Finally, we reach the end of the month. It ain’t easy cranking out a post EVERY day, especially with all the other stuff going on, background white noise, work, family obligations, hobbies and past-times, and especially this month, the run-up to the elections, the elections, the outcome and whether it made you feel victorious and vindicated or sad and depressed and disappointed. And the passing of life luminaries. Let’s review the month.
I started the month with the idea of participating in NaNoWriMo, writing a novel with chapters due each day. But too much non-fiction was going on, so I quickly shifted gears from NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) to DiGiWriMo (Digital Writing Month) and committed to a blog post instead of a novel chapter each day. A sonnet about a bus ride framed some thoughts about my docent training class and its relationship to some stuff I was missing in ModPo (Modern and Contemporary American poetry).
A latin quote, translated, recalled my youthful love for stoicism, the World Series ended in seven, and I riffed about a new book I wanted to read and an old book I wanted to re-read. (Should I be hyperlinking these days?)
Day four was more docent training rambling, a poem from the walls, and a poem written by one of the Jefferson building’s early employees that later became the title of an autobiography by yet another illustrious poet.
#HortonFreire could not have arrived at a better time. I needed the fresh infusion of Myles Horton (whom I had heard of, of course, the founder of the great Highlander Folk School) and Paulo Freire (was it #rhizo15 or #moocmooc that got me mainlining his stuff?) for my presentation at CUA’s Bridging the Spectrum coming up in February.
Sleep descends. I’ll finish this in the morning.
So I discovered this reading group though my subscription to and regular reading of Maha Bali’s blog about education, Reflecting Allowed. If you are interested in education, you should be reading Maha Bali’s cutting edge commentary. But back to the subject. The reading group is reading a book co-authored by Myles Horton and Paulo Freire, “We Make the Road by Walking.” There are already tons of great posts and blogs, which you can find tweeted at #HortonFreire.
On time, because I am dusting off papers I’ve stored in folders on book shelves, in previous blog posts, in emails, and on my computer desktop for this talk I want to give on Deleuze and Guattari and the ACRL Framework for Information Literacy. The final draft proposal abstract (150 words) is due today. Here is what I have distilled it to:
There has been much discussion about the content of the new ACRL Framework for Information Literacy for Higher Education. This briefing does not add to that content discussion. Instead, it focuses on how we perceive the framework itself and how that perception might influence the way we use it. I introduce the rhizomatic approach, developed by Deleuze and Guattari in their philosophical study, “A Thousand Plateaus.” In botany, rhizomes grow as a network of roots with no true center. Using features of rhizomatic learning, i.e., connectivity, heterogeneity, multiplicity, asignifying rupture, and cartography as a way to approach the frames, we see how each frame might relate to any others, how information literacy develops and transforms as it passes through various frames, and how the interplay of the frames captures information literacy as a process.
My teaching practice this semester has been limited to one-on-one interactions at the reference desk (not inconsiderable!). But I am finding interesting pedagogical practice with my docent training at the Library of Congress. A tour guide is a special kind of educator, it is one-shot instruction, and you have to focus on getting that handful of facts across to your group in the 45 minutes that you have them. I have labored to nail down a central theme and relate it to the various artifacts that make up the presentation, but I remain torn between my traditional love for the spirit of the library as an aggregation of relationships between information seekers and information sources, and my new found love for all the art, sculpture and architecture that adorns the walls and the space of the library. I am settling on a compromise and a unity. The two are one.
So a lot is going on. I got through the introduction and first chapter of “We Make the Road by Walking” last night. It’s a dialogue, which makes it a bit clunky to read, but musically it is a duet, which makes it very interesting and soothing to listen to. Duets are the best music, right?
You pick your own poison, or medicine, so to speak.
Completed my 10th and final shadow tour this morning, a big milestone for docent training. Had email exchanges with three colleagues from the old job, one is still there, two are retired and doing other interesting things. Gotta get out for coffee with the old folks more often. A neighbor asked me about doing a LOC tour for a neighborhood group (that was kinda nice!). Started a job application, but decided I didn’t want any entity that involved in my life no more. Got an email from someone who saw my resume on monster.com (stay away from those people!). It will be the same thing when/if I get to the application stage. Too much nosing in my business.
Cutting out the sharing function on tonight’s post. So skimpy, so scrawny.
As we approach the end of the month, and sooner than we know, the end of the year, it’s time to make new plans.
Early in December I want to take all the November #digiwrimo blog posts, November 1-30, and put them in an e-book format. There are lots of formats available, Papyrus is good just for the e-book, Lulu has some interesting umph to it, and CreateSpace is a favorite when ready to self-publish.
