Year of Writing 25

1/25/12

So six years ago now, I created a school. It was a lot of work: the 2 other founding teachers, the principal and I would meet twice a week for an entire year until 8 or 10 PM while we were still teaching, completely unpaid, in order to realize our dream of a project-based learning school that was solidly rooted in the Fruitvale community of Oakland. After the year of planning, and an intense summer session, we opened our doors: United for Success Academy was born. That first year was completely insane. I remember meeting every day after school for procedural things, then every Sunday I would meet with the other Humanities teachers to plan our units. Every Sunday. All day. We were wildly successful in some areas - we had 100% of our families attend student-led conferences, when the school before us had less than 15% attendance, we were featured twice in the Oakland Tribune, once on the front page for our Student Expo, where 7th graders attempted to apply lessons from World History to solve the problem of violence today on the streets. It was also really difficult in some areas, we had the same population with the same problems as before. But, we were moving in a positive direction, and it felt good.

Then, after that first year, everything started to unravel. We were given notice late in the summer that we would be enfolding the students from a failing school at our site, giving us a little more than 2 weeks to find teachers for 100 extra kids. Teachers that may or may not have bought into the grueling system we had created, and would need to run for the next two years to create a cohesive 6th-8th grade curriculum that was sustainable in the long term. Then, we decided to un-core the classes, to separate the Humanities. Next, we had a teacher negate our scores for testing, making it possible for our school to be taken over. Our principal quit, we received an inexperienced new principal, and so on and so forth.

I have been spending this last year working half time as a creative writing / art teacher. I love it, it's exactly what I want to do, but I also realize that I am slowly saying goodbye to this school. I am taking steps back, quietly, from the hallways I've walked for the last ten years. I am carefully untangling my emotions, my care, my soul from this Fruitvale neighborhood, from these kids who I have laughed with, yelled at, teared up while listening to their poetry, comforted their parents at funerals, and loved with all my heart. It is a delicate process, and it's imperfect, there are strands of me here that can't be unwrapped from their embraces, and that's OK with me too.

Year of Writing 24

1/24/12

She's not like other three year olds. I mean, she has her fair share of Barbies (princess Barbies no less), but she spends hours introducing those Barbies to her Star Wars action figures, in some strange matchmaking ceremony that I really don't understand, although I do have to make most of the sound effects. The new thing is Zombies. We tell zombie stories , she asks Zombie questions (Daddy, if I have no blood in my leg, will it turn into a zombie leg?), and most recently - we have zombie picnics. A zombie picnic is pretty freakin' awesome. What you do is lay out a blanket on your living room carpet, set up a bunch of stuffed animals, like all of them - then commence to eat their brains. The best is the flavor comparisons; how the pink bear's brains taste like strawberry pie, the alien's brains taste like lime jello, etc... She does draw the line, however. When I tried to sample our little dog Charlie's brains, she put her foot down. "No Daddy!" She said, "that's too real. He's a real dog." These are the heartwarming moments when you realize that you are not raising a sociopath, just a great kid with a penchant for the macabre.

bukowski

1/23/12
The pantoum is an ancient form poem from Indonesia. 1-2-3-4, 2-5-4-6, 5-7-6-8, 7-3-8-1

Pantoum for Isla

All hair tangles, scabs and sticky fingers
she twirls in the center of the room
daring the earth to match her spin,
she stops and giggles into gravity's embrace

She twirls in the center of the room
unencumbered by the eyes of men
she stops and giggles into gravity's embrace
spreads her fingers against the floor and grins

Unencumbered by the eyes of men,
her collapse orchestrated by strings of joy
she spreads her fingers against the floor and grins
the bliss of youth is static on her skin

Her collapse orchestrated by strings of joy
daring the earth to match her spin
the bliss of youth is static on her skin
all hair tangles, scabs and sticky fingers

Year of Writing 22

1/22/12

My son is four months old today. He is a beautiful boy, although a month or so ago, he looked a little more like a grub than a human being. His eyes now shine luminously, and even though that is redundant, it somehow isn't when you are speaking about those eyes. They are a light blue, like the sky in San Francisco right after the fog burns off - and he already knows exactly how to use them. He catches your gaze with his own, and in doing so, snatches the breath right from your chest. As you fumble for words of greeting, he holds that gaze, searching both your eyes for all the beauty that lies there, and then explains in the simplest terms how perfect the world is. This dude is going to break hearts, without even understanding how.

