Elections

The hype and fliers are everywhere. So and so failed to do such and such when he/she was in office. So and so is promising such and such but can she/he deliver? Emails urge me to vote for the candidate who will do the most for the arts or for education or about taxes.

While on a break from one of my writing classes in Wheeler Hall at Cal Berkeley on Saturday, I overheard a young woman wearing a Calpirg sweatshirt on the phone. "We can't let the oil companies get away with this," she said in an urgent yet polite tone to a voter.

How do we decide the myriad complex issues on the ballot? I read through the pamphlets, the sample ballot, the cards that came in the mail. I went to the Oakland Mayoral candidate panel at City Hall. The promises sound good. Everyone wants the best for our children, for our schools. We all love the arts. So what is the problem with making my decisions and putting my pen to my absentee ballot? I'm used to reading between the lines, trained in analyzing literature and poetry. But I find it almost impossible to read between the lines of the propositions, candidate statements and initiatives. What will the effects of this or that vote really be?

I care and so I vote. I will probably end up voting for what or whom I think will help the principles I hold dear, but I will also vote for any candidate I think I can trust. It boils down to trust, doesn't it? I can't know what it would be like to hold office and face all those conflicting needs and demands, but I vote in hopes that we can make sure our children have a good education, that we take care of our environment/ resources, and that we advance justice and equity.

preferences

Why do we like what we like? The nature versus nurture debate has gone on for decades. Music is one of the touchy areas where "taste" appears to rule. But with music in high school today, is taste driven by familiarity or popularity? I wonder about this when I visit a seniors' home and the music is almost alwyas songs from the 30's and 40's. And I wondered during my chorus class last week.

Our group of singers is working on a challenging part song for Winter Concert, while also preparing some other pieces for various upcoming shows at Oakland Tech High. At some point, the class ended. But then it began. A few singers left for another rehearsal but the rest seemed to want to hang around, explore the piano, and talk. One young woman suddenly produced an anthology of songs from the movie, "Twilight." A few singers drifted over to examine it, and exclaim over favorite numbers.

"Want to sing it?" I asked one girl who was very excited about one of the songs.So I sat at the piano and played the chords or helped her with the melody while she sang. Hmm.. I looked around and there were twice the number of students in the room as had been present before she started singing. Students had seen the movie or heard the songs online, so they were familiar -- and liked. But do my students like the songs because the other students like tham and because they know them from having heard them often? Do we have to start exposing our children to everything at a very young age so that they will be more open to it as adolescents? Or can we start educating ourselves to be open to the unfamiliar, the strange, the different, at any age?

Walking

My husband and I share a car, which means I walk whenever possible. The other day I walked up Manila Avenue near my home in Oakland. I expected it to be the usual walk of a few blocks to the library on College Avenue - nothing special, hot and boring. I was wrong.

Here's what happens if I use an artists' eye and really notice what's around me. Here's what happens if I allow myself to slow down and appreciate what I see, as in "Gratitude." I walked under a maple tree whose branches were quite low, almost brushing the top of my head. By some good luck I happened to glance up a bit, and there, hidden among the maple leaves that looked like upside down Christmas trees was a tiny, tiny wooden bird house. I mean S-M-A-L-L. No bird could ever squeeze into the teeny hole above the one-inch perch. Hung from a thin branch by an old brown string, the house shone with randomly spaced shiny stick-on jewels: red, green, blue, gold. The crayon drawings on each side reminded me of the scribbles my two sons drew at the age of one or two years old, and yet they had a purposeful air about them, as if a child had planned them carefully, tongue between teeth. The bird house hung there as if in a magic forest, shimmering with hope. I stood and watched it for ten minutes, amazed.

Nothing better could make my day, I thought, as I walked on. But a block further I happened to look down to my right and was surprised again. Scattered on a torn up bit of dirt and grass, stood 20 plastic dinosaurs, each almost a foot in length. They posed in singles, teams, varied species or genuses, as if frozen in mid morning battle or foraging or courting. The group had an intense quality like theater or film, as if some incredible event just happened or was about to happen; perhaps they didn't need their "operator" at all. Something here spoke to me of love and desire. A child longed deeply to bring these strange ancient creatures to life right here on this untended yard. I stood and looked for a while, imagining what it must have been like to live among a pack of dinosaurs like this.

Two days later, I walked back the other direction down Manila, wanting to check the dinosaurs and bird house again. The dinosaur world had been rearranged! I missed what happened! Then the bird house. It looked the same at first. But when I looked closer, another surprise hit me. A little green, white and blue wooden bird --no more than half an inch tall - hung sideways on the tiny perch, wrapped around and held there by yellow thread. She seemed so pleased to have her own lovely house in the woods.

I can't stop smiling. The hands, minds and spirits of the children who made the bird house and the dinosaur patch on Manila Avenue will keep the world going, in spite of global warming. Yes, with brilliant children like these, our world will be okay.

block

Here I sit at the computer. It's Monday, the day I promise to post my blog entry each week, musing on the arts and arts education.

xxxoooo [[[[ ppp ttttt uuuuu llll

I'm enrolled in a Certificate in Writing program at UC Berkeley. Taking classes in writing should be helping, yes? Usually I can think of dozens of ideas to write about. This is the first time in ages that I can remember having the dreaded "writer's block." xxxxpppptttt;;;++++

I glance over to the desk next to me and see a poem by William Carlos Williams (did he ever have The Block?)
"so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens"

Blogless moment.

But wait. My husband and I have four chickens in our backyard. We were just supposed to be babysitting them until their real owners found a permanent place where they could care for them. Six months later the chickens - or their replacements in two cases -- are still here and the owners have faded away. Today the chickens, too, are experiencing a dry spell: actually they haven't laid any eggs for two weeks. Eggless. Blogless. Blog. Block. Similar. Send ideas!

Perhaps dry spells, writer's block, and lack of egg-laying serve a purpose. If the barrow isn't empty, then it can't receive any fresh liquid. But the term "writer's block" implies something is in the way, an impediment, not just emptiness. I'll check my tool box and see what I might use to chip away at the old Block.