120718 love is strange the sawtooth screams of seagulls kinda half woke me from a twisty half sleep i don’t feel so great golden light laps gently against the balcony door; they were right; it did stop raining now i can only assume it’s a beautiful day out there, despite everything out there that i can only assume isn’t beautiful. who is here? who lives in san diego, and what do they do? do they work shit jobs, are they an uber driver, are they homeless, are they a disgruntled teacher, do they have medical problems, can they not get a job, are they in the navy and do they work on that big fucking dark grey battleship over there across the harbor, filling the vending machines like that girl on that this american life episode? do they work in this hotel not cleaning my room because i put out the “make a green choice” tag because i don’t want someone making my bed every day because that’s weird? the tiny coffee pot huffs and chuffs its promise of a new beautiful day i don’t feel so great, and i’ll tell you why a foghorn? is that what you call it? just honked out over the water. it sounded like a kid who’s not very good at playing a high note on a tuba finally getting that high note out. there’s a reverberating silence afterwards as if he can’t believe it, and he’s like OH! I see how you do it now. And he’ll try again in a minute but first, the disbelief. cars hiss by in the still wet streets. why don’t i feel good. did they put a 3% surcharge on the restaurant bill last night because they want to be able to pay their workers now that the minimum wage went up here? or did they put that on there to piss people off so they’ll be sure and not vote for any more minimum wage increases? why i don’t feel good: - back of my throat feels kind of abraded or inflamed - stomach still feels off; i think it’s the flomax but i don’t know - i can’t eat or drink like i used to; that first beer last night was like chocolate cough syrup; god that was gross; i think that may have been the first time i’ve ever said, sorry, i just can’t drink this and ordered something else. - it probably wasn’t - my memory, especially in terms of my own self-fascination, is not so great - i don’t feel very smart around these people. amanda and her super successful family and spouse and family’s spouses especially - i don’t feel very competent around these people. - i don’t feel very funny or clever or interesting or fun or anything - i’m lonely - i feel let down about the presentation. yeah the second one went pretty well, but still. what’d i learn: - you have to rehearse for it to be good - slides should have information on them, not just pictures - you have to revise multiple times to find consistent focus: just because 42 things occurred to you or reminded you of 84 other things as you were brainstorming and writing doesn’t mean that all those 42 things are *really* of interest to your audience, or really have any relevance or import. no one came there to listen to you ramble about the matrix. - you are not as smart as you thought you were - hotels and trips and rich food and beers and grown-up conversations with smartly dressed white people are addictive, right? but i don’t know, i just still don’t fit in, and i probably could fit in if i worked on it, maybe, but i don’t even know if i want to, but that’s a lie, of course i want to at least have the choice to be disdainful of it. golden light splashes across the harbor, streaks across the harbor, a streak of sunshine smacks the harbor and rubberbands into my hotel balcony window; it needles my eyes with an inarticulate truth i’m too thick to comprehend i have no sense of conversation, no sense of organization, i can’t think of words, i have almost nothing to talk about with these people. the background story i made up for myself for the past couple few decades doesn’t make sense here. it’s out of alignment with my being here. oh quit whining, privileged boy, just because you aren’t the big rock star doesn’t mean you get to cry and make everyone realize how sensitive you are. i just feel kind of dumb; i don’t know how else to say it. why is an AVID conference even a thing? Why are we all pretending like it’s a THING, a unique thing that requires specific training and access? Amanda really seems to believe in it, whatever “it” is. I still don’t even know what “it” is, and I don’t believe i would, even if i went to a bunch of these stupid sessions that i have almost no interest in going to. Here’s what I think it is: - an set of acronyms that describes a classification system for academic and metacognitive skills (it did not of course invent these skills) - a description of a pedagogical and social approach that it also did not invent - a shit ton of curriculum books and lesson plans, also not unique - a suggested framework for regularly scheduled forums (they call them tutorials) that are basically a goal-oriented variant of socratic inquiry I’m not saying it’s a bad product; it’s not. There’s quite a bit of good stuff in it. I guess the biggest benefit of looking at it as a “thing” is that it’s something to organize around; a common vocabulary; basically a set of rules to default to. I can see how this could be helpful to keep a school or a district focused and working together. But it’s all stuff that we should already be teaching anyway. *It’s an approach to a bigger, older, more universal thing; it’s not the thing itself.* For some reason I think that distinction matters, and for some reason I think that distinction is downplayed by the “owners” of the “intellectual property” that is AVID. It’s basically like a really big throbbing pulsating expensive book. But who do I talk to about this? Anyone? Does anyone care? Do I care that much? What do I care about? Who am I? Why am I in San Diego? Who’s paying for me to be here in this hotel? Should they have? Is my job to keep finding non-obvious ways to make the case that I should be paid for, or is my job to try to help kids get better at writing and inquiry and reading and collaboration and organization and reading? Is this helping them? Is this helping anyone? Jason really seems to believe it is. Me, I’m not sure. I’d kinda like to meet up tonight with that principal that we talked to after our thing yesterday. He had a nice crisp voice and good firm smiling energy. I’d like to listen to him a little bit more. I do actually like to listen to people. Maybe I don’t have to not feel dumb around people. Maybe it’s OK if I just listen more. Maybe that’s the next phase of my life. My life as a piece of a rotting oak branch, snapped off, tossed in a little creek in the crease of a wooded furrow, turning slowly, ambling downstream. Am I some kid’s stick? Did they throw me in to watch me cruise under the bridge and see how far I could get? Are they cheering me on? Are they hoping I don’t get stuck in a clump of foamy leaves by the edge? Will they give me a nudge so I can get going again, a little play boat of daydreams? Will they watch until I round the bend, out of sight, out of mind, downstream to that mysterious land that may or may not exist; the part of the river that you can’t see, won’t see, because it’s getting dark and time to start heading back up the hill, over the ridge, under the barbed wire fence, across the field, down the hill and across the street to home, your family, your supper, your toothbrush, and your warm bed? Meanwhile, I’m out here, turning slowly, under stars coming out one crisp pinpoint at a time, as the friendly water turns mysterious in the dark, going downstream, downstream, downstream, to the unknown place that may or may not exist, or may never have existed at all. Thank you for throwing me in the river. I love you. Bark slips away. I get soft and pulpy. Where will I end up? Maybe part of the river bottom. Maybe part of the water.