I can't wait to be there to see it.

Year of Writing 21

1/21/12

Thom Gunn was my mentor at Berkeley from 1999-2000. He was in his 70's when I was in his workshops, and would walk in with a leather jacket, scuffed black leather boots, and an air of intense cool. He died in 2004, after living very hard. He was a member of "the movement" in the UK, then moved to San Francisco in 1960, where he met up with the beat poets, and never looked back. His poetry is spare and usually rhyming - he is one of the few poets whom makes serious use of Heroic Couplets*, which I never attempt in my written poems. So, here goes.

* a heroic couplet is a rhyming couplet written in iambic pentameter - started by Chaucer in the 1300's

Thom Gunn

Now San Francisco's lost another queen
cocaine, black tar and methamphetamine
his head bent back, it rests against the couch
eyes closed, eyes closed, to Bethlehem we slouch.

a class across the bay sits empty now
a table strewn with books that breathe somehow
his boots still stomp the halls in search of those
whose fancies push the boundaries of prose.

and when the classroom fills with hopeful souls
fresh pencils in their hands, they shall extol
the one whose shadow shapes each written word
the one who still believes this is absurd.

Year of Writing 20

Today I took my daughter to go see "Beauty and the Beast" in 3D at the theater. Besides the fact that I already knew she hated 3D glasses, and would watch the entire thing in all of its blurry glory, I gave in to her desire - even though I made a pretty strong case for Tintin. I actually really like "Beauty and the Beast," it has a super comedic villain, a smart bookish heroine, hella gothic architecture, and a motherflippin' BEAST. Anyway, at the movies my child is not one to hide her emotions: when she's excited, she claps. When she's sad, she sobs. When she's confused, she asks. AND, when she's scared, she shrieks. So, when the wolves begin to attack Belle, naturally Isla shouts and covers her eyes. Immediately the SINGLE MAN AT "BEAUTY AND THE BEAST" behind me groans. Then, as Beast gets mauled by the savage creatures, Isla protests loudly "No! Not the Beast!" At which point said SINGLE MAN AT "BEAUTY AND THE BEAST" taps me on the shoulder to say: "hey, do you think you could get her to keep it down." I turn, remove my 3D specs and say "are you fucking serious? She's 3." Not much of a response, so back to the movie. Now - fast forward to the climax. Gaston is hunting the Beast through the castle. He sits, forlorn and heartbroken staring at his withered rose. Gaston raises his bow to shoot, Isla WAILS. It wasn't a long wail, just a pained "Oh!" and jumps in my lap, hands covering her eyes. Now, Mr. SINGLE MAN AT "BEAUTY AND THE BEAST" raises his hands in disgust and shouts to the movie theater - "This is ridiculous! How am I supposed to watch a movie like this?" Now, my fist was actually balled up. I've never hit a man in anger, but this could have been the time. Luckily, the large German woman sitting to his left grabbed him by the collar and said "You. Shut. The. Hell. Up." very, very slowly and with great enunciation. That killed that. She's totally my hero. As for Isla, I hope she guffaws at every lame joke, jumps at every creak of a door, and sobs for every heartbreak on screen for the rest of her beautiful life.

Year of Writing 19

1/20/12 2:20 PM

Yeah - now the dates are all screwy. Doesn't matter. Today is my first complete day taking care of both kids together. It has not been a complete failure. I can totally do this. (picture stewart smalley chanting into a mirror, if you're old enough). Seriously though, it has taken a complete shift of focus. This is work - and as such, I needed a plan. Hour by hour - no messing around. Check it (tegan leaves at 6:45AM)
7-8AM: Breakfast (waffles, strawberries, blueberries)
8-9AM:Miles nap - Isla Star Wars death star block buildng adventure
9-10AM try to feed miles (mildly successful) - Isla art time clay candy making factory
10-11AM library (closed) - bookstore (open) to get "zombie in love, a picture book"
11-12 miles nap 2 Isla - lunch (quesadilla, strawberries, jello).
12-1PM try to feed miles 2 (meh) Daddy School (line shapes - vertical, horizontal, diagonal, curved -writing the number and word 1 one, recognizing numbers to 20 - cutting & pasting - dictating a story
1-2PM Zombie picnic extravaganza "braaaaaaaaaaains"
2-3PM miles nap 3 (10 minutes. ugh.) music time - dancing to the decemberists on acoustic guitar
3-4PM screen time, walking around endlessly with miles.
4-430PM - get ready to go.
5 - 8 MOVIES!!!!!


