Notetaking: Top 5 Tips

Notetaking: Top 5 Tips

I just discovered this blog post today; it is very useful for college students.

Letters to My Daughter

Of all the things to have on my mind today, at the end of the semester, when I probably should be grading something, I'm surprised that it is this: my daughter is going to college, and I want to be sure to write regular letters. I'm wondering what I could find to write about on a regular basis that might be interesting. I can send poetry, of course --- the good stuff --- James Weldon Johnson, "The Creation: a Negro Sermon"

And God stepped out on space,
and He looked around and said,
"I'm lonely, ---
I'll make me world."

And far as the eye of God could see
Darkness covered everything,
Blacker than a hundred midnights
Down in a cypress swamp."

I could write about the excellence of that imagery --- the completeness of it, the depth. I could remind her of the time we went to Congaree National Park and saw the magical cypress swamp forest. It was like Lord of the Rings, I said, and it was, with all the cypress knees that looked like gnomes. That will make me think of the Congaree Indians, and the fact that I don't know much about them, which will make me want to look them up in a good book --- and then I guess I can write something about that. In fact, I want to look it up now. So here's a related website:

http://www.accessgenealogy.com/native/tribes/siouan/congareehist.htm

One provocative thing I've already learned about the Congaree:

"In 1693 the Cherokee complained that the Shawnee, Catawba, and Congaree took prisoners from among them and sold them as slaves in Charleston."

Okay, got to take a break and will think and write more about this later.

Fire Escape

What a great July 4th --- family and friends, good food, laughter, fireworks, and great music.

"Love makes the price good enough to want to pay --- don't make the hurt go away ---- fire escape ---- all that I can do is ache ---- you've gone away."

Third Shift Blues

Third Shift Blues (poem I wrote this morning)

She was smoking a Black and Mild at 4:30 a.m. at Waffle House
When I spotted her and thought she was absolutely perfect
For a photo, black and white --- coffee skin, tattoo above breast, resigned.
Standing to go, she raised her arms, the shirt slid up, and I saw
That her jeans were unfastened and unzipped for comfort;
She fastened them to complete the dining experience,
coming full circle like a smoke ring leaving the full lips
Like a prayer to the god of crispy bacon and coffee, straight up.

StumbleUpon WebToolbar - Other Paths

StumbleUpon WebToolbar - Other Paths

Covers

Mothers provide soft beds for us, with clean sheets,
fluffy pillows, and piles of blankets. When we fall
asleep somewhere else, they cover us with afghans
(afrikans, my stepmother pronounces it).
If it is winter, or there is a chill from a nearby window,
they choose heavier weight, that warm brown chenille piece
their mother-in-law gave them for Christmas; if April, it
is the middle weight one, hand-stitched, with birdhouses.
They are pleased to see that the family cat has covered our feet.
Braver, more confident ones will steal a kiss; timid ones,
fearing to wake us, will resist. Either way, the kissing is
accomplished.

Sometimes they cover us with lies, if necessary,
and with opportunities, better education, Van Gogh, music
(I hear the cottonwoods whispering above, Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in Love)
with umbrellas, hairspray, Easter dresses.
They cover us with Bibles, whole pages, from memory. Crosses
around our necks, prayers over us all the day long and night too.
Scarves (Amanda Wingfield, Tom, take your muffler.
Will you, oh, will you? Laura, you went out, every day,
in that thin coat, courtin pnemonia? Why, Laura, Why?)

Mothers cover us with praise and worry, with furious and relieved tears.
Remember the worst day of my life, when I couldn't find you
and you were playing with Summer at the graveyard, and then you came back
and I couldn't stop shaking and crying?

When we lie uncovered, go about exposed, vulnerable,
well, they must have been busy or unaware of our potential suffering
because the hall closet is bursting with blankets of various sizes
just waiting to cover us, and our mothers' hands reach for them of their
own accord as they pass (isn't there someone who needs to be covered at this
very moment, let me do it?)

They cover us as surely as the night does, and as the promise of morning.
I get drowsy just thinking about it, and now that my mother is gone,
I have to cover myself with her blankets. It works, but not quite as well.
I can't get comfortable, thoughts slip in or out of the spaces not tucked in.
Mama, can you bring another blanket? It's a two-dog night, you used to say.

Interesting Music for Sunday Contemplation

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x8sdo9_fever-ray-when-i-grow-up_music

Fever Ray - When I Grow Up
Uploaded by MuteRecords