"If you were a camel your humps would be esoterically bald from overuse."

So says the Surrealist Compliment Generator: http://www.madsci.org/cgi-bin/cgiwrap/~lynn/jardin/SCG/

More mayhem for the mind.

L

I blog therefore I am...

I see I need to edit L's blogs to fix her hyperlinks... sheesh is simple html too much to ask for these days? Are we not homosapiens! Have we not risen out of the muck of pre-onlineian ooze! Can we not boldly go where no diarist has gone before! Strike-out against the onslaught of non-net-savvy communicators! Don't blink (hey the blink tag won't work in explorer!) or soon you will be back with the techno phobes, luddites and computer illiterates who brought the once proud Atari crashing to its demise...

sigh

If you haven't gone to the completely surreal Advertising Slogan Generator site, GO THERE NOW!

http://thesurrealist.co.uk/slogan

I love this site: it's too much fun. Here are some sample surreal slogans:

Designed for Addiction, Engineered to Last.

I Can't Believe It's Not Drudgery!

The Good Sheep Kids Go For.

Well, you can obviously see the attraction. How could you not love it too? Just type in your own favourite words to see what the geist in the machine conjures up for you.

Off to la-la land (where else would I sleep?) ...

laV

Sometimes I poke my head up out of the sand and am amazed at what I learn. A friend of mine told me about the following news gem, regarding Hurricane Isabel's imminent arrival earlier this week:

More than 300,000 people in North Carolina and Virginia had been urged to move to higher ground. Even seasoned storm veterans gave in to the five days of warnings that started when Isabel was a Category 5 leviathan with 160 mph wind. But a few thousand hardy — or foolhardy — souls ignored evacuation orders. Virginia Beach police suggested they write their names in permanent marker on their forearms so they can be identified if they are injured or killed.

OK, so Bruce says he's on the side of the hardy souls. Hmph. All I can say is it's a disarming thought ...

See? See?

*** New feature time! ***
The Blog as commonplace book

Weren't chains ashamed of their prisoners? —Janet Fitch

All of us are better when we're loved. —Alistair MacLeod

I'm a cementer! —PROW 100 student

The world is best served absurd.

love,
me

Frost warning issued???!!! Blah!

Yikes! The last three weeks have been relentlessly busy. School is back in session, and the world's heart is beating faster.

Life at the College is great. I have six courses this semester, including a lovely group of English 111s. I am having trouble staying on top of the photocopying, though: there is no central duplicating facility at our campus, so everything has to be sent downtown, requiring at least three days of lead time. I'm just not that organized! But I am loving having a music library just steps away from my office and have borrowed numerous CDs already. It's going to be a fabulous year!

I'm currently reading No Great Mischief by Alistair MacLeod. Just finished The Fourth Hand by John Irving, which I found disappointing. Instead of his usual absurd realism, Irving took on post-modernism — pastiche, intertextuality, etc. — and the experiment failed. Glad I borrowed it from the library. Next up: White Oleander by Janet Fitch (recommended by several readers — thanks!) and Black Tights: Women, Sport and Sexuality by Laura Robinson (serious feminist non-fiction [no that's NOT an oxymoron!] — must keep the brain in good form). Again, if you have suggestions, I'd be glad to hear them.

Spent several hours yesterday climbing the walls — that is, rock climbing. I really enjoy climbing — who could have predicted that? — but must gain strength in my hands and forearms. After a couple of hours I couldn't get more than half-way up because my arms were too tired. Meanwhile, Zak is a fabulous climber, as is Bruce (although climbing is very hard on his fingers). Another trip is in our near future, I predict.

Sorry this post is rather pedestrian — just a quick update. I'll be back to my more usual puzzlement of words soon. Love to all, near and far.

L
(who insists she saw Pirates of the Caribbean for more than just Johnny Depp ... although she can't currently remember what that more was ...)

PS: For those who may be wondering ... MY pirate personality profile says I am "The Cap'n" (hmm...): "You never met a man you couldn't eviscerate." Wonder how I can work that into my CV?

I just found out soon the will be an international talk like a pirate day!