wait - it's only 3? oh good lord.
1-2PM

Year of Writing 18

1/18/12

Continued from 1/13 - maybe the editing and revising and adding process will be entertaining (for myself)

We wait. The roads have cracked and sprouted green and still we wait. The buildings cough and sigh through broken hinges and still we wait. Some say he will come on a winged beast, large enough to block out the whiteyellow glare of the sun. Some say he will tunnel through the earth and burst through our bunker walls. Some say it is a she, a woman with lights in her fingers, with fire in her hair. They all agree that one day the iron and steel doors above us will be lifted, the chemical fog will dissipate, and we will stumble into the world once more.

I was born here in this steel and rivet cistern, like so many others around me I have known nothing but its cool grey embrace. It was built in the before times, the green times, when people used words like "precaution" and "perhaps." Now everything is in past tense, unless we speak of the deliverer. It is not small, as cisterns go, once, I walked the entire oval of its perimeter - starting at the solid metal plate locking the ladder and got back in about 25 minutes. I got a lot of strange looks that day - we generally stay to our areas of the cistern unless there's an all-call, and that means something serious has happened, which is not very often.

Year of writing 17

1/17/12

Ok, so I totally lied about that last date on that last post. Whatever. I did spend ten minutes writing, and that's all that counts.

I'm a little worried about my wife. Today she came to me with a Carrows ad for a "Bananas Foster Multi-Grain & Nut Pancakes Combo," saying "this sounds so good!" or something of the sort. Now, I'm not a food snob or anything, but I do know that anything from Carrows is far from good. I also know that anything from Carrows starting with the phrase "bananas foster" is far from far from good. What worries me most is that Tegan ISN'T EVEN PREGNANT! She legitimately wants to eat this crap. I might have to have a food intervention, or at least take her to someplace that doesn't serve breakfast all day long in order to save our marriage. I mean, my sanity. Oh, wow. I just turned the ad over to find "Creamy Chicken Pot Pie Bread Bowl," with its cousins "Savory Beef Stew" and "Spicy Steak Chili Bread Bowl." I better hide this now before we actually have to go to a diner. Ugh.

***Disclaimer: I will eat the shit out of the Carrows Appetizer Sampler Platter. I don't even care.

Year of writing 16

1/16/12

I missed a day because of my liquified insides - so here's a makeup.

At three, she's a maelstrom
hair defying logic
dance moves that dare you to keep a straight face
her questions are burningly relevant
"Daddy, if my leg ran out of blood and turned into a zombie, would the rest of me turn into a zombie too?"
"Daddy, why is it called a kleenex and not a tissue?"
"Daddy, is Michael Jackson real?"

Year of writing 15

1/15/12

I hate when the things you love turn against you. We drove back from Ojai today with hopeful hearts and such. Along the 101 in Atascadero, there is a in n out burger, the one fast food place I can eat without feeling like I want to punch my stomach in the neck. We ordered # 2s, mine with the hot peppers inside, and commenced with devouring. Even Isla getting in on the action, wolfing down fistfuls of fries (daddy, do wolves wolf down things?). About an hour later, I started getting a mite queasy, but chalked it up to carsickness. We had two and a half hours to go, so I was pretty miserable. When we finally made it in the door in Richmond, I hightailed it upstairs to sleep off the effects of the car. Not so much. In 5 minutes I was on the toilet barraging the porcelain with a torrent of diarrhea. Then things started to get strange. I was feeling really off, and getting nervous, so I enlisted the help of my wife, who has the misfortune of being a nurse as well as a beautiful human being. I think the conversation went something like this: "tegan!"

" yes, Aaron"

"I think spmething's really wrong with me."

"Why? what are you feeling?"

"i just had bad diarrhea and now it feels like my arms and legs aren't part of my body any more."

To her credit at this point she didn't even smirk. Instead, I felt a rumbling in my gut and ran back upstairs. This time I misinterpreted the orifice which was attempting to expel its contents and had to reverse position on the toilet just in time for the first outrageous heaves that would leave the hamburger in the toilet, if not a little more blended. I can think of few things less pleasant than heaving into a receptacle which had just prior contained extremely messy diarrhea. To top it all off, our toilet is one of the water saving models, and takes what seems like several eternities to refill and this be able to flush once more. The highlight of the next five or ten visits to the bathroom was sitting on the toilet mid expulsion, while attempting to vomit into the bathtub AT THE SAME TIME! If I didn't feel like death being slapped by a poisoned hamburger, I would probably be proud of myself.

