Philosophy and the Incomplete Cube

Awesome Philosophy Professor.  Accept No Substitutes.

My philosophy professor for this semester was awesome.  We disagreed often, she challenged my perspectives whenever possible, and I am glad to have had her. 




When giving her advice to the class for how to handle the essay question on the final, she said to be brief.

This, then, is the net instruction for the essay question for my final exam in Philosophy this semester, which I reproduce for you now only because I am sure she will never use this exact question again:

"Explain what it means to be a person, a "you," a "me," using ideas from Luijpen, Sokolowski, and Wallace.  Talk about what it means to be philosophical and why is it important to our individual future.  From Sokolowski's "What is Intentionality," be sure to talk about how persons search for truth and how it is related to ethics.  From Wallace, be sure to explain and use Wallace's account of "operative perfection,"how it is developed in person, and how it is related to ethics.  From Sokolowski's "Soul and the Transcendence of the Human Person," explain and use Sokolowski's account of soul and spirit, being sure to talk about why spirit is different from soul and what makes it so important for our human actions.  From his account of "The Self," talk about what it means to have both am empirical and a transcendental ego, and how they are differently related to the world and what it means to be an "I."  Be sure to talk about human freedom and the resulting responsibility from either Sokolowski or Wallace.  Finally, explain a theory from one of these texts that you have not already talked about and why you think it is important to you as a person here and now.  Be precise, give some real detail and give explenations for all the ideas first as the authors discuss them, and then in your own words.

. . . be brief."



(Now, this alone, of course, is laugh-worthy.  And even as I prepared for this essay (and we were all well prepared, I think), I was laughing at the irony inherent between the verbal and written instructions.  However, since the rest of you were not there, let us have a bit of context if you please.  For one thing, it was a timed test, and all things are relative.  Any student who got too wrapped up in one point would not have time to finish the rest.  And for another . . . well . . . frankly, I was in the class.

Egad, why write a dirty limerick when there are entire ribald novels waiting to be composed...!

So do not let my jest paint her in a poor light.  For all that, upon consideration, I misread her instructions and therefore did at least part of the test improperly (wups), all in all I think everyone did well.  All her students knew what they were in for, and walked away wiser for having taken her class.  It is the apparent contrast in directions that amused me.)

And that being said, just as phrasing can paint anyone in any light, good or ill or indifferent, let us remember the joys of context, innuendo, and incomplete data this coming season.  The Politics are coming upon us once again - or still - and disinformation continues to be the world's biggest business.  And, like cars cranking out rap tunes with too much bass, it is everywhere.






Sometime again,
--Coyote

(Calvin and Hobbes are (c) Bill Watterson; ACME and WILE E Coyote are (c) Warner Brothers.  All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.)

The Joys of Symbolic Logic

Yes, this is another late post.  My apologies.  I took assessment tests at Wossamotta U. last night, and when I finished it took me awhile to consider how I wanted to write this down.  The experience was an unusual one for me.  It revolves around my plans to take algebra courses this fall.

I've taken algebra four times before.  Twice in junior high, once in high school, and once in college.  Being a gestalt learner, I tend to examine systems and how they operate as a whole to learn them.  Alas, this is not how any of my old classes were taught.

"Don't try to understand the whole thing, it's too big for you," the instructors kept saying.  "Just memorize what we tell you long enough for the test.  You're making it too hard.  Take it one piece at a time, without any context or comprehension, and just do what you're told."



Faced with what was essentially gibberish without context or intrinsic value, I found that blind memorization and regurgitation of math rituals was useless to me.  This was before widespread recognition of different learning styles (at least where I attended), so it was left to me to piece things together as best I could.  As a result, I didn't do well and walked away frustrated class after class, having learned almost nothing.  I was good at math once, I thought.  What the hell happened?

Shortly thereafter, I happened upon a book entitled Symbolic Logic, by Prof. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.  And I can almost guarantee that you are familiar with some of his other works . . .



That is correct.  His pen name was Lewis Carroll.  His Alice works are lovely expressions of both poetry and mathematics, as well as being children's stories.  However, much as he loved the little girls for whom he wrote his stories he was first and foremost a mathematician.  Symbolic Logic  was an introduction to the philosophy and language of mathematics, the utilization of symbols as abbreviations to better condense logic problems from a purely linguistic form to a symbolic one.  I had known for years that to solve a logic problem one must be able to simultaneously look at it all at once and be able to part it out.  As I started reading his book, I realized that this was what was missing.  His book explained how higher mathematics, such as algebra, were simply linguistic tools for logical problem solving.