So I did the Pirate Personality Profile Test and these were the results:

You are a Pirate Second Class

Do you remember the last time you took
a chance? I do. It was when you decided
to leave the security of your mother's womb
and headed for the bright light. It's time
to head for the next bright light, my friend.
Creativity is not your strong suit. You
are good at doing what you are told to do
and that, in itself, is a gift. It's not a
gift to you, mind you, but rather a gift to
those who will be there to tell you what
to do. You like long walks on the beach and
cuddling, but would never admit that to your
Guy friends who think you are okay but can't
always remember your name. Tapioca pudding
seems a bit extreme for a fellow such as
yerself, what with all the bumps and stuff.
It's a good thing ye be on a pirate ship,
otherwise, ye'd would be walkin' because ye be
positively pedestrian. Have a nice day.

Sigh... check out the Piracy chat forums...

Course, I was satisfied with sea'in Pirates of the Caribean just once...unlike certain others...


ciao

B

A long time since I've written. It's been a busy month.

La Ronge was wonderful: trees and rocks and rocks and trees and trees and rocks and rocks and trees and WATER! I was even persuaded to drive the houseboat. I also learned that my HBC fur factor grandfather worked at La Ronge in the 1930s — but clearly fur is not a factor for me! (Sorry, I had to say that.) We saw some ancient cliffs and took an interpreted hike; we also explored the lake in both a canoe and a fishing boat (on different days). All great fun.

Big ring around the moon / Gonna rain hard soon ...

But now that I'm home I'm very busy. I've been writing outlines and lesson plans all week — I thought I'd try to be a little better organized this year. All my PROW courses are running this semester, with healthy enrollments; if my English 111 course also runs, I'll be a busy little elf! This weekend I need to finish the instructor handbook because Peter wants to distribute it next week. There's so much to do before school starts!

That old dog has chained you up alright
Give you everything you need to live inside a twisted cage
Sleep beside an empty rage...

And then there's paying work. And the dread Active Voice newsletter — can't remember why I agreed to that gig. Hmm. And family and friends. My aunt is keeping a mandolin for me, I think. A mandolin is strung like a violin, but fretted, so it should be easy to learn, apart from the strumming technique. Haven't done any yoga or meditating lately; I know I should because I'm very very tired, but I have a million evasive reasons not to get around to it. Have been reading well: finished A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle and The Stone Carvers by Jane Urquhart; started The Fourth Hand by John Irving but had to return it to the library before finishing. Then I read a cute little thriller called About the Author, a playful, if somewhat over-written, first novel. Don't know what I'll read tonight...

Well, it's time to go: must have my weekly allowance of giddy laughter at humanity's latent silliness. Tomorrow is Zachary's birthday — he'll be TWELVE! Happy birthday, Zak!

the sage sag,
L

PS: Happy (belated) birthday, Mom! (Aug 14)
PPS: Happy (slightly less belated) birthday, Nicole! (Aug 21)

All these Leos! No, what I mean is, Oh, those Leos!

A wondering weekend. Another experience of watching a thing that will not be repeated. Plus ca change...

But this: someone, anyone, please explain to me how my marital status is the business of ANYBODY other than my very self?

It is sad, or perhaps terrifying, to watch ourselves age, to observe the potential of youth hewn down to the solidity of our cells. Who may I yet be? I cannot know. But the universe must know that I will cry myself hoarse before I recant who I am. I will remember that I am a grasshopper and happy, not an ugly ant milking the aphids. That my life is greater than a big house and a garden-in-a-box, three squares and a little more, all the right wines in my cellar, a screen that reflects the banality of man unkind, a thousand playthings and no joy. That my purpose is beauty, that I serve the world and not the other way around, that a thought, a dream, is the only lasting value I can possess. What shall it profit a man, after all?

... taking whatever they get — I don't want to wind up like that ...

So I will wear sandals when it pleases me. Even to the marriage of my true mind, if that be my preference. And more. I will learn to speak pirate. I will eat berries newly washed by the night as the sun rises on my morning. I will let the wind braid my hair and the sun adorn my skin. I will rave on. Bring on the windmills: I am for them. It is only utterly who I must be.

So save me from the smugness of the trust fund, the well-planned retirement, the right opportunity at the right moment. Save me from being elderly at thirty-three. Save me from the rightness of this life, for I am sure I would die of it. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal ...

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. I wish you well.

... looking back over my shoulder at you happy without me ...

Meanwhile ...

Now reading: Angle of Repose. Firewing. More preparatory materials. And a large bag of fine novels tempts me hourly: Byatt, Doyle, Drabble, Irving, King, Urquhart. Soon, soon.

You can already see what I like and do not like for today. What a drag, what a drag, what a drag. Hmph. Zak is in Brooks and I miss him. Many of my friends are travelling. Soon I may too. But until then I'm sitting, letting it in, letting it go, letting it in, letting it go ...

