I was a child of average intelligence and little passion for learning. I ran. I played. And at an early age, I emulated my father's dysfunctional social behaviors: smart-ass comments, improper remarks, lack of sensitivity to others' feelings.

In the third grade, something changed. I began to enjoy school. I began to receive less pleasure from being with other students, and to receive more pleasure from learning. Science pleased me: I remember, every day at recess (while the other kids were outside, playing) watching a series of filmstrips designed to introduce the concept of molecules and atoms. Math pleased me: Mrs. Clarke pushed me forward, giving me an introductory algebra (!) book. Reading pleased me: I tasted The Lord of the Rings for the first time (skipping huge portions of The Return of the King), I devoured The Hardy Boys.

In fourth grade, I learned to write. Mr. Zagyva had a technique to make writing fun: He had three stacks of index cards. One stack of cards contained Main Characters, another stack contained Conflicts, and a final stack contained Settings.

For each writing assignment, a student drew one card from each stack. A typical combination might yield: PRINCESS, LOST A PET, ON THE MOON. The student wrote a short (very short) story based on this combination of cards. I attacked these assignments with great relish. This was more fun than kickball!

During fifth and sixth grade, my teachers provided fruther opportunities to write. My stories became longer, more complex. The more I wrote, the more I read. The more I read, the more I wrote. I only wrote fiction, though (or what passes for fiction to a twelve-year-old).

In the eighth grade, I was introduced to poetry for the first time -- real poetry, I mean, not the Shel Silverstien stuff I'd already heard four five years -- poetry by Longfellow, Tennyson, and Coleridge. I found an old book of the "one-hundred greatest poems in the English languague" in my grandparents' attic. Mrs. Wolf, my gnarled, gnashing eighth-grade language arts teacher (who possessed a tongue of fire, a glance that seared flesh), encouraged our class to read the great poets.

At the end of the year, Mrs. Wolf held a poetry recital. Each of us in her two-period Advanced Language Arts class was required to memorize a poem, which was to be recited before our parents, and the parents of every other student in the class.

I spent weeks memorizing my poem. I memorized on the school bus. I memorized at lunch. I memorized during class. I memorized at home. (Those who know me, who understand how poor my memory is, can appreciate the difficulty this task presented.)

The night of the recital arrived. I wore a white button-down shirt with purple stripes, and a pink knit tie. My parents sat in the library with all of the other parents. The students buzzed nervously in the classroom. Then, we took our turns, reciting "The Lady of Shallot", The Raven", "The Charge of the Light Brigade" and other lengthy poems.

And then my turn came. And, you know, it went without a hitch. (Can you believe that nothing terrible happened?) Here's what I recited:

To this day, I can remember large portions of the verse. The poem entranced me when I was twelve, and it does the same now: "Could I revive within me her symphony and song, to such a deep delight 't would win me that with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, that sunny dome! those caves of ice!"

On this day at foldedspace.org

2005 — Tangerine Trees and Marmalade Skies   Goofy Entry Day is now an annual event. :)

2004 — When the bullet hits the bone!   My beacon's been moved under moon and star. Really, today's entry contains a lot of photos and links to goofy stuff. You should come see it. Honestly.

2003 — Bad Haircut   I've never been hunting and I've never been fishing, but it can be pleasant to listen to the manly banter about elk and steelhead. Yesterday was an ordeal.