As you might imagine, my heart soared.  I drank down his book, seized upon the key it offered, unlocked the door and entered the garden.  It really is all a matter of perspective.  Years later, when I was homeschooling my own Magnificent Offspring, I spent quite some time working with them on symbolic logic before we started in on the algebra texts I had.  Things seemed to go well, and I think retention was good.

Fast forward a few more years to present day.  The Magnificent Offspring are now in public brick-and-mortar schools.  I, a returning student, must now take my Assessment Tests for placement in the college program.

(Yes, I'd just taken three semesters of classes, as you've already read.  It's a bit of a tangle.  Suffice it to say, in my life things often work backwards.  Roll with it.)



I took the English test first, and owned it as expected.  However, there was also the math test.  I knew that there were many things, though once considered algebra, that are now taught as basic math.  Likewise, things that were once reserved for higher college math classes are now part of high school algebra.  I therefore intended to qualify for an elementary algebra course, to be sure I had the basics down.  Then I would move through intermediate algebra to college algebra.  When I reached my 4-year campus, I would have a thorough comprehension of algebraic rules and rhythms and be well-prepared for a comprehensive approach to statistics class.  I reviewed for the test with this in mind, using the college's pre-algebra practice tests accordingly.

When I finished the English test, there seemed to be enough time left, so I started the math test.  "The better you are," I was told, "the longer it takes."  I didn't expect to take too long.

The first few questions were a little unexpected.  "That's odd," I thought.  "there was nothing like this on the practice tests . . ."

From there it went to  a few equations I hadn't worked on since I was in college last, over two decades ago.  "Hm," I thought.  "All right, I think I can figure this out . . ."



From there it quickly went to questions I had never seen before in my life.  So I spent most of the test scribbling furiously, figuring out how to solve the problems as I went.  Often I was wrong.  But since the test was multiple choice I could then deconstruct my work, find the pattern offered, and arrive at one of the listed answers.  I got enough right that the test just kept going and going.  It was even fun.

The last few questions I rushed through because the testing centre was closing - if I'd had more time, I might have gotten them correct.  But as it was, the test kicked me out just before the systems shut down for the night.  The printer buzzed and spat, showing a score that qualified me to go straight to college algebra.

This is the sound of my brain... pulse, throb, pulse, throb...



I know there is a huge difference between an understanding of algebraic thought sufficient to work through a multiple-choice test, and a firm foundation in mathematical technique.  If the test had been fill-in-the-blank I would not have done nearly so well.  So in practice, I don't know that I will start out with a college-level algebra course.  I will meet with a counselor before truly deciding.  Still, it is nice to know that my analytical and problem-solving skills are in such good shape.  And it is a rare thing that, considering my ego, I manage to surprise myself in such a fashion.

Sometime again,

--Coyote.

(Kagome and Inuyasha are both characters created by Rumiko Takahashi; Coyote pic courtesy of malayna-dawn.typepad.com, combining Warner Brothers' Wile E. Coyote and the Coyote from the Medicine Cards illustrated by Angela C. Werneke; The Brain From Planet Arous was written by Ray Buffum, thanks to denofgeek.com for the picture; Alice, the Mock-Turtle, and the Griffon are of course productes of Lewis Carroll, aka Charles Dodgson.  All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.)

Gods of the Curriculae, Spring 2013

The After-Finals Party

And so, it is done with at last.  The fanfare has died down, the audience has begun to file out, ignoring the mix of soda and popcorn grease that stick to their soles.  The clowns are taking off their make up, and the musicians are putting away their instruments and bidding farewell to the orchestral pit with well-earned tears in their eyes.

And, ladies and gentlemen, I slept.

Summer has crept up on us all, here in these red lands.  Spring was a delicious tease, but summer is nailing us to the bloody wall.  Summer, with its heat, rain, wind storms, and lack of classes.  And having had time to pour my dripping psyche back into my skull, I would now like to present to you my Gods of the Curriculae for 2013.

(((SHRUBBERY)))

This was a tricky time.  None of my professors were easily named, seeming so mercurial across the semester.  It was fascinating getting to know each one, as much as one can in so short a time.  Even the one I knew from a class before I had to give careful consideration before dedicating my shrine to her properly.  And so, without much further ado, I reveal to you the secret identities of these ancient and hoary gods to whom I have been bending knee, within their dark domains . . .

