A Haiku a day for a Month

A little more than a month ago, one of my work mates proposed that she, a math teacher, and myself write a haiku a day for a month. After 37 haikus (I wrote more than one some days), I am going to stop the exercise. I think that my fellow English teacher proposed the undertaking in order to make her write everyday. I do this already, so it did not motivate me to write. I did find it a calming activity most days: a time to stop and think about what was in front of me either physically, mentally, or spiritually. However, it also deflected my attention away from other poems I had been working on. Usually I post about 15 or so poems a month (sometimes even pushing to 20). In October, because of the haiku event, I posted 38 new poems. I like haiku, and like writing them. Usually I make up parameters for my writing in an arbitrary and random manner. During the exercise, I used the traditional 5-7-5 syllable count, although I have in the past ignored that stricture focusing more on the brief flash of attention than on a numbers game. Figuring the syllable count is more of a guideline than a law. I don’t plan on giving haiku up; I’m just not going to sit down each day to write one. I have always written in small snatches of time, never having the leisure to write for extended lengths during the day. So, haiku, and imagism, lend themselves well to going from start to finish in the brief time I have to write. However, I also like spending time in my head as I go through the day, thinking about a longer piece. Therefore, as I stated at the beginning of this ramble, I am going to end my participation in the project. Thanks to all of you who read and liked the work I have posted over the last month.

(October 31, 2019)

My 30th Year of Teaching


(part one)

I never wanted to be a teacher. Yet, I am about to start my 30thyear teaching in public schools in Texas. I have worked in four middle schools and three high schools, taught 7ththrough 12thgrade, taught newspaper, yearbook, English 7th-12thgrade, pre-AP English (8th-10th), Gifted and Talented middle school English, Advanced Placement Language and Composition, Advanced Placement Literature and Composition, Dual Credit English through Austin Community College, and The University of Texas at Austin. I even taught a German class for a semester. This year I will be teaching four sections of Advanced Placement Literature and Composition, and for the first time a creative writing class, as well as a film studies class, also for the first time. With an average of 150 students a year, I will have had contact with 4,500 students in my classrooms. My first students, 7thgraders in Beeville, Texas are turning 43 years old this year. It is possible that their 13-year-old children could have been in my class at one point in the last decade.

Over time I have come to like teaching, although every year I think about quitting and doing something else, but am never sure what it would be that I could do.  Every few years for the last 30, I start to think I am pretty good at what I do, then something happens to make me realize that perhaps I am not as good as I think. Teaching is a humbling profession.

As a high school student I would have scoffed at the idea of becoming a teacher. The last thing I wanted was to return to school after graduating. Now I feel at home the most when I am in a classroom, either as a student or as a teacher. I left high school to become a journalist, but a professors advice to find the victim’s mother to get a good quote, drove me that same day to change my major to English. I like to write, although my first English advisor told me cynically and accurately, “One does not necessarily learn to write in English.”

Right out of college I worked as a baker at a local bakery in Austin, Texas French Bread. It was only for a few years that I worked there, but it still holds some of my fondest memories. One morning  (4am) on the way to work, as I waited on the stop light to change, I thought I should do something with my English degree. When my shift ended at noon, I walked over to UT and found out what I needed to do to become certified to teach in Texas.  A bit more than thirty years later, that quick, almost whimsical decision at a stop light led me to where I am now, teaching at an all girl public high school in Austin, Texas— and my life’s work.


(My plan is to write about my life as a teacher over the course of this school year. Topics will be determined pretty much in the same manner I decided to teach—through chance and whimsy).

Art Opening

Austin, Texas: circa 1980
We were at an art opening, somewhere downtown near the warehouses where small machine parts were stored, before the buildings were turned into fashionable bars for the newly minted college graduates looking for places to spend their first independent incomes in one of the spasms of gentrification Austin has endured for the last 40 years. But that was yet to come. It was an old building, bare walls, no heating, or air-conditioning. The owner probably rented out the space cheap for the length of the show. Bits of cheese on crackers, tortilla chips and salsa were available to carry about on small paper plates. Generic jugs of red and white wine were scattered about the table, as well as a galvanized tub filled with the ubiquitous Shiner Bock. Blondie, The Police, or some other cross over “punk” played on a home stereo someone had set up in the corner. The artists were local college art professors trying to seem relevant to the to the gaggle of students who were there for the free beer and wine, before heading out to their own parties with live local bands. I wandered the room pretending to look at the art on the walls. The prices were too high for my part-time job and rent. Most were abstract, with a few figurative pieces trying to have an exotic southwestern feel to them. But even at 20 they felt forced and derivative.  I thought about the painting by Fantin-Latour, Un Coin De Table, where Verlaine and Rimbaud were sitting at a table with contemporary Parisian artists. The story went that one artist refused to be in the same painting as that nasty boy (Rimbaud). So where he sat the artist put a vase of flowers.  I wondered what Rimbaud would think about the conversations the students and professors were having, the fawning praise, the studiously ironic responses. I felt callow, and slightly embarrassed. I left quickly, saying I was going out for a smoke, and went home for the night to write.

