Bubbles

This is Lee. He is a high school senior, as evidenced by his shirt, and my teacher's aide, and he arrives every Friday at sixth period to help me work through my tremendous stacks of spelling and vocabulary tests. This particular Friday I had done most of the grading before he came, and once he was done with his light work, I closed the grammar book, ended the lesson, and announced to my rapt audience, "Lee will now take you outside to blow bubbles with you."
Lee's head jerks up at the sound of his name. I had not forewarned him of this.
"Is that all right Lee?"
I can't remember if he nodded and grinned. Did he really have a choice?
The sixth graders, delighted at the prospect, pour out into the hallway where Lee proceeds to lead us in bubble-blowing: a successful venture.

                                                          Carissa's turn.

The truth of the matter is that everyone loves bubbles, no matter their age.

Megalomania and Death

We are working on that all-encompassing project in class: designing a world of our own, inhabited by tribes of students, each led by chieftains of my choosing. The students will eventually come to write origin myths about their land, make their own armour and weaponry, perhaps create their own haka, and perform a speech to rally the hearts of the tribe before battle. 

Today we went over Henry V's speech before the St. Crispin's Day Battle with the French. I told them all about the Elizabethan Great Chain of Being, and knowing that the rigid order of the social classes was fixed and immovable, Henry V's plea to his troops then becomes something entirely different.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

The power of his words is astounding! The king himself says that any man who takes up arms and fights with him will not only be his "brother," but the battle will "gentle his condition," -- a radical statement about overturning order and somehow altering his lowly place in society. A generous offer, indeed. I showed them the movie clip featuring the Almighty Branagh, at whose altar we must worship, and then we compared Shakespeare to King Theoden's speech before the battle at Pelennor Fields. 

Forth! and fear no darkness!

Arise! Arise, Riders of Théoden!

Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered!

A sword day, a red day, and the sun rises!

Ride now. Ride now! Ride!

Ride for ruin and the world's ending! Death! Death!

Before you laugh at the vast abyss that yawns between the two speeches, note that I do recognize the differences between them, and I can only say they serve two very divergent purposes, which is the reason I feel I can comfortably compare them. Bailey, ever helpful, thought the speech was too loud, and the majority of the class was unimpressed: they would not ride out into battle with King Theoden. No, no, I protested. You have missed the point entirely. Here, let me show you.

And then I read the speech as if I was rallying them myself, as if we few, we happy few were the last hope against a darker fate, as if all the world depended on us driving back the evil tide, shattering our arms against that cold, impassive curtain. The lolling heads snapped up immediately, suitably dazzled by my oratorical presence. "Death!" I cried.

"Death!" they echoed, fists raised.

I'm not entirely sure teaching does anything good for my inherent megalomania.  

To Write a Wrong

I had a headache for most of the day. After nine hours of ruling my academic realm with an iron fist, I settled down to an iced chai latte at Starbucks (every vainglorious needs their downtime) and worked on my story for another three. My headache inexplicably disappeared. Connection?

Karate: the Art of the Empty Hand

I have finally, at long last, found a new dojo. My mother was firmly convinced that I would not have the time or energy to take up karate again, but I have defied the odds! (It only took me six months to recover from the shock of my sudden employment and subsequent promotion.) Unfortunately, over those months my body has come to resemble more and more a pile of rising dough; my muscles have wasted away, atrophying from disuse. I was a bit nervous before the training session, but once there I loosened up, enjoying myself, though Augustine, one of the trainers, told me I needed to "Relax. Take it easy." and then he repeated himself because he couldn't believe I was. The training was easier than I had anticipated, and I may have smirked a bit too much. I wasn't lying unconscious on the floor! Perhaps running up and down four flights of stairs on a daily basis is good for me?

A Compilation of Selcouth Words

Victor has written me the following vocabulary sentences. I have italicized the actual vocabulary words.

1. Caustic remarks are rarely delivered with great lamprophony.

2. Samantha suggested limerence, but none of her classmates complied with her.

3. Nihilarians are, sadly, rarely shown any cordiality.

4. The pronk, unfit for any other job, became a mungo and drove his truck to a knoll.

5. The placid, mesonoxian air was a great spot for some phenakism.

6. Pulveratricious clothes are hardly a sign of refinement.

7. When leaders are smug, it often leads to zabernism.

9. Holding onto an erinaceous animal would stifle anyone's laughter!

10. Despite everyone's floccinaucinihilipilification of his sword, he whet it dutifully.

P.S. I wish upon all All Blacks fans a light tyrotoxism. This is a late number eight.

P.P.S. How many of these words do you know?

P.P.P.S. He whet his desire for reading after learning several new words.

No words can describe the pleasure of a student going beyond and above expectations.

Kitchen Curtain

This is my kitchen window, which actually consists of two smaller windows with a bar across the middle. The bar has been bothering me for a while now, and I came up with a great idea to cover it with a curtain hung from an adjustable curtain rod. A simple solution. I looked about for a fabric in the right colour--I checked Spotlight and Arab Street and Ikea, but I found nothing! Finally I came across a pair of pillow covers in Ikea, one of which I cut open and sewed into the curtain you see below.

I like it when ideas come together from unexpected sources, and even more than that, I like my new kitchen curtain. It is just the right shade of green; it adds a wonderful feeling to my kitchen. Now, all I need to do is buy another goldfish to fill that miserably empty bowl. Pack your bags, Horatio 2.0.

Sleepy Saturdays

It's Saturday morning--bright, brilliant, quiet. Brent, the general manager who poured "medicine" down the throat of my blocked drain earlier this week, is power-washing the small area outside my flat. Thus far I have answered a few emails, set up Pat's dusty, old sewing machine, and booked tickets to the Coral Island for spring break. But for now, I am about to do two loads of laundry then go for a run to the stone quarry I found the other day in the jungle. Perhaps later I will sew curtains for my classroom. I really do like my Saturdays.