I have two poetry projects in the pre-born stage. One is a collection of poems I want to do based on the Jacob Lawrence Migration series of paintings, which means I’d better to get to the Phillips while the complete exhibit is still in town (before January 8, I need to spend an afternoon or two just looking at the various pieces). The second is a collection of sonnets I’d like to do based on the American Renaissance artwork on the walls, floors and ceiling at the Library of Congress (less time sensitive because it will always be there, but perhaps more complex than any collection I’ve tried before). Docent training will be up in two weeks, so I will have something to engage my new spare time.
Last but not least, just in the short term, my proposal was accepted for a talk at the CUA LIS Bridging the Spectrum Symposium in February. Over several months during the summer I worked on the outline of my presentation, “A Rhizomatic Approach to Understanding the ACRLFramework for Information Literacy for Higher Education.” (Sort of gives it away, I guess.) I took a hiatus this fall to free up time for docent training (and work). Now it is time to get back on it and whip it into ship shape.
I presented with one of my professors and two classmates in 2014, Changing the World of Art Librarianship. My small piece was called “Reimagining artistic content in art museums and libraries.” I just googled it and nothing came up! Then in 2015 two classmates and I did a poster from a project in our information architecture class, “Best Practices of Information Architecture and Website Redesign for Information Professionals.” Just posted to slideshare but the definition is not so great. Gotta work on that. We took it on the road, presenting the poster at the 2015 SLA conference in Boston. That was fun, but Boston can be a lonely place.
Today will be recorded in history, and in this blog, as the day we woke up to hear news of the passing of Cuban leader Fidel Castro. He was 90 years old and ruled Cuba from 1959 until a debilitating illness forced his retirement from leadership in 2008. He survived several US-directed and inspired assassination attempts. Castro had an overall positive image in two countries where I served, Guinea-Bissau and Angola, though his image in the country of my birth was decidedly mixed. Love him or hate him, he was a world figure during some turbulent times, and he managed to transcend his immediate surroundings, his tiny island nation.Some might even say he reached that final stage of Maslow’s hierarchy, self-transcendence. I don’t know. Heck.
When I was an IR-theory graduate student at SOAS in London, we had fascinating discussions about the Washington Consensus and what we postulated as the post-Washington Consensus moment we were approaching (this was the mid-90’s) wherein countries east and west, north and south, were spinning out of cold war hegemonic control. Somewhere I have an unfinished paper on string theory and international relations. Might be time to dust that thing off…
Long and short of it, I ain’t mad at Fidel, but you probably already figured that out. I get why the US had to dog him, same reason why the French had to dog Toussaint L’Overture, because both represented threats to an established world order. And by extension, my country puts Cuba under a curse, just like France put Haiti under a curse, a voodoo curse if you will, for their obvious misbehavior and insubordination.
Anyway, let’s end on two positive notes. Donald Fagen (half of Steely Dan). I.G.Y. 1982. And Sonnet #44, 2013.
I was a runner in my hapless youth:
two times, four times, eight times around the track;
running to things, running from things, always
in a haste, never taking time to smell
the fragrance of the roses, know the truth.
In time, life slowed me down. I changed my tack.
I learned to walk, to circumspect, unfazed
by every shiny thing my eyes beheld.
But then the boundless sea became my Muse:
Her hidden wonders and her ways seduced
my every thought. Yet she was just a phase,
a short poetic phrase and a malaise.
This sonnet owns no ending, just a star,
to capture our attention from afar.
Looking back over the past 25 days, over the years, I see a unity, a common theme that can provide material for a novel, which is what November was supposed to be all about. I was surprised yesterday when my grandpop showed up out of the clear blue, but generations get skipped sometimes, and his favorite daughter, my mother, was already on the scene in the person of her macaroni and cheese recipe, which I made for Thanksgiving, and which went very well with the leg of lamb. I am rambling now, but there is even unity in the rambling, poetry in the disjointed clauses and phrases.
Job interview in Bethesda this morning. Time for something new, a new thing, a thing made new. Don’t worry, I will continue with #SaturdayLibrarian. Planning a roll call tomorrow in fact! I am missing poetry reading with the group, missing the camaraderie. Hey, did you see the Jorie Graham poem in December’s Poetry magazine? Center-tri-fold (is that a word?), folds out from the center of the magazine, back and front, The Mask Now. Is it a play on the Dunbar icon, We Wear the Mask? Naw, nothing to do with it. And there is a long essay by Carl Phillips, A Politics of Mere Being. I’ll read it, but I’m not sure I will dig it. Appears to be about political poetry, and that never ends well because politicians don’t really get poetry. And there’s a sonnet by Charles North, Lyrics of the Trouvères. Now we are talking. The rebirth of classical antiquity. Did you know Michelangelo wrote sonnets? His collection of sonnets is here in Italian and in English translation, and in other places on the internets.