L

Pirates are plying the peanut butter sea of my mind.

I am concentrating on yoga and meditation lately. And I had a long massage this morning. Why do most people not understand that studying buddhism is not the same as becoming a buddhist? I suppose that posing such a question is a poor example of tonglen, and so I will let it go. But don't ask me again! :-)

Went to the library today, as if the tower of book by my bed (and in the closet, and on the bookcase downstairs) weren't sufficiently decadent. But I found Martin Sloane — yay! — and Angle of Repose — lots of long O's in tonight's blog — and am already devouring them. On the pick list for next week are Jane Urquhart, Roddy Doyle, and Bill Bryson, but if you have a recommendation please let me know. In the meantime I have lots to keep me busy. I could get used to summers like this, although I believe the bank is hoping that I won't.

We showed the yard to some neighbours yesterday, and the lovely Mrs couldn't get over two features: the size and the vegetables. The Mr neighbour was apparently more taken with all the blooming things, especially the mass of the 'Adelaide Hoodless' roses (which are truly impressive right now, with literally hundreds of blooms on them). I was only slightly taken aback by the assumption that I was the "foreman" on the front-yard renovation project. :-( Perhaps planting trees in a skirt isn't such a good idea.

Oh, but I picked the first Evans cherries of the season today — still a bit tart! The raspberries are almost finished, which timing I find strange. There are more than a hundred flowers or young fruits on the strawberries and we've been harvesting a small bowl a day since the beginning of July. Of course the blueberries and saskatoon didn't flower this year, but I am hopeful for next summer. I am also still lobbying for a Nanking cherry to complement the raspberry patch and lead into the fruit trees. Maybe next year?

Something beautiful to do is to sit on the deck and enjoy the flowers. The scent of the sweetpeas is strong in the late afternoon, and after supper the perfume of the evening-scented stock starts to rise. It's quite intoxicating actually — perhaps that explains a few things!

Anyway, it's late. The i-Tunes (like i-ching, but different) says: "When the silence starts to haunt you, just scream: let the voices out ..." My mother's holistic chart says that pain in the shoulders signals sadness and repressed fear. Arrgh, where's my irony shovel?

(with slight bow and modest praying hands)

laVermeer, the marxist buddhist wanna-be-hippie-chick

24601!

Life is good. The sun is warm. Small fruit are in season.

Have you heard about produce co-ops? Such an anti-millennium concept, communalism. But it's intriguing. Of course, I have trouble keeping up with my own garden; I don't need to pay someone for the trouble of delivering compost-to-be to my door each week.

I enjoy reading other blogs. The other day I stumbled across an interesting one (while looking for the lyrics to the Nina Hagen song "Smack Jack," incidentally), called cowpunkmom. It was a series of recollections from someone who sounds to be about my age. Unfortunately, it hasn't been updated since May, so perhaps she's done remembering. Too bad. I also enjoy one written by a woman named Hillary from California. She's into cats, poetry, and crafting. Yes I know that sounds rather dull, but she's an appealing writer. And on and on.

Sometimes I think we write only to remind ourselves that we have voices. (Other than the ones in our heads, of course.)

Today I like: Dim sum. Gaudeamus igitur iuvenes dum sumus. Pretending I'm 37. Things that bump and snuffle.

Today I dislike Evasion! Confusion! Repression! Fitting-room mirrors. Inglewood Second Cup on weekend nights. Long-distance plans.

Now reading: Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner. Firewing by Kenneth Oppel. Start Where You Are by Pema Chodron. Lots of textbooks for potential adoption.

Enough enough enough. Something inspiring though tardy.

Bread and Roses (c. 1910)

As we come marching, marching in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: "Bread and roses! Bread and roses!"

As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!

As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient cry for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for -- but we fight for roses, too!

As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days.
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler -- ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses! Bread and roses!

Revolutionarily,
Leslie

PS: Happy birthday, Dad! (not that he's reading) on July 25.

Harrumph! One day the eagle has to land...

The recent depiction of your earnest scribe as a tight-fisted, taste-impaired despot is little short of slander! Not to mention that I'm not the smith living in the 32-percent tax bracket. No, me, I'm an honest jones. Who happens to own quite a few CDs. All perfectly tasty. Except for Mitsou.

