Technlology Portfolio and other Wastes of My Time

I think certain people in the School of Music and College of Ed have a game. Their game is to avoid and ignore student's phone calls for as long as possible, as well as not returning any messages. Then, once they have you good and freaked out because you're supposed to graduate SUNDAY and NO ONE HAS CHECKED YOUR TECHNOLOGY PORTFOLIO, they cackle and sit back on their thrones of shattered dreams.

So I'm so glad I put this thing together. Because really, I can tell how significant it is by how quickly they're responding to my inquiries.

On the upside, I'll be done with ASU FOREVER after this Sunday.

If someone signs my Technology Portfolio.

Are we there yet?

4.5 more classes, and then my college career is OVER!

ASU lost on Saturday, which was pretty depressing. I was really hoping to go for four. At least my toes will stay attached next weekend, but still. After ending the season at the championship game for the past three years, it was quite unpoetic to finish my marching band career with such a pathetic loss. Eh. So it goes. I was trying very hard not to care after the fourth interception.

My new fervent hope--please, please, not JMU...anyone but JMU...I just couldn't handle it.

On a completely different note...there was a span of time last week where I was completely bummed. It was a combination of weather and crap going on and everything else. I wasn't sure exactly why I was getting so down, so much more than I have this semester (especially since I've started dating Derek.) I took an afternoon to just relax and hang around Derek, and try to piece my brain back together. I finally figured out what it was that was getting me so down.

I started taking everything too seriously again, all this shit in university that doesn't matter. I forgot how absurd it all is, the hoops we have the jump through and the games we have to play to get the accreditation we need to have an affect on the world in the way we hope. Everything became so important again, the rubbish papers and the endless memorization.

As soon as we stop laughing at the ridiculous it holds power over us. When we don't recognize the insane we begin to think it holds credence. We have to always hold in our hearts what really matters--who we are, the people we love, centering on God, finding ourselves in the mess we have to wrap up in to get through this world. You have follow the rules of this world and keep it from touching you, play their games and don't let it in your soul.

So laugh at some authority figure, even while you're writing a paper. Celebrate that you see how inane the busywork is. This is your life, your soul. They can make you stay up all night studying. They can force you to piece together stuff you'll never use again.

But as long as you're laughing, they can't touch your heart.

"You don't have to stretch before you do shit-ups!"

Wonderful accidental quotes from Amanda.

I'm trying to think of things amusing to write, but I'm severely sleep deprived and there's a Connie leaning on me. Which is awesome, but her left knee does somewhat impede typing.

Wow, I need to go to bed.

BUT, if you ever have burning questions about Literacy, and want to see John and Connie be famous, here's a happy video for you!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xeR4yvnfOFA

A decent assignment, for once

So, for a change, we are reading an excellent and relevant book in Foundations of American Education, Walking on Water by Derek Jensen. It's absolutely amazing, and I recommend it to anyone who is going to/is teaching.

Now, in addition to that (it's almost too good to be true!) we have a wonderful assignment for the class--to use any medium we wish to answer--what is the most important question we have to answer for ourselves?

Obviously, I'm writing. Here's the first few paragraphs:

Will you walk the labyrinth?

I freeze. It's a dingy billboard, posted on the wall of the subway station. I haven't walked a labyrinth in years--I've long since given up following winding paths, searching for feelings that aren't there. My mother cried, my father sighed, but in the end, it does nothing but wear down your shoes.

The tram in front of the sign pulls way, revealing the bottom. It's a movie add, some new torture-porn flick. I turn quickly, boarding the train back to my apartment.

My home--Queens Shithole. In some ways, I suppose it's fitting--my building is so similar to my cases' homes--but it's pretty bad when you consider I left behind a beautiful Georgia town and home for this. Now, the most glamorous thing I see is the subway.