Lesson learned. You can't trust anyone, not even in n out burgers.

Year of writing 14

1/14/12


The street cries quietly.
a girl in pinstriped shorts
slides her feet through oak leaves -
she bathes in the crumple and tear

a white truck sits on block,
its engine rusting, partially covered
by a tattered tarp. Its windows
all corner cobwebs and grime.

Cactus thrives, the thick prickly pear
trunks tower over foxtail and cigarette butts,
its wide paddles pockmarked and scarred;
each one a face, each one a name.

Year of writing 13

1/13/12

We wait. The roads have cracked and sprouted green and still we wait. The buildings cough and sigh through broken hinges and still we wait. Some say he will come on a winged beast, large enough to block out the whiteyellow glare of the sun. Some say he will tunnel through the earth and burst through our bunker walls. Some say it is a she, a woman with lights in her fingers, with fire in her hair. They all agree that one day the iron and steel doors above us will be lifted, the chemical fog will dissipate, and we will stumble into the world once more.


We'll call this start #257 for a young adult apocalyptic fiction novel. I don't know what it is about the end of the world that fascinates me so. Actually, I think it's more what is left afterward that is so intriguing. I also wonder if in places like Afghanistan or Iraq, after a war, this isn't a reality for people who survive. That is in itself a story, albeit one which I am far from qualified to write.

Year of writing 11 & 12

1/11/12

There's a new morning ritual at my house. It goes a little something like this -
Isla: Dad (her serious tone), are werewolves real?
Me: No sweetie.
Isla: Dad, do werewolves come out in the daytime, the nighttime, or some other time.
Me: Well, they're not real - but the ones in the stories come out at night on a full moon.
Isla: Oh.... Dad, are wolves real?
Me: Yes
Isla: What do wolves do?
Me: They do wolfy type things, like howl or hunt for food or take care of their wolf cubs.
Isla: But do they eat little girls?
Me: Not that I've ever heard of. Why? Are you scared of a wolf?
Isla: No dad, are you?
Me: Not really.


This conversation has played out in it's entirety three times now. I can't tell if it's a little red riding hood thing, or if it's just an active imagination, but I'm starting to second guess the werewolf thing now. Next full moon I got my eye on her.

1/12/12

Today we went down south for Tegan's interview. This move is getting more and more real.

101 South
The sun rises on
a silhouetted oak
emerging from the mist
in this field, alone

rain has been slow
this winter - the grass
brown and patchy
the dirt cracked

The ocean teases as
the sun burns through
peeking through sleepy towns
then disappearing behind hills

when it shows its face
once more, it is braggadocios
twinkling diamonds on
gunmetal peaks and valleys

we point across lanes
to a pod of dolphins
their movement looks like joy;
looks like home

Year of writing 10

1/10/12

I love teaching creative writing. Especially to junior high school kids - there is no other time when a kid can go from "I don't have any ideas for a character" to "he's a gorilla who lost his forest when people built a mall, so he became bionic and now he uses his super strength to break in the mall every night and cause pandemonium." in like 5 minutes.

Other story/comic book character ideas from today:
The world's most stealthy ninja, who reveals herself to be a shy middle school girl.
An insane cupcake, bent on ruling the kitchen.
A werewolf gladiator, fighting to restore his freedom from captivity.
A graffiti writer who happens to be the son of the anti-graffiti task force commanding officer.
A mutated spider crossing guard, who can't understand why people don't like him (yeah, that says crossing guard).
A mild mannered father of two kids who has a terrible secret: he is an alien, sent to Earth to destroy it.
The most intelligent barnacle on earth, biding his time on the bottom of a whale.
A humanoid burrito superhero, whose weapon of choice is a jalepeno sword.
Chuck Norris. ( "come on," I said - "you can't just create somebody who already exists" )
OK then, Chuck Norris' bacon. Baaaaack from the deeaaaaaaad. (shrug, "ok, why not")
A sparkle eater. (this is by far the most intriguing character)
and.... wait for it....
Yo Mama. (applause)