Saturday afternoon and I'm in a usual place- CM 143. Odd you might think, but let me explain. My eldest, Jon-Mark (Mark is part of his first name, not middle), attends the Japanese classes from 2 to 4:30 in Kettler. I use the time to "do work" or at least that is the excuse I give. I've brought my work along which consists of files of papers from IVY Tech students to grade nestled in a green military type bag. The military type bag is a give-away of my era, that of the immediate post-Vietnam War, the era of non-camo army fatigue jackets, air-cooled VW Beetles, jug wine before it became fashionable, and the movies Jesse likes, of holding in living memory the race riots, the '68 Chicago Democrat Convention, and young men scheming to avoid the draft. My number was too high in the lottery so I didn't have to worry. My military service came in later, 1979-83, and I had a fatigue jacket long since lost. Not lost, but remaining, is a fondness for an era that still clings to the psyche of which army surplus (or pseudo-surplus since much of what passes for surplus was created to feed the surplus trend) remain a part. And in that bag remain a file of papers. I haul the papers around as a form of penance, letting their combined weight dig into my shoulder and pain the bag. Penance for not having graded them all and returning them to students who may or may be present to take them, students disapppointed or elated depending on the numerical scratchings I leave for them to receive as a moral judgment. Moral judgment because students percieve grades in highly moralistic terms--good grades equal a good person, bad grades equal a social reprobate. Salvation hangs in the balance. The A-level heaven is the prefered place; the C-level edges close to purgatory; receive the F and you will pass the slothful, the gluttonous, and the depraved on the way down in the Inferno. I see the judgment in the student's eyes and feel it in their hearts, and judge it by the level of engagement in the class discussion. Perhaps I avoid grading papers because I don't like passing judgment on anyone. I could ignore the papers for another day, grade them on Sunday, or do the minimum for the week.
That and grading is boring and depressing. More boring than depressing. I can create depression on my own. Like Churchill (and others) the black dog of depression hounds me at times. Not simply getting down, but the full blown, diagnosible clinical depression that makes the world dark and ugly, and set me in the pit on heavily clouded days so that the only light at the bottom is the remnants of sunshine soiled through their passage in the clouds, dirty, colorless. As of late I've eased off the meds in the hopes of tapping into a greater creativity that may have been dulled by the SSI's effect. Still in the experimental stage and wondering where it will go.
There, I've let out a bit more of myself. We seem to be in the self-exposure mode in the blogs. Put the heart on the sleeve. Bare the pain and let the others see the vulnerablity, becoming human in contrast to???
Let me pull my jacket back over my sleeve to hide the heart left bare. We all have more secrets than we want to admit. Hidden lives that we are uncomfortable with. Little bits of data about health and morals and marriage and future and past.
We'll be all right. We've made it this far and we can make it the rest of the way, so long as we don't pass by the destination without noticing it.

Tuesday morning, almost 9. Awaiting students who will break my dawning. I've been considering writing a parable that would go something like this: Once a man walked out onto a frozen lake, but neither the ice, nor the lake was normal. The ice was warm to the touch and crystal clear. Beneath the ice the man could see what he is yearning for. He lays down upon the warm ice to get a better look at what is going on below the ice and yes, there it is--his hopes, his dreams, his being, his now. He knows it is there but he fears breaking through the ice to gain his dreams. He has tried to measure the costs of staying above the ice versus breaking through the ice by making a rational list on a yellow legal pad with one side pro and the other con. The list tells him that life is better above the ice for it is more secure, more familiar, and more comfortable. Almost comfortable, that is. The world below the ice carries great dangers as well as his dreams. On impulse he grabs a pick-ax and gives the ice a good solid whack. He feels it shiver beneath his feet and a crack spreads out from the point of impact. From the crack a delightful, beckoning aroma arises. He is about to make another whack at the ice when he hears his name being called from the edge of the lake. His friends and family are there entreating him to stop and walk back to them. He has the pick-ax in his hand. He raises it up...
Does he break through or does his stop and set it down? Or is there a third option (and a fourth, fifth, sixth, on to infinity) open to him.