Self-Reprogramming For Fun and Profit (or,"You're Doing It Wrong.")

"Okay, that's all the Freud books, right?"

Mondays were rife with good times and provocation in Self-Reprogramming For Fun and Profit.  I'd gotten the impression for the class description that this would be a class examining cultural phenomena and advertising, as well as current events, to see how they affected and reflected the human mind and society.  Introspection would also be used to better understand how mass media and culture affected us as individuals, and how we as a society affected culture and media.

Instead, it was a class on human development and psychic healing with an emphasis on self-reprogramming, a self-help class with a mouth full of fangs and an unhinged jaw.   Modern humanistic psychology holds dearly to the notion that one should be accepting of one's patient, and in fact there is one theory that says the psychologist should be completely accepting and supportive of the client (if not of what they do), no matter what . . . or else the client won't be at ease enough to completely confide.

My honoured professor missed that memo, I think.

She made it abundantly clear that she cared about her students, of course.  And none of us doubted that her main goal in being there was to help us grow and make ourselves better.  She also made it abundantly clear from the first class that she was right, she was always going to be right, because she was a doctor with many years of knowledge behind her.  And she was very, very comfortable with confrontation.  With being right, no room for argument, and with detractors being wrong.

This makes it sound as if I didn't enjoy her class.  Actually, I did.  She also encouraged others to speak their own minds, and was incredibly encouraging and supportive towards everyone and their goals.  In addition, I have the experience to fall back on for the future, should I council others.  Just as I think any judge should spend time in prison before sending anyone there, so too should a counselor or any stripe spend time being counseled.  We spent the semester studying each other, I think, and ultimately we both walked away richer for the experience.  There were times, after all, where she was right.  She truly is in the business to help people grow, and learn how to heal themselves.  While there were times that my hackles distinctly went up and my tail got all poofy, she understood the value of play and encouraged it, and she did teach very well.

Millennia ago, there was a TV series called MASH, and one of the characters was an army shrink named Sydney Floyd.  Every now and then he would pop by, sometimes to help someone re-thread their heads, sometimes to take five and re-thread his own.  His patients sometimes learned to hate him by the time he was done, but they were always on good terms by the time they parted ways, and his presence was pivotal to several events in the series, most famously a cathartic, bon-type fire.



Thus, she is Sidney Floyd.  Always studying our habits as we studied hers, she showed humor, questions, some confrontation, and bonfires.  Lots and lots of bonfires.

Final Grade: A.


Other People's Writings (or, "Everything is Literature Somehow and I Can Prove It.")

"We hear you, Flaming Spear!"

Tuesdays were Other People's Writings class.  The syllabus was a living document, and the rest of the  class was pretty free-form, including grading.  When a class is set up as an amorphous improvisation, often it's going to be either insanely cool . . .



Or mostly useless . . .



In this case, it was insanely cool.

Guided by his own enthusiasm and love of literature, we started out chronologically with ancient Greece, and ended with A Raisin in the Sun and Sonny's Blues.  The class revolved around comprehension, discussion, and thought-out examination.  He was always encouraging the class to explore the meanings of literature, and to challenge his notions with our own, well-thought out arguments.  We discussed and made journal entries on not only books and poetry but music as literature.  Paintings.  Perhaps even sculpture.

Take chances.  Make mistakes.  Get messy.

He . . . is Ms. Frizzle.



Final Grade: A.


Why White People Suck II (or, "The North Won the War and the South Won the Peace.")

"The history of the United States is the history of the debate over the definition of Liberty."

I was lucky enough to get a class with the same History Teacher I had for Why White People Suck I.  Picking up with the American Civil War, we studied and examined history from reconstruction through the Nixon administration, and then read the chronicles and studied as much as we could up to present day.  Alas, when history is too recent, the repercussions of pivotal actions still cannot be seen, and the causes are at least in part only guessed at.  Indeed, just how pivotal an action will be is yet to be determined.  But we did out best, bearing this in mind, and read up through modern day.

Her enthusiasm and her love of Socratic circles are undiminished, as is her dedication to the ideals of history, knowledge, and the joy of learning.  Two tests, two essays, tons of discussion and a variety of summaries later, the class is done, and far too soon.  I'm going to miss this class most of all.  Seriously, if I could have kept taking it through the summer I would have.

