Words from a Visionary (pun intented)

A pair of wings, a different respiratory system, which enabled us to travel through space, would in no way help us, for if we visited Mars or Venus while keeping the same senses, they would clothe everything that we saw in the same aspect as the things of Earth. The only true voyage of discovery, the only really rejuvenating experience, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to see the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to see the hundred universes that each of them sees, that each of them is...

-- Marcel Proust, The Captive

Manifest Destiny

The marathon is over! Although it was beset by many, MANY injuries, the three of us were able to complete the endeavor and were lucky enough to be joined by Brian's father, Scott. I blew out my knee, Dan got blisters, and Scott- well, he's just old.

Final results:
Brian - 4:35
Dan - 5:20
Brad/Scott - 5:53

I'm glad Scott was able to finish; it was nice to see what it meant to him and be with him at the end of the course. Photos can be found at:

www.ingnycmarathonphotos.com

Hasidic Cowboys

So, it's been awhile. Not a lot has changed, though; I'm still teaching, I'm still in New York, and I'm still running the NYC marathon (tomorrow!) I feel as though these three things have defined my life for the past six months, and although two of them probably will continue to do so for the forseeable future, I'm looking forward to having a new focus (or focii).

To address the marathon, I am feeling a bit anxious. I have been sick for the past two weeks, and have not been able to run for the majority of my taper. This should not affect my time, or my ability to complete the race, but it does add a mental barrier that will take a few miles to overcome.

Great news! The Grove Foundation was able to raise $7,750 towards the research of pediatric cancer. I'm very humbled and appreciative of ALL the people who took the time to donate both their time and money to helping us reach this goal; there were times that I was either over-confident or doubtful of our ability to succeed, and without those around me I would have had a much harder time dealing with the peaks and valleys.

I have also gained a profound respect for those who raise money and do charity work for a living. It is not easy to create a cause that has both the organization and the ability to invest its donors. Those that have done so, do so through tireless, intense, and consistent work. This is something that I believe I could continue to do if I choose to leave TFA- I'm encouraged by the concept that both the receivers and donors of the funds are galvanized and impacted by a common mission.

Until next time.

We are all born mad. Some of us remain so.

I've decided there are too many quotes on this blog; this goes with the belief that the postings completely lack a means to an end, and more importantly are of no service. Therefore, the most effective thing for me to do is to use this to reflect on my teaching practices. Hopefully, it will make me a better teacher. At the very least, it will let me tread between the "apogees and nadirs" of my first year in pedagogical practice. (yea astronomy!)

I'd like to commemorate this momentous moment (and teaching) with two (unnecessary) quotes, both by Samuel Beckett:

It will be the silence, where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on. -- The Unnamable

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. -- Worstward Ho

FAULKNER.

"Yes. They lead beautiful lives - women. Lives not only divorced from, but irrevocably excommunicated from, all reality. That's why although their deaths, the instant of dissolution, are of no importance to them since they have a courage and fortitute in the face of pain and annihilation which would make the most spartan man resemble a puling boy, yet to them their funerals and graves, the little puny affirmations of spurious immortality set above their slumber, are of incalculable importance. You had an aunt once (you do not remember her because I never saw her myself but only heard the tale) who was faced with a serious operation which she became convinced she would not survive, at a time when her nearest female kin was a woman between whom and herself there had existed for years one of those bitter inexplicable (to the man mind) amicable enmities which occur between women of the same blood, whose sole worry about departing this world was to get rid of a certain brown dress which she owned and knew that the kinswoman knew she had never liked, which must be burned, not given away but burned in the back yard beneath the window where, by being held up to the window (and suffering excruciating pain) she could see it burned with her own eyes, because she was convinced that after she died the kinswoman, the logical one to take charge, would bury her in it."

"And did she die?" Quentin said.

"No. As soon as the dress was consumed she began to mend. She stood the operation and recovered and outlived the kinswoman by several years. Then one afternoon she died peacfully of no particular ailment and was buried in her wedding gown."

"Oh," Quentin said.

Ether Waltz

I'm in an unusually good mood right now- which is odd, considering my ire towards the world just a few short hours ago. The benefits of a well-timed nap, I guess.

It's a shame I don't choose to take more time to post on this thing; I know I would appreciate looking back on it after Institute has ended. Reflection will have to suffice, which is disappointing because time is a great equalizer- present passions often lead to future ambivalence.

Keeping on my Latin kick (previous post was Borges-flavored), here's an Octavio Paz:

--
My steps along this street
Resound
Along another street
Where
I hear my steps
Resound along this street
Where
Only the fog is real.
--

Show me the man who can't appreciate the light, airy feeling after a refreshing sleep.

Harbinger (or, My Problem with Blogs)

The other one, the one called Allen, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of New York and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Allen from the mail and see his name on a list of teachers or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, important scientific works, the taste of oranges and the prose of Garcia-Marquez; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go on living, so that Allen may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things.

Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Allen, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his work than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Allen now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

I do not know which of us has written this page.