Toronto

I am in the middle of orientation in Toronto....my first time to Canada! I am stoked and ready to go. Our plane leaves tomorrow night!

Liz in Sudan

 

A day in the life...

It was another pale morning in suburban Minneapolis. A Thursday by chance, not by any distinguishing nature. It seemed like the whole month of March had been a series of xerox copies by God---and he was low on toner. I didn't hold it against the arbiter of the skies. Afterall, I knew from being a veteran of the North Country that the flora and the golden rays would come warm our skin and pleasure our eyes in due time. True Minnesotans scoff at those sun scorched Arizonians or Californians with their epicurean feast of summer. And this is not out of spite, but out of sincere pity. For in their gluttony, they will not engage in seasonal renewal, the resurrection of earth and sky: the anticipation then consummation of spring. We were on the brink of the April baptism that would wash away all the muddy snow and reveal the color Green--more lush and more beautiful than we expected.

"They can have their red rock front lawns, cactus christmas trees, and sun-spotted bikini tans, I thought to myself...I want to live in a land that echoes the human experience---a land of season...."

...But then I heard a polite midwestern honk from behind me alerting my attention to the resurrection of the green light.

I was on my way to a day of substitute teaching at Andover High School. I had been a sub there for over a year now which put me on a first name basis with the janitor, and allowed me to ascend the ranks of student opinion. I was now known as "the cool sub." That mostly occurred by default since all of the others were either retired teachers whose trajectory of coolness parrelled that of the pet rock, or they were socially inept marketing majors who couldn't sell a pair of mittens to a naked arctic expedition. I assumed they were inbetween jobs. I also assumed they were signed up for at least one pyramid scheme.

Today was like any other, in that, it wasn't like any other. That particular week I had watched a Disney movie in Spanish, supervised a project called "Voices of Democracy", and gave lecture notes on Calculus---nevermind that I never even considered taking another Math class beyond Algebra II. Today I would be subbing for an art teacher. When I discovered this to be the case, I immediately became reminscent of my old elementary art teacher, Ms. Sporleter. She was nice, and very well liked, but she was quite visually stunning--but not in the attractive sense of the word---she literally stuck out like a yellow volkswagon in sturgis. She was the reciprocal of beige. She had the face of a backup singer in a George Micheal video, mega bangs, puffy hair like the hills of scotland. Her eyelids were glued open with rubber cement, and here lashes like small black porcipine quills. And those earrings---everyday they were new. Some days she wore tiny little fruits that she stole from some tiny little still life. Watermelons. Bananas. Pinneapples. It was like little pieces of candy magically suspended on her earlobes. If it wasn't fruity, then it was either hoopy, or dangly. The large plastic rings were like hoola hoops for smurfs, almost brushing her trapezius. Her dangling ones were like Alexander Calder mobiles, spinning and shining in all directions. She did end up getting married, I remembered, and ironically became a Mrs. Anderson. I knew she'd be proud of me, the boy who tried to relate every project to my boyhood obsession of baseball, now an art teacher, if only for a day.

The first hour is always a bit lacking in motivation, for any class. I found that to be especially the case in art. In fact, there should be no first hour art class. There hardly even a dim light of creativity that exists in such early morning hours. I wouild be willing to wager that if you considered all of western civilizaition's masterpieces---a miniscual percentage of the actual artistic production occurred between the hours of 7:00 and 8:30 a.m. Nonetheless, some students were contently diligent, albeit robotic. There were still some that seemed to be waiting for their inspiration to come emanating out of the gray, concrete wall that they were patiently staring at. Second hour came, and from 8:30 to 10:00a.m I had what is known in the biz as "prep". For a regular teacher this hour and a half is very useful and it disappears with all haste. However, prep hour is about as useful to a sub, as a filet mignon is to a vegetarian. I took out my book, and tried to hurry the clock along. Third and Fourth hours were Ceramics classes. I leaned back in my rolling chair, occassionally crossing and uncrossing my khaki-ed legs, and talked music with some students bored with their crooked pottery. I will admit it was a bit of a cultual intelligence flex. I made rock magazine type anecdotes, and said things like: "modern punk is essentially Blink 18-3," or, "I have a mild taste for Johnny Cash, but not pop country from blue-eyed pretty boys from suburban Toronto." I confess I was a little culturally elitist, and my non-chalance was fifty percent theater. But...I did have to live up to my reputation. I was afterall "the cool sub".

After the final bell...(well, actually there aren't "bells" any more per se. Ever since a study had shown that loud metallic reverberations can contribute to anxiety which can contribute to lower performance and potential violence [Harper and Malowitz], the halls now ring in three congenial tones in the key of C major)...I exhaled, realized how easy my job was as I swung open the doors, and was back outside beneath one giant cloud. I proceeded to finish preparing a sermon I would never give on The Blessing of Gray, and the Ache for Green: Minnesota's Seasonal Spirituality.


- Eric

This is a picture I drew of myself using microsoft paint. (My head is not that round).

LIZ!

Here is my girlfriend, Liz at Christmas. (Pictures are fun)

This is me. I play guitar. I like music. That's all I have to say about that.

 

Descarte This!

Here begins my rantings, ravings, exhortational harangue--my voice into the dark. Truth or trivial, or both? Time will tell. So conforms another soul to speak to the wind in a hope to be carried to an empathic ear. I blog therefore I am.