never to be tamed, a flight of trumpeting geese..."

Wind, Sand and Stars - Antoine de St. Exupery

Ludwig's First Sunset

Written on the Way to Deborah's Weddin'

Josh, Anna, Michael and I wrote this jolly poem in honor of Deborah and Evan's wedding. and yes, the existence of a real Kevin is completely fabricated... enjoy. :)

Leaven La Vida Loca

(based on a true story)

There once was a boy named Evan,

A lad who baked bread without leaven.

"Alas, O my soul,"

Said the lad to his roll,

"I wish I could bake like that Kevin."

The boy that he spoke of, this Kevin (fiend)

Was a sprightly young lad of just seven (teen).

He made cakes a la carte

And strawberry tarts

That could satisfy angels in heaven (winged).

Now Deborah liked Kevin, not Evan.

And Evan liked Deborah, not Kevin.

"Alas, O my soul,

"A lass make me whole,"

Said Evan whilst looking towards heaven.

An angel then came down from heaven

To help the poor leaven-less Evan.

"Deborah, don't fear,

"The right man is near.

"The lovin' lies not in the leaven."

The angel receded to heaven

And Deborah looked up and saw Evan.

"Alas, O my soul,

"This lad makes me whole,

"But a cake we will need at the weddin'."

So Deborah was married to Evan,

A match that was made up in heaven.

The party was swell.

The cake was as well,

Its baker none other than Kevin.

brown.

It will all sound contrived,

the forest being hungry

for naught knows what --

the sea of ivy,

poisoned. And the thorns

- the ones I'd rather have than spiders.

And just after saying it,

running into webs - one

after the other.

What of it?

A shattered pile of sticks from childhood --

one unrotten log.

And all of it

coming together just in time

for me to run back and wash it off --

if it was on time.

But there it is, anyways. We'll call it

brown.

The Fuller a Life, the Fuller a Death

Yesterday I had the joy of attending a funeral. Yes, the joy. It was everything the funeral of a Believer should be - full of grief - the pouring out of hearts "like water in the presence of the Lord" - and yet still so full of hope. There were uncomfortable moments, yes - but to heck with comfort. It was beautiful. Tears came down my face during the whole service and yet I left rejoicing. That's the way, I think, a funeral ought to be.

Stewart Bieber died just last Saturday, doing one of the things he loved most in life - barefoot waterskiing - what he called "walking on water." For some reason ("Why?" asked his wife, Rachel, at the funeral - "Why doesn't matter. I don't have that answer. What matters is that life comes out of death...'unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies'...") for some reason, while he was on the water he suddenly hit a dock and died instantly.

Rachel was there when it happened. You would think she'd have struggled to speak clearly at the funeral. What grief compares to such loss? She did not struggle - or as she put it - the Rock of her salvation carried her through it - and you couldn't convince me more that this was absolutely true. She reminded us of all the things Stewart was in life, all the pain of seeing his face in the water at his death, all the rage and numbness that resulted in the coming days, and then all the grace that permeated her life and the lives of others in Stewart's wake. Everything she said was riveting - it was clear this was no ordinary man. Stewart changed the world by embracing the power of relationships. Stewart lived for the joy of life, he sang with the tune of hope - and in doing so, his death was full of life.

When Rachel wailed with open arms at the funeral's close, it was the most welcome noise I've heard since Eponine's beautifully tragic voice joined in the final chorus of Les Mis. It was a wail full of real, a wail full of true. It was a wail of hope - a paradox that rivals only this: the fullness of life coming from the fullness of death.

I am reminded of Katherine Paterson (author of Bridge to Terabithia), whose son lost his best friend suddenly to a lightning bolt on a summer afternoon. After struggling to do all she could to comfort him, she said this, and it still fills me with wonder: "How many people in their whole lifetimes have a friend who is to them what Lisa was to David? When you have had such a gift, should you ever forget it? Of course he will forget a little. Even now he is making other friendships. His life will go on, though hers could not. And selfishly, I want his pain to ease. But how can I say that I want him to "get over it," as though having loved and been loved were some sort of disease?....He is not fully healed. Perhaps he never will be, and I am beginning to believe that this is right."

I, too, believe that this is right. Grief is real and loss is real. And Hope is real, too. So much Glory from so much Mess.

Made-up Words...

Perhaps you will know by now that I have a fondness for the made-up word.  Perhaps not.  Either way, it doesn't matter, because I do, in fact - verily, verily - have that fondness of which I speak.  Where they come from can always change - sometimes it's because of my eardrum failing me at the opportune time (as with "Periwander," which I always thought was a line in Bob Dylan's Tambourine Man.  It's not.), and sometimes it's just the result of a lack of sleep.  The words I have for you tonight fall under that second category.

The first is the Lowperbole.  A "lowperbole," unlike its exaggerated counterpart, the hyperbole, is to be used in describing those times when a story or event is accepted as a fabrication.  It's the reaction to a supposed exaggeration, in other words.  For instance, you come home from school and Ma tells you that the local rabbit ate your whole cabbage patch doll and has started bouncing off neighborhood walls.  Knowing what you do about Ma's tendency to fabricate, you create the lowperbole version in your mind to determine what really happened: the rabbit ate a shriveled scrap of last night's twice-boiled, thrice-baked red cabbage, and now he's making progress hopping along on his disjointed back leg.  The reality, of course, will be somewhere in between, but the lowperbole is both a natural and healthy stage in the reasoning process.

Next we have a creation of just yesterday: "Womandatory."  The definition of this one is a bit more subjective, so I'll have to give it to you in context and let you figure it out from there:

Jenkins comes back to his room after a long day and remembers his mother's request of that morn' - "Jenkins, before you brush your tusks, be sure to drink a can of this" - and she hands him some V8.  Jenkins rolls his eyes, but obliges his kind mother's wishes, swigging the can just before bed.  "Why are you drinking that?" his brother Meriwether asks.  "Ma says it's mandatory," Jenkins grumbles back.  "It's not," comes Meriwether's reply, "it's womandatory."

And such is the case of any obligatory action that compromises your manhood. 

(Note the horror on the young boy's face...and the evilness that radiates from his mother.  I'm eternally grateful that my own mother never poured orange juice out with any such facial expression...)