Today’s post is more of a bridge than a chorus, thank the good Lord, the good Master as my grandmother would say, or so they tell me. Tomorrow a few students will trickle in, but most will still be at home with their families, still giving thanks.
Many years ago during my childhood, one of my first cousins (who was a college student and knew everything) told me that Papa, our grandfather, used to tell her he was descended from the Blackfoot tribe. I looked it up at the library, and told her that the Blackfoot Indians lived up north and out west, not in southern Virginia where our people were enslaved back when. She said there were northern Blackfoot Indians and southern Blackfoot Indians. I accepted that as a compromise, and I accepted that we were part Indian and part African. I would later learn that we were likely part Scottish too, but that is material for a different chapter. (photo of Papa, below.)
As a consequence, I have identified, from childhood, with the plight of Native Americans, or, as they are known in Canada, members of the First Nations.
Which brings us to today. Sort of.
The pediment above the Senate doors at the East front of the Capitol has a marble sculptural group that is titled “Progress of Civilization.” Here is the whole pediment:
Let’s take a look at the far right end. Yes, Native Americans, First Nations’ people. Let’s zoom in for a closer look:
Erected in 1863. First sculptured in Rome, 1856, by the same sculptor who later made the pediment. Not a pretty sight. Pretty pessimistic view of the future. But official US policy at the time. Round them up, march them west, make them die. These are not nice words, I know. But the history is fairly accurate. The Supreme Court ruling on Cherokee Nation vs. Georgia (1831) was every bit as odious for Native Americans as the Dred Scott decision (Dred Scott Vs. Sandford (1857)) was for free Blacks (or any Blacks) at the time. Sometimes the Supremes get it wrong. The Indian Removal Act of 1830 passed in Congress by one vote.
Now, finally, today. Thanksgiving. We give thanks. But Native Americans have a different view. Since 1970, they have called it the National Day of Mourning. Native Americans figure prominently in the story we all learn about the first Thanksgiving. It is largely a myth.
The New York Times and the Washington Post both advise that I have exceeded the number of free articles I can read on the internet in a month’s time. There used to be a way around it, but now so many news aggregators link directly to the Times and the Post and they catch me every time. Oh well, there is always December!
For Thanksgiving we decided on lamb instead of turkey. I will be making my mother’s secret recipe macaroni and cheese and my housemate (smile!) is making her traditional everything-in-it Portuguese salad. Oh, and pumpkin pie a la mode.
Life is on a steady course these days, these years. No sudden turns, no angles and dangles. We are happy at home, with our books and the radio and the occasional NetFlix /AmazonPrime series binge. Not doing any winter gardening, but thinking and prepping for the planting season next spring at the community garden.
So, on this Thursday in late November, we are thankful for good health, for family drama that enlivens and sometimes challenges, for interesting friends and acquaintances, for enriching past-times and hobbies, and for access to books and information in libraries and museums and galleries.
I decided to go with the Honda. Better safety rating, better maintenance record, higher resale value (and lower depreciation going off the lot). With the exception of that ’72 Toyota Corona Mk II that I loved (even though it had a leaky trunk that eventually rusted right into the gas tank beneath it) I have been exclusively a VW and Ford guy. Well, its time for new things!
Learned today that I have been called a conspiracy theorist. Well as my LUCE shipmate Dan Lidell would say, I have been called far worse names by much better men (and women). ‘Nuff said on that.
