Bah, Foiled Again!
07 March 2005 ~19:00hrs
I have always been a lot like Garfield; I dig lasagna, I don’t do mornings, and I really detest Mondays. The similarities between the cartoon-cat and myself that carried the most weight (for this entry at least) manifested on March 7th—the hallmark of hatred toward Mondays.
All the equipment needed to complete the task at hand was within reach; I had all my gear ready to install a CD-ROM drive . . . to update the archaic PC to Windows ’98 . . . to install the print drivers . . . to enable to Coalition students to print their work out instead of having to handwrite all of it.
My frustrations can only be blamed on Mondays because I find no other explanation for not getting the Coalition PC up to par. I suspect that “Mondays” are to blame because everything that could go wrong does when I work on the FHC (Florida Humanities Council) computers on Mondays.
I decided to scrap trying to bring the old computers back to life and go back to the drawing board; I figured I had enough parts floating around to put together a respectable unit. Breathing deeply, I took note of my frustrations, and eventually released them by way of a growling exhale. I stepped outside in the brisk night to observe the moment.
When I reentered the trailer, I noticed one of the students playing Solitaire; in my over-analytical way, I wondered about the individuals’ desire to be left alone, to be entertained, perhaps to escape the moment . . . I was probably projecting more than observing here. The PC would stay so that students can get used to having access to it. It works well as a basic computer and word processor, but because of its age getting it to print with the printer I have is impossible.
The view from within the compound pulses with exclusion: patrol cars speed-by, lines of would-be servitude staggering & switching just beyond the closed gate, and symbols of progress loom overhead . . . seemingly, just out of reach; three cranes sleeping, nestled in the pillow-fluffy fog of night. Just above the entrance to the Coalition, a see one of the cranes dangling above the gate . . . seeming almost close enough to pull oneself out . . . but just outside arms’ length.
I went back inside the trailer where classes are taught and took note of the reduced class-size; it shrank from twenty-five plus to about ten. Professor Sutton went down the role, I noticed the circle of students breaking eye contact and fidgeting when he asked where the missing students might be. I hoped for the best—perhaps a call or message came through placing them under a roof out of town—but I secretly wished they could have finished the course.
Class began and I was engaged from the firsts marks on the board, “Hubris- as in excess, the Greeks did not have ‘sin’ they had ‘excess.’” I did my senior humanities project (Hubris Rising) on the evolution of excessive pride in Napoleon Bonaparte, so I was on the edge of my seat longing to engage in the conversation, but I felt caged by my self-inflicted tenet of “fly on the wall” status. Other Greek works were put on the board and explained (Arete- as in excellence; Sophosyne- moderation / self-control; Kalokagothia- as in balance).
We then watched a post-modern interpretation of Sophocles’ Antigony; my mind wondered to the text we are reading in my class (Sheltered Blues by: Robert Desjarlais). I had many different questions and ideas swimming through my head that I wanted to voice, to either confirm or deny Desjarlais’ claims. Do the facilitators make life harder on the people to try to get them to accept that this is a “transient” institution? I wondered how I could swing admitting myself over spring break to get more honest answers from the residence; to see how they and myself would be treated. A combination of having to work, and the question over ethics made me refrain, but there will be other opportunities.
I stepped outside to take in one final observation for the evening. I noticed the Wachovia building within view of the front gate. I wondered if the residence here knew that there was a broadcast of the Western world on the opposite side of the building, from lack of bulbs: Wacho (pronounced wacko).
I have always been a lot like Garfield; I dig lasagna, I don’t do mornings, and I really detest Mondays. The similarities between the cartoon-cat and myself that carried the most weight (for this entry at least) manifested on March 7th—the hallmark of hatred toward Mondays.
All the equipment needed to complete the task at hand was within reach; I had all my gear ready to install a CD-ROM drive . . . to update the archaic PC to Windows ’98 . . . to install the print drivers . . . to enable to Coalition students to print their work out instead of having to handwrite all of it.
My frustrations can only be blamed on Mondays because I find no other explanation for not getting the Coalition PC up to par. I suspect that “Mondays” are to blame because everything that could go wrong does when I work on the FHC (Florida Humanities Council) computers on Mondays.
I decided to scrap trying to bring the old computers back to life and go back to the drawing board; I figured I had enough parts floating around to put together a respectable unit. Breathing deeply, I took note of my frustrations, and eventually released them by way of a growling exhale. I stepped outside in the brisk night to observe the moment.
When I reentered the trailer, I noticed one of the students playing Solitaire; in my over-analytical way, I wondered about the individuals’ desire to be left alone, to be entertained, perhaps to escape the moment . . . I was probably projecting more than observing here. The PC would stay so that students can get used to having access to it. It works well as a basic computer and word processor, but because of its age getting it to print with the printer I have is impossible.
The view from within the compound pulses with exclusion: patrol cars speed-by, lines of would-be servitude staggering & switching just beyond the closed gate, and symbols of progress loom overhead . . . seemingly, just out of reach; three cranes sleeping, nestled in the pillow-fluffy fog of night. Just above the entrance to the Coalition, a see one of the cranes dangling above the gate . . . seeming almost close enough to pull oneself out . . . but just outside arms’ length.
I went back inside the trailer where classes are taught and took note of the reduced class-size; it shrank from twenty-five plus to about ten. Professor Sutton went down the role, I noticed the circle of students breaking eye contact and fidgeting when he asked where the missing students might be. I hoped for the best—perhaps a call or message came through placing them under a roof out of town—but I secretly wished they could have finished the course.
Class began and I was engaged from the firsts marks on the board, “Hubris- as in excess, the Greeks did not have ‘sin’ they had ‘excess.’” I did my senior humanities project (Hubris Rising) on the evolution of excessive pride in Napoleon Bonaparte, so I was on the edge of my seat longing to engage in the conversation, but I felt caged by my self-inflicted tenet of “fly on the wall” status. Other Greek works were put on the board and explained (Arete- as in excellence; Sophosyne- moderation / self-control; Kalokagothia- as in balance).
We then watched a post-modern interpretation of Sophocles’ Antigony; my mind wondered to the text we are reading in my class (Sheltered Blues by: Robert Desjarlais). I had many different questions and ideas swimming through my head that I wanted to voice, to either confirm or deny Desjarlais’ claims. Do the facilitators make life harder on the people to try to get them to accept that this is a “transient” institution? I wondered how I could swing admitting myself over spring break to get more honest answers from the residence; to see how they and myself would be treated. A combination of having to work, and the question over ethics made me refrain, but there will be other opportunities.
I stepped outside to take in one final observation for the evening. I noticed the Wachovia building within view of the front gate. I wondered if the residence here knew that there was a broadcast of the Western world on the opposite side of the building, from lack of bulbs: Wacho (pronounced wacko).
posted by TechNutz at 4:55 AM
1 Comments:
That's a good question. I will ask Dr. Scolaro if they have settled in enough for me to start interacting. Perhaps if nothing else I can ask during the break. I'd really like to get some sort of questionnaire together to measure learning outcomes. I guess I could bring that up as well.
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