(August 11, 2017)

Growing Up with David Bowie

David Bowie meant a lot to me as a teenage boy growing up in South Texas. He was cool, but not by any means the stereotype model of a male I was offered in Victoria. I was an introverted bookish boy who liked to write. Sports and, the measure of a man in my high school, football, held no interest at all for me.  I was accused of being gay, because I liked Bowie, wore Bowie t-shirts, had Ziggy written across the back of my school class shirt. Plastered on my bedroom wall was a full size poster for the Man Who Fell to Earth a friend had given me one year. Bowie’s androgyny was what I wanted, not the testosterone driven cowboys of my hometown. Bowie made it all right to be different. To not follow the norm. I listened to Hunky Dory and Ziggy Stardust repeatedly when my sister brought them home from college one summer when I was still in middle school. The first album I ever bought with the first check I ever wrote from my first bank account with the money from my first job flipping burgers at Wendy’s was David Live. It took two and a half hours of work then to pay for the double live album. I soon had all of the rest of his recordings. I was lucky enough to see him perform three times: on my 18thbirthday in Houston during the Heroes/Low tour, in Dallas for Serious Moonlight, and finally in Austin for Glass Spiders. I have only been affected by the death of a celebrity the way I am today once, and that was when John Lennon died. Patti Smith will be the same, may she live forever. However, Bowie and his music helped me early on to define my identity, and with his passing I realize that those early efforts of mine to become me would not have occurred as easily if it were not for David Bowie.  On the long commute to work this morning I listened to the entire Diamond Dogs album. In Rock and Roll With Me, Bowie wrote: “I found a door which lets me out.” I found a door to myself through David Bowie.

On Writing: a reflection during a Heart of Texas Writing Project Advanced Institute

The difficulty with writing is that you must sit down and write. There are so many other things to do with your life besides write: shop for dinner, watch TV, wash the dog, change the cat box. All things which must be done, and do not require you to think about yourself. When you write, you must think about what you are writing. Word by word. You must sort out the jumble in your head and write something down. It is all very linear.  As soon as you write something, then thirty other possibilities open up.
Like now for instance, I read recently how in quantum physics (or mechanics), at any given moment there are millions of possibilities that could happen in any number of infinite combinations, but only one of those events will happen in the space/time in which you are a part. It’s called the singularity. It is as if, I imagine, you came to the fork in Frost’s poem and as soon as you stepped down one of the paths, the other vanished, if not physically, then ceased to exist as a metaphorical possibility.
Now to put this back on the trail I started down earlier, as each sentence comes to its moment of singularity, it opens up whole new infinite sets of numbers of directions to depart from.  As soon as one singularity is reached, it vanishes and the writer is confronted with the next choice. This becomes even more complex, as I go back and re-read what I have written. Unlike and like the moment of collapse into a singularity in physics where the infinite other space/times disappear, in writing one can always go back and try a different universe without a sigh of regret. All the other possible universes can still be accessed through the power of revision. But of course as soon as you change one thing, then the story you were on vanishes as another emerges.
A couple of weeks ago I ran across a writing exercise, at UTTpoetry, that was intriguing enough that I tried it. I was given two sentences from a 19th century novel completely unknown to me. I had never heard of the book, never heard of the writer. In the novel, the two sentences appeared one after the other.  The writing task was to insert my own sentence between the two given sentences, maintaining whatever narrative flow I saw between the two. Once that step was accomplished, I had to insert another sentence between the first and now new second sentence, and then another between the new second sentence and the third sentence, which was formerly the second sentence. The third step was to repeat this process, inserting two new sentences between each of the sentences in the text. Then again, and again, until I had 17 sentences total.
What was interesting, at least to me, was how the narrative grew and became transformed with each new set of insertions. With the first round, I was pretty pleased, I had made a simple connection between the two sentences which changed what I had at first thought of as the meaning. This transformation continued with each new set of sentences. By the end the narrative which was there on the page, resembled very little, except for the first and last sentence, what I had been given at the start.  
It was amazing to me, not only how the story I imagined from the given sentences had diverged so farby the end of the exercise, but how each time a sentence was added it changed the meaning, the original intent vanished, and was replaced by new opportunities, and this constant state of flux was caused simply by the choice of direction I decided to take as I wrote a new middle sentence between each of the sentences.

Which brings me back to the beginning, what makes writing so difficult: there is never a set direction to take, as soon as one choice is made a million other possibilities collapse, while at the same time opening up a million more. The writer is always at the point of singularity by herself, possibly even embodying the point of singularity in herself, as she writes. The writer is both an opening and a closure. A door, an empty space between possibility.
(July 29, 2015)

What I Like About Writing

What I like about writing, either poetry or the essay, is that I don’t have to make sense. The writing makes sense on its own. The writing begins to make sense as I write, more as an impressionistic whole, a tone, a leit-motif if you will, which takes over the poem, or the essay. I remember watching a program on PBS about birth. When the millions of sperm finally end their race to the egg, as soon as one sperm comes in contact with the egg, the egg is transformed into an impenetrable barrier that all the loser sperm cannot breach. I see the same transformation happen as I write. I have one sentence down, which makes me think of another, and that second sentence then collapses all the other possible pathways the first sentence could have engendered, while simultaneously opening a myriad of new rabbit holes down which I can fall. Writing like this is exciting. As I progress, re-reading as I go, or rather as I become lost, I start to see that I am not lost. One can never be lost if one does not know where one is going, I guess.  There is not a straight linear progress, but it still has a form, more like the orgasmic organic transformations of the earth as the tectonic plates grind into one another, where the musings, thoughts of the writer reflexively bend back and out, an Escher-like reflowing; connections made where none were seen, imagistic moves, themed turns, poetic leaps down the trail of thought: Art.