The Essay

Today, I sat down at my Hermes 3000 and began to bang away at the entrance essay that I'll submit to Goddard.  This, after spending the afternoon at Ft. Worden, consuming wine and cheese and hobnobbing with Goddard alum, faculty and other, potential Goddard students.  I even got to meet Goddard's President!

Poetry Post Sign at Pt. Townsend 

Action Plan

So for weeks I've been lamenting about the graduate school application process.  I've whined, twisted my hands, but accomplished little else.

I have put the wheels in motion and have actually begun the process of getting into Goddard.  I've requested transcripts from all colleges, requested the requisite number of recommendation letters, created a bibliography of works to be studied and am now outlining my entrance essay and study plan.  I wonder if Goddard offers some sort of initial degree, just for completing the application process :)

I have also set a deadline and am publishing it here:  By July 30, 2012 I will have completed my part of the graduation application process; I've requested that my instructors send off their recommendation letters by the end of August.

Wish me luck. More importantly: Help hold me accountable.

Goddard at Pt. Townsend

Discovering Goddard

Goddard has asked that I discover them. I guess the first part of getting to first base with Goddard is navigating their application process.  I'm stumped.  So far, I've got a handful of Beat Poet material, a smattering of Harlem  Renaissance material, (BTW:  I had to look up Renaissance.  Add learning to spell this word to my educational plan I'll be submitting), and a list of classics that might complement the whole package.

I still need a teaching practicum outline, and an idea for a final thesis, which, hopefully, will get me to the finish line.  Is it a bad sign that I'm stumped this early in the game?

Cold Driven Poetry

The muse woke me up this morning with a cold.  And it's generating poetry.  Stuffy poetry--for sure, but poetry, just the same.

There's something about a nasal blockage that forces any presence of writer's block to the back-of-the bus.  It belongs there.  It should never be given passage to the seats nearest the driver.

Gertrude Stein is playing in the background, muffled.  She sounds better.  More organized.  I like her this way. My ears, closed to her full volume, her spastic cadence.  In this way, I find appreciation.  Finally.  Finally, I find appreciation.

Has trains, sounds like "ass trains."  You wonder about the tunnels on that railroad.  The life the conductor must lead.  Clothes pins as mandatory as striped overalls, more important than the conductor's cap.   Who laid the tracks?  How were obstructions dealt with?  Upon what formation did the workers perch to eat their lunch?

If there is a difference between roasting and steaming, I can't hear it this morning.  I wonder if Stein ever suffered from a cold.  Coughed and spat, surrounded by Picasso's and other cubists wonders. Did a wayward sneeze create a Pollock inside a hanky monogrammed AT?

A New Favorite

It's not often that you get a recommendation for a new author and that author turns out to be a new favorite.  Such is the case with Bentley Little.  He's a horror author that Stephen King called the "poet laureate" of the genre.  That's high praise from someone like King who doesn't give praise lightly.  Just ask the author of the Twilight series.  

So, if you're looking for a good read that doubles for a walk on the wild side, check out Bentley Little.  

Those People

I never had children.  Never wanted them.  And I never thought that I'd ever have any dealings with children labeled as "special," much less spend my days with adults who are labeled that way.  But here I am.  For the past few weeks I've been working with a company that provides supported living for adults who are dealing with various conditions that tend to limit their cognitive functioning.  The official term:  Developmentally Delayed or DD.  I just know them by their names, seeing them as individuals who happen to present with some unique perspectives and behaviors.  I also know them as people who are deserving of love and respect, but seldom get it when they step out of the safety of their homes.

The State provides for their needs, only to the extent that they are maintained at a level slightly better than your average homeless person.  This might be a bit of an exaggeration--but not by much.  They have a food budget that limits their choices (for the most part) to prepackaged, chemically laden food products. When they buy meat, it's the meat with a fat content sufficient to induce cardiac infarction, after insulting their digestive tract and coating their mouth with a slick not unlike the one left on the waters  of Prince William Sound, after the good ship Valdez paid a visit there.

Fresh fruit and vegetables are priced beyond reach.  The food budget is often supplemented with the food bank, when the shelves there can shoulder the burden.  And they leave there with the same prepackaged, high calorie food that they can afford at the Grocery Outlet.

These clients live for the most basic outings:  a visits to the grocery store, visits to buy cleaning supplies, visits to the convenience store to get a pop, or a bag of chips.  The big outings, the ones you and I take for granted, don't happen for them.  They don't get to go to the movies.  They don't get to take vacations.  They get to go to the store to buy a mop or a bottle of Pine Sol.  Then they return to their group home or apartment building--usually in the worst possible part of town.

With few exclusions, they have all been victimized.  Victimized by caregivers, neighbors, and all too often--family members.  They have been gang-raped in state facilities, subject to unnecessary and cruelly applied restraints, and frequently medicated to the point they could do little more than drool on themselves, before shuffling off to bed.

We can do better.

With the help of organization like the The Arc, the needs of adults who need a little extra help and support are being brought to the attention of our governmental representatives, who, for too long, have been busily looking the other way, distracted by lobbyists who control bigger purse strings and offer more than gratitude for a listening ear.

Membership in The Arc costs only $15.00 and goes a long way towards fighting for the rights and dignity of those adults with developmental challenges.  For slightly more than the cost of a movie ticket (insert Sally Struther's  imitation here) you could join in the fight to protect some of the most vulnerable among us.

Consider joining The Arc and adding your voice.  Collectively, we can get over the din of the freely opening lobbyists' purse strings and grab the attention of a lawmaker, who, with the stroke of a pen or cast of a vote, can make a huge difference in the lives of these adults.