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It’s not even been a week and already I’ve resorted to bribing myself.  Tonight I’m bribing myself with a shower and bed.  The sooner I can get this down, the sooner I can sleep. But, even thinking of your art as a chore has got to be better than not doing it at all, right? So here I am.

Today was the first day of a new block (semester) at the school where I teach.  New students, new classes.  It’s energizing and important.  I got to get dressed up in my teacher costume and do my spiel about this guy. Mihaly Csiksentmihalyi is my dad’s trick, and I’ve stolen it from him. I have the same job my parents did.  And about all my family, going backaways. It’s what we do. We teach. If we were Hobbits, and we do resemble them, Dad especially, our last name would be Schoolhouse.  At any rate, some kids buy it, the routine, the blazer and attitude and lectures on creativity and how important it is (it is connected with happiness, don’t you see???), and how if they thought of their homework as their artwork, it would be just as fun as the things they choose to do, like making music or playing World of Warcraft.  More worldly students realize this is bullshit.  Doing your homework is not as fun as playing World of Warcraft.  The more worldly students realize that and humor me, because they’re pretty decent human beings.

At any rate, the good, healthy, energized feeling doesn’t always last, so it’s good to be aware of it.

Standing in front of the classroom today resulted in this:

The Erotics of Pedagogy

There’s something vicious in their eyes as they dare up from their desks, something a little hungry.

They are the Wolf, and I the Rabbit, when it was supposed to be the other way around.

Armed in my blazer and fishnets and expectations.  Someone, in graduate school?  Called it the erotics of pedagogy, the call between the creatures in the classroom.

When I was the Wolf I felt like the Rabbit, bunnying after their ideas and emerging from my book burrow for the terrible and miraculous

                                                               class.

How smart! and hip! And kind! and and they like my writing and they are just like me! 

If only I could make my mouth work.  I had a galleon of thought. My cunicular heart.

The dance of pedagogy, the waltz of notions, these work better for me.  Or something more scientific, like symbiosis or synergy, or flow.

Together we will lose track of time.

And for the quiet ones, don’t fret. You will find the answers, perfectly-worded and days late, but clear as amber,

in the warm honey between wake and sleep.

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