It seems sort of fitting that the NCAA college football game that is on as I compose this last post is between Syracuse University and the University of Louisville. Both cities are my home and each, like the National Writing Project, have contributed to the man I am today. There will never be a winner - just the game.
This is my last post for #OurNWP, but I will continue to advocate for teachers and students for the rest of my life. The Writing Project taught me that the work I do is professional work and I tip my hat to their respect every time. It doesn't matter which alma mater wins - it is an athletic event. The game of literacy, however, is something larger and so much more important. Literacy is the athleticism that belongs to NWP teachers. It will always be in season.
And with that, I leave two more entries from my writer's notebook of 2002 - the year I was brought into the fold of nationally respected educators.
#1 - A set of eyes with words, words, word, words, words, words, words, I, words, words, words words, words as a wrinkle in the forehead. Then, the following written around the eyes, brow, and nose.
here we go again in a jungle of personal history and insignificant beauty. We tunnel above and below in a tongue of ego-tisticalities. in the crevice of a blink, there i am, a hitchhiker of visual horizons. the bridge of any path is with the open eye. there is hope in the flesh of any, simply because the world is open wide to me. Visual reality. only yesterday can reveal the pattern of all the bags and years.
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, I always return to the now, because i can. sometimes i am focused on the epiphanies that matter to no one & to be free in this spatial complexity. there was a glimmer in my eye once, like a marigold. Face it, i must be alive and well.
#2 - When asked what the sunrise tastes like by a colleague in the Invitational Summer Institute.
there's orange sherbet on the edge of the earth and sky, cold yet sly, warm to the tap-water dew of each morning. pink sky at night, sailor's delight, yet if we are mourning, sailors take warning - bitter days are on the way and our eyes set upon this mandarine display of curry fury and life, cut into my pores like a knife. the bandaids taste of blood. The horizon floods the dam with a slam of new beginnings: caviar, sushi, a K-Mart slushy, and butterscotch radiated from the earth's mountainous crotch and sandy desert thighs. Sun, and its shine, helps me to dine on the flavor for the fever of a Pringle, a tingle and tangle upon my taste buds, beer from its suds in a stupor of drunken tastes.
And with that, this growing individual writes in haste.
Here's to the next 40 years of NWP! It's been wonderful celebrating with you.
This is my last post for #OurNWP, but I will continue to advocate for teachers and students for the rest of my life. The Writing Project taught me that the work I do is professional work and I tip my hat to their respect every time. It doesn't matter which alma mater wins - it is an athletic event. The game of literacy, however, is something larger and so much more important. Literacy is the athleticism that belongs to NWP teachers. It will always be in season.
And with that, I leave two more entries from my writer's notebook of 2002 - the year I was brought into the fold of nationally respected educators.
here we go again in a jungle of personal history and insignificant beauty. We tunnel above and below in a tongue of ego-tisticalities. in the crevice of a blink, there i am, a hitchhiker of visual horizons. the bridge of any path is with the open eye. there is hope in the flesh of any, simply because the world is open wide to me. Visual reality. only yesterday can reveal the pattern of all the bags and years.
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, I always return to the now, because i can. sometimes i am focused on the epiphanies that matter to no one & to be free in this spatial complexity. there was a glimmer in my eye once, like a marigold. Face it, i must be alive and well.
there's orange sherbet on the edge of the earth and sky, cold yet sly, warm to the tap-water dew of each morning. pink sky at night, sailor's delight, yet if we are mourning, sailors take warning - bitter days are on the way and our eyes set upon this mandarine display of curry fury and life, cut into my pores like a knife. the bandaids taste of blood. The horizon floods the dam with a slam of new beginnings: caviar, sushi, a K-Mart slushy, and butterscotch radiated from the earth's mountainous crotch and sandy desert thighs. Sun, and its shine, helps me to dine on the flavor for the fever of a Pringle, a tingle and tangle upon my taste buds, beer from its suds in a stupor of drunken tastes.
And with that, this growing individual writes in haste.
Here's to the next 40 years of NWP! It's been wonderful celebrating with you.
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