Did a double today. Walked through the Jefferson Building to work on my presentation, then took a stroll through the Smithsonian American Art Museum to see pieces by the same muralists, sculptors and painters whose works grace the walls of the Library of Congress. All members, participants in the 1876 – 1917 American Renaissance movement. I found an old exhibition book from the movement at my library. Read it from cover to cover. Let me share a few memorable passages with you, dear reader:
“The need to cultivate a heroic past for Americans included not only the past of Anglo culture. Sculptors were prompted to look anew at the American Indian. Alongside the rough and ready cowboys painted by Charles Russell and Frederic Remington, who were mostly responsible for mythologizing the West, were extraordinarily refined portrayals of American Indians by A. Phimister Proctor. His “Indian Warrior” presents the Indian in quite a different way than narrative sculptures by others. There is a sense of heroic dignity that, in its way, equals that of heroes of the Revolutionary and Civil Wars.” (Murray, Richard N. The American Renaissance. The Brooklyn Museum. 1979. p. 178)
“Of the hundreds of murals in public and private buildings, only one states the philosophical premise of the entire American Renaissance: Elihu Vedder’s Rome, or The Art Idea (below), which he painted in 1894 for the Walker Art Building at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. On the left Vedder painted a group of figures representing the art of Michelangelo and on the right another group representing the art of Raphael. In the center stands Nature. Vedder said: “Her right hand rests on the trunk and roots of the Tree of Life; her left holds a detached branch with its fruit – an art having reached its culmination never lives again; its fruit, however, contains the seeds of another development.” For Vedder and his many colleagues, that development was the American Renaissance.”(Murray, Richard N. The American Renaissance. The Brooklyn Museum. 1979. p. 187)
And from Kenyon Cox, The Classic Point of View:
“The Classic Spirit is the disinterested search for perfection; it is the love of clearness and reasonableness and self-control; it is, above all, the love of permanence and of continuity. It asks of a work of art, not that it shall be novel or effective, but that it shall be fine and noble. It seeks not merely to express individuality or emotion but to express disciplined emotion and individuality restrained by law. It strives for the essential rather than the accidental, the eternal rather than the momentary. And it loves to steep itself in tradition. It would have each new work connect itself in the mind of him who sees it with all the noble and lovely works of the past, bringing them to his memory and making their beauty and charm part of the beauty and charm of the work before him. It does not deny originality and individuality – they are as welcome as inevitable. It does not consider tradition as immutable or set rigid bounds to invention. But it desires that each new presentation of truth and beauty shall show us the old truth and the old beauty, seen only from a different angle and colored by a different medium. It wishes to add link by link to the chain of tradition, but it does not wish to break the chain.“(Murray, Richard N. The American Renaissance. The Brooklyn Museum. 1979. p. 189)
OK. Does this post need a sonnet for an end? Oh, what the heck, let’s search the archives and plug one in:
my ideal still life painting would contain
a non-microwave safe cup and saucer,
a piece of ripened fruit, a wind up watch
with a leather band, and a book, hardbound,
with several bookmarks and tabs. On a desk.
And maybe reading glasses, depending
on the reader’s (and the painter’s) needs.
I’d stare at that canvas, and wonder
if he (or she) drank tea or coffee, hot
or lukewarm like I like it. I’d wonder
does the book have poetry inside it,
the bookmarks and tabs for his (her) favorite
passages. I’d hang it beside my wife’s
painting of the river ferry crossing.
This month was to have been the month I completed a first draft of my first novel. But there was too much interesting non-fiction going to think about writing fiction. So I decided to content myself with doing a daily blog post, which I have done, much of which, some may argue, is actually fiction. That’s OK if you feel that way. It has crossed my mind.
I was driving back home from a tiring day of car-shopping and heard the coolest interview on NPR with Zadie Smith, the British novelist. Some of these young folks have some really refreshing ideas about things! I include Zadie Smith in that group. It made me think, consciously and with focus, about some things I have been mulling unconsciously and without focus over the past several months, especially as the fall election campaign and all its accompanying logical fallacies in the name of politics as usual heated up.
So where to start with the fuzzy thinking?
First of all, it occurs to me that so much of what we think we know about race is at best contextual and at the very lowest common denominator, socially constructed. In fact, we could easily cross over to post-racialism, that is to say, we could make ideas about race a thing of the past, an antiquated and false science like astrology (and/or eugenics), except that so many people profit from it. Politicians, academics, legal professionals, a whole host of folks benefit from maintaining these racial constructions, preserving them like finely detailed but totally unnecessary brick walls (you know if I am talking about you!). Just today I received an email reminder to attend a faculty and staff (as part-time reference librarian I fit somewhere hidden in the middle) information session on a new program next semester on “First Year Curriculum on Race and Identity.” Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, y’all! This is supposed to be progress?
Once we transfer “race” to the dustbin of history, or simultaneously, we can think about how other “divisions” in society are similarly contextual and socially constructed. A whole lot of koolaid has been passed around recently regarding gender and sexual orientation identity, especially during the presidential campaign. Although it puts me in a danger zone, I will say it: all contextual and socially constructed. Is it real? Perhaps, like racism is real when we need it to be. But need it be real? Not necessarily.
OK. Here is where I dig down into the archive and pull out a sonnet that is vaguely (?) related to what we have been talking about. Here it is, a flawed attempt!
It may all be lost in a masquerade –
that’s what Benson used to say
in the song that criss-crossed
between jazz and rhythm & blues –
maybe the universe is a giant hologram –
two dimensions projected over a 3d space,
and we all live in a simulated lab
of our own making – or our enemy’s –
which would explain the gaps
and limitations that often present themselves
in our silent hopes and daydreams –
and all the chit-chat we engage in
about race and sex and intersectionality.
Stop, the love you save may be your own.