Too hot to be profound. Maybe I'll go for a swim in the cool stream of consciousness. Watch out for the po-mo falls. And the dread master narrative. Don't feed the grizzlies. Or the buffalo.

... blue isn't red, everybody knows this ...

Finished Oryx and Crake. Have given up on The Polished Hoe. Will try again in the fall. Now reading The Sight — YA told from the point of view of Transylvanian wolves.

I need a life of noodle stories. Giggling madly. Indulging indulgently. Dreaming wakefully. Sigh and sigh again.

Gotta work now. More nattering later. Oh yes, and do remind me to write about the irony shovel.

At last...

I know that we've all been waiting breathlessly for my thoughts and so...

Hmmm, doo-dee-doo, cogito err... sum, zoom...zoom zoom, whoo hoo... doo-dee-doo. Ta-da!

Well.. I gotta haircut, no new job, Bill bought a new Volvo (drool), Jim denies ever having sped down Groat Road (as if!). Zak's back (see Vermeer, L. 14/07/03 http://moreblaze.blogspot.com) I'll have to post some pictures of my yard soon... maybe I'll take the camera home this evening. Other than that nothing phenomenal is happening. Leslie is still not relaxing enough and I am still relaxing too much...

Oh ya, I discovered something. Though L and I share many similar music tastes and often praise the talents of many of the same artists (although admittedly she ranges farther from the mainstream than I do and she has this idiosyncratic quirk that makes her think that pianos make better primary instuments than guitars... I mean really!), I recently learned that she has no sense at all of what defines the good songs on a cd. I mean who would have thought that "See Forever Eyes" was worth rippin' and then leave out "Vladivostock" and "Take Me to the Kaptain"!

The story begins as I was making my playlist for the ipod (as some unknown evil-dooer had corrupted it with all sorts ofunworthy material) from the main library of ripped music and consistently - album after album - Leslie (she who is "in charge" of ripping cds) had managed (contrived?) not to rip the only good songs on them.

To truly understand how big a crime this is you have to understand that we have been chucking perfectly good software like crazy fools just to make room for more mp3's. Space is at a premium and every song must be made to count! So as I sat and tried to make the best playlist possible, my jaw kept dropping lower and lower. As each artist's album came up and lo I would discover barely a good track had been made available. At first I declared censorship! But it was soon obvious that her taste was actually impaired and that even she knew it. Not only were the good songs missing, but consistently, the weaker, less-worthy tracks had been meticulously added to the main library. Leslie's awareness of her own flaws was obvious as shame had driven her to deliberately set itunes to either sort by artist or song title, thereby hiding the fact that the albums had been horrifically vivisected with only the entrails left to besmirch the harddrive.

But alas even as I discover the shocking truth, there is still a conumdrum. As previously blogged, there is scant space available for the true worthy tracks and the only sensible solution (eliminating the chaff in order to store the wheat) fills me with such dread at the predictable reaction from the musical 'Big Brother', who iron-fistedly controls the access to all sources of music in the household, that I am forced to contemplate purchasing more harddrive space at great expense and personal danger, and to begin secretly adding the correct tracks to the play list. If only I can perform this action stealthily enough, then perhaps not only will taste and justice prevail, but there remains a faint hope to convert the 'uneducated ears of L' to a more soothiing and sensible aesthetic.

But alas, the danger inherent in this vision of the future is foreshadowed in Leslie's oft-quoted verse "The dream never dies, just the dreamer..." Ah, to sleep, perchance to dream... if you hear from me no more, know the truth... and now, farewell!

B

P.S. Has it ever occured to you, that in an electronic age the postscript is unnecessary and overly sefl-indulgent. Without the permanence of a pen there is no need for the afterthought... (I think?)

P.P.S. The trick is always (as previously noted) to sort the wheat from the chaff. After all there is often a grain of truth. Weeding it out can be onerous but such work can often blossom into new fields of endeavor and... aaargh, enough with the horticultural metaph....

WELCOME HOME, ZAK!!!

Zak is home tonight after more than a week on the wild Sunshine Coast. He seems about a foot taller and broader than when he left, but that's probably just a mom talking. I missed him very much.

What did we do while he was gone? Had semi-hols. AM = work; PM = play. Kinda fun to do things that way, methinks me. We went to the downtown library one day. I took out a huge stack of 70s CDs and found a Happy Rhodes disc. Amazing. Went to see lots of art — even went to the Art Walk on Whyte Avenue. Had dinner with friends. Braved the new IKEA as well as lots of other shops, but didn't buy. Worked in the garden. Sat on the deck. Read books.