I had given her a god-name before, but the first day of class she brought to my attention that her high school students gave her one the year before, and she found it amusing.  I should have seen it myself, really.  After all, what other master teacher is small, more agile than he should be, inspired by wisdom and history, older than all his students combined and still going strong . . .?

"When 600 years you are, look this good you will not!"

Judge her not by her size.  She is Yoda.  And she will crush you to the wall with her historical knowledge.

Final Grade: A.


Paper Writing For Careers and Colleges (or, "Commas are of the Rakshasa!")

". . . and now edit . . ."

To put this class into perspective, the entry I showed you on the Butter Battle Book was an assignment in this class.  On the up side, the Professor encouraged people to think about new things.  One assignment was a research paper on our own career paths.  Another was a film analysis using Campbell's Hero Cycle and Archetypes.

On the down side, my first major paper was brought from an A to a high C because of comma use.  In general, writers and those who teach writing fall into one of two camps.  First, there are those who love commas and think that the semicolon should be pulled out of the keyboard and thrown away.  Second, there are those who love semicolons and think that commas are an abomination to humankind . . . and therefore should almost never be seen.  Ever.

She is solidly in the second camp.

"My grade was dropped down to WHAT?"

On the other up side, she is more concerned with the overall learning experience than testing her students to destruction   So we were allowed to rewrite papers to show our growing understanding.  Which means I not only got a good grade, but learned from the rewriting process things that will benefit me in my paper-writing on future campuses for years to come.  All I needed was a few extra sets of arms and a half-dozen machetes.  Right.  I'm on it.

She delights in challenging all her students think they know.  She finds new weaknesses they didn't even know they had and explodes them, and so the weak points are strengthened.  And for all that she may seem exiled for a time, and her lessons mastered, she will somehow return to trouble her students in new ways, forcing them to learn more.  She . . . is Loki.  And though I have not seen Ragnarok, I will freely confess as I sit before you now that she smacked the hell out of my happy rainbow bridge.

"Next paper, I'm focusing on the Works Cited page.  Better brush up."

Final Grade: A.

And so, thus concludes my gazette on my professors for this semester.  And to Professors Floyd, Frizzle, Yoda and Loki, if you should ever read this, I thank you for your teachings.  In the meantime, for those of you keeping score, this also means I got my 4.0 GPA.  Come the fall, I'll be taking Spanish and Algebra, and will be much less focused on grades for a while.  But I wanted to hit that mythical "FOUR" at least once.  Partly because I never had before, partly because I've been told not to bother trying . . .

"Hah.  Told you."

. . . and partly, I will confess, as a middle finger to the system that keeps trying to kick me out.

The 4.0 managed to bring my net GPA up to a 2.06, and in theory that eliminates the various probations and other strangeness that has surrounded me this last year or so.  In theory.  In effect, we will see what happens next and I will keep you appraised.

Sometime again,

--Coyote.

Finals Spring 2013

At least, one hopes it is Spring 2013.

We've had Spring once a week here for the last month or so, and I am hoping that this one sticks.  I have finals this week and next, and a large paper due as well.  So, there will be no update next week.  The following week, however, I should have my gazette on the pantheon of Spring 2013, and I hope you will all join me.

There is a constant oscillation for me during finals week for most of my classes.  On the one hand, I know I have this covered.  I am, after all, brilliant and all that.  On the other hand, I know that I am prone to overconfidence.  And so I may stress a little, wondering if my feeling prepared is just me setting myself up for disaster.



I was a dishtowel cape kid.  Completely satisfied that I could fly, and why not, I would leap from huge heights (well, to a four-year-old) and generally come crashing down shortly thereafter   On occasion, there was hang time.  "Aha," I would say to myself, "I'm getting close.  If I could just get a little more altitude."  *WHAM!*  "You know, I think I need a bigger cape."

To this day, my reaction to heights generally comes in two parts.  The first is an instinctive response, independent of all reason, to seeing the round looming cartoon-like stories below: "Hmm.  I could make that.  In fact, if I keep my arms out just right, I bet I cold just glide right over those trees..."

My second response, which is amazingly dependent on reason, offers the democratic response of clutching the nearest stable object and not letting go.  Others, looking on, will misunderstand and try to comfort me with assurances that the railing is quite strong, etc.  And all the while, my hoarse whisper, unheard, "You don't understand, my medulla is trying to kill me!"



Some classes are immune to this effect.  My Anatomy/Physiology class, for example, was amazingly resilient in the face of my self-inflating ego.  But otherwise, when it comes to a blend of competence and cocksurety, I'm pretty well up there with Joshua Norton and Moses.




So, over the next week-plus, I am erring on the side of caution.  And I will say that thus far this has never done me harm.  But in the meantime, between confidence and caution, there will be no post next week.



And I am still looking for a big enough cape.

Sometime again,

--Coyote

(Stupendous Man is (c) Bill Watterson, and so is billionaire playboy Calvin.  No one knows why they have neevr been seen together.  All rights reserved.) 

Eulogy

It was an interesting week for me last week.  Over the course of seven days the Peacock's dog, Cass, died; the Tigress' cat, Loki, died; I was given three literature assignments, all of them revolving around death; my literature paper revolved around the repercussions of a death; and after a few other omens of foul repute my psychology professor gave the week's assignment: to write my own eulogy.

So, yeah, I was careful crossing the street for a while.



Now that the flitting souls have finally tired of whispering that Faustus is damned and that my sons shall be king, though I be none . . . I thought I would share my eulogy with you.  Odds are it'll be the only one you ever need to read.  It takes place, as one would expect, many years in the future . . . for those of you who know me, of course, there will be no surprises.

IN MEMORIAM

Before we begin, I would like to thank all of you for being here, especially those of you who had to come by ship.  These have been hard times for us all, with the war just behind us and the wounds from it still fresh.  I’m glad to see that even now we can come together, even if it’s for an occasion as solemn as this.

I never personally met the decedent, though I’m told Coyote always hated funerals.  He saw them as generally pointless exercises in morbidity and flagellation.  However, since as with all subjects of a funeral he is not here to protest, we are free to carry on.  Moreover, as a member of the clergy, I am completely comfortable with telling his closest friends and family all about him.

Coyote was born at a very young age.  He liked to say it was a very traumatic experience for him: naked in front of a roomful of masked strangers, he was held upside-down and spanked.  Born somewhere in New York – he was never quite sure where – and raised on Long Island, Coyote had a fascination with self-mastery and the martial arts from about the age of six.  He was also a writer, author of a variety of works and co-author of the famous O4S series, along with his writing partner and friend of many years, best-selling author Lauren Scharhag.

Coyote was never publicly compared to such historic geniuses as Leonardo da Vinci, Isaac Asimov, Benjamin Franklin, or Nikola Tesla.  However, he was known to compare such men favorably to himself from time to time, and that ought to count for something. 

He also loved laughter.

            

            In the course of his life, he wrote a variety of books on subjects ranging from metaphysical theory to science fiction and fantasy, from psychology to martial arts training.  He wrote fifteen children’s books and seven poetry anthologies.  Several of his children’s books won Newberry Awards, and his work on the impacts of societal symbolism on human development simultaneously won him his Nobel Peace Prize and his first Pulitzer Prize.  

             When the book series he and Lauren wrote together was finally made into a cable series, The Order of the Four Sons not only won a staggering thirteen Emmys over the course of eight seasons, but inspired several anime-style spin-offs from further books he and Lauren had written in the same universe.  Added to this was the Hugo Award for Best Novel the two of them got for Book III of the series: Where Flap the Tatters of the King.  Coyote did voice work for several of the characters in the animated series, as well as all the audio books, and many of the novels that Lauren wrote on her own. 

Through it all, he continued to meditate, study, and teach martial arts.  Many people credit him with contributing more to proper martial arts training than anyone since Bruce Lee.

While Coyote never attracted a following such as those enjoyed by Jesus, Mohammed, or the Buddha, he was always ready to point out that he was more sexually attractive than all three combined.  Point of fact, some of you may recall that was part of his acceptance speech for his Nobel.  He never said whether he did that because he thought it was true, or just because he thought it would be funny.  Probably a little of each.   

Coyote is survived by friends, his children and grandchildren, and he always enjoyed alternating entertaining and terrifying the kids with stories he would tell them before bed.  I see some of you nodding.  You can probably remember some of them, and if any of you would like to share them later I’m sure he would be pleased.

Most people don’t know the work he did, small things here and there, towards securing freedom of speech and press to those countries where it was least tolerated.  His arrest in China made the news, though.  Some of you may remember that