I dream of blackberries. And raspberries.

Still working a little. I have a small bit of work from the College, so that's reassuring. Got the key to my office. Dance of joy! I should probably take more time off but there's that pesky mortgage to consider. Oh, did I mention I got the official notice about my degree? I will be invited to convocation in November. But I'm not going until I get my Elmer.

Now reading: Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood. The Polished Hoe — yes, still. Sigh. Various small magazines in preparation for my courses in the fall.

Today I like: Morning. Roses. Alcohol too much.

Today I dislike: Too much alcohol. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

After 11. Must sleep. Cheers!

"I've got a proverb for you. It's from the Spanish. Goes something like this: Take what you want. And pay for it." —Martha Brooks, True Confessions of a Heartless Girl

The blog as commonplace book. Oh my. Time and its funny elastic ways. Thinking.

Thursday. Feeling happy I'm a Canadian. Lots happening. Went to the Centre for the Arts today and saw my new office. My very own office! It has six tiny glass-brick windows. Yay! My boss asked me to evaluate a portfolio, which wasn't bad but wasn't great either. Felt I was getting dragged into someone else's argument. Very odd. Slept and slept. Stupid body.

... hyperactive when I'm small, hyperactive now I'm tall, hyperactive as the day is long ...

Buddhist lesson to work on ... "Our neurosis and our wisdom are made out of the same material. If you throw out your neurosis, you also throw out your wisdom. Someone who is very angry also has a lot of energy; that energy is what's so juicy about him or her. That's the reason people love that person. The idea isn't to try to get rid of your anger, but to make friends with it, to see it clearly with precision and honesty, and also to see it with gentleness. ... The gentleness involves not repressing the anger but also not acting it out. It is something much softer and more openhearted than any of that. It involves learning how, once you have fully acknowledged the feeling of anger and the knowledge of who you are and what you do, to let it go." — Pema Chodron

Do you remember "Empty Garden", Elton John's song about John Lennon? I heard it today for the first time in years. It reminded me of the summer I was nineteen. Hmph.

Who remembers these singles? (I do! I do!)

• What Have I Done to Deserve This? - Pet Shop Boys with Dusty Springfield
• Brand New Lover - Dead or Alive
• Letting Go - Straight Lines
• Tiny Thing (Things Aren't Funny) - Jensen Interceptor
• All Touch - Rough Trade
• Twist in My Sobriety - Tanita Tikaram
• Straight from the Heart - Rosetta Stone
• Real Contender - The Wildroot Orchestra
• The Lover in Me - Sheena Easton
• The Love of a Woman - Klaatu
• Affair of the Heart - Rick Springfield
• Lead a Double Life - Loverboy --> plus Queen of the Broken Hearts by Loverboy!
• One Night in Bangkok - Murray Head
• Ball of Confusion - Love and Rockets

Just digging through the 45s ... you remember what those were, right? Ah, another lovely trip down amnesia lane ... Now if only I could find another person on the planet who remembers Larry Evoy's single "Goodbye" and anything by the Cooper Brothers ... Oh the contest we could have!

iTunes reminds me "you're the blood of me". Let me never live in silence. Falling through the stars. Want to talk all night. A purple ring of fierce love. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. " ... " she says. She hopes he doesn't hear "save me." She means "reality." Means "sometimes difficult." Means "listen." Listening and listening and listening until the sounds dissolve into air and meaninglessness again.

Nicole and Dave are both on their way, Nicole to Newfoundland and Dave to New York. Zak is on his way to Sechelt. And I, and I ...

... you know I won't hold you back now ...

Drat! My computer's speakers would seem to be dying rapidly. Prob'ly too dusty. I really should clean this place once in a while. But now it's late and there are books calling my name. Their voices are so lovely and melodic: they've come to take me home.

with love from the obscure fearless girl...
goodnight

Blogging in the dark, waiting for the stupefying effect of another glass of Zin to kick in. Had a long long nap and now can't sleep. Lying in the summer-dark entirely lost. Such a terrifying feeling to wake up and not know where you are. Dislocated in time. Then as I was trying to fall back to sleep it happened again. It could be June, or September, or Christmas. I have talked about the garden in my mind that blooms while I edit. Perhaps there is another garden that blooms while I sleep? Watching the night struggling to arrive in the west-north: no stars out this evening.

Wherever will I use my metaphor about the elastic waist of time? It was spontaneous but pleasing.

Now reading: Clara Callan. Am adoring it. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. So far very good. The Polished Hoe. Still struggling.

Today I like: Walking with my boys. A picture of tea and crumpets. (What IS a crumpet, anyway?) Picture of a brave girl. Dickensfield chocolate donuts.

Today I dislike: Misperception. Space between. Too much disorder.

... standing in zoo station, face pressed up against the glass ...

the wind, the rain
the magpie standing sentry
green tender not placid
active not passive
the span of a hand
across a universe

Wine insufficient. Time for the food channel... - L

PS: Hi Pat!

The only living blogger in Edmonton, apparently. Hmph. No one feeds my addictions anymore. Finished with school almost: one set of exams to mark and grades to submit, then I'm done. My paycheque definitely says I'm done. Must find something else to do. My parents, my aunt and uncle, my grandmother, and some of my cousins are planning to come to the house for Canada Day. Must cook. Must clean. Must drink lots and lots and lots so I don't remember the carnage. No no no, I don't mean that. I think my new degree is perfect for one as self-centred as myself: MEd. Just think: I've been MEd. Oh dear — like I needed the encouragement. Cirque du Soleil was phenomenal. Worth the money and the rain. And the way you make the buffalo roam. Zak's off to PJ next week, finished school on Friday. Those were the days, my friend — we thought they'd never end. Oh but a pirate came and that changed everything, changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty and all that. There's a lot of things if I could I'd re-arrange. Well, must dash. And I'm appositive we have nothing in comma. Hmm, I think that needs work. One of my students wrote a sexual grammar poem. It was very very good but I forgot to copy it down. The worst thing about getting older is ... something ... I knew what I was going to write a moment ago ...

Eeeks!

Finished! Well, almost finished. Just final edits to go. I hand it in tomorrow around 10. I'm happy — and now I have a few weeks to proofread thoroughly before binding.

Ottawa was SO beautiful. Saw the Parliament buildings and the National Arts Centre. Walked around a lot listening to both of Canada's official languages, sometimes within the same utterance. So cool. I was proud to be a Canadian. And we were indeed made co-chairs of Active Voice, the national newsletter. Yay!

Now reading:The Polished Hoe by Austin Clarke and The Wisdom of No Escape by Pema Chodron.

Favourite headline this week: School board rejects books with gay parents for bad grammar (from the CBC.ca news). Now that's an advocacy group! What's next, step-sisters for random punctuation?

As promised, the "thesis" of my project (the introductory statement, etc.) follows. Enjoy!

Love to all,
Leslie

Formal education is perhaps society's most efficient and most effective ideological apparatus. One visible manifestation of the ideological relationship between state and school is curriculum; indeed, as Michael Apple (1990) observes, curriculum and ideology are vitally linked. In Canada curriculum is set by the provincial education authority; in Alberta this body is called Alberta Learning. Curriculum development is based on the premise that, within a grade or subject area, teachers must teach students something; curriculum is the document that outlines what that something will be and how student apprehension of that something will be evaluated. But curriculum is more than a large set of goals and objectives: it is a catechism of the knowledge that a particular society deems valuable and worthy of transmitting to future generations. And more: it represents the institutional architecture that determines whether a child succeeds or fails in the enterprise of schooling. Through the operation of the manifest curriculum — and through the subtler manoeuvres of the hidden curriculum — those who hold power work to conserve it and those who lack power struggle to gain it. Within this climate of overt and covert contestation, the ordinary work of the school proceeds.
At schools around the world every day, teachers teach and students learn. This ordinary teaching/learning exchange is inscribed by power relations: that is, what is taught and what is learned may not be the same content. Through the machinations of cultural hegemony, teachers enact the social reproductive work of the curriculum. Such a conservative gesture is clearly apparent in Alberta's revised curriculum for high school English, introduced in 2001 and being implemented in full in September 2003. Yet at the same time, there exists within this curriculum the potential to create a lexicon of opposition. In this paper I will explain how high school English has been yoked into the sorting and selecting functions of the institution through the shifting matrices of literacy and literature; further, I will interrogate the assumptions of Alberta's new English curriculum; and finally, I will propose a mechanism to subvert the ideological work of the new curriculum by exploiting the aporia it presents.

et voila... a master's degree is awarded!

Personal chiasmus: For me, it is not hard to write: it is hard not to write.

hush, hush...
laV
(a little loopy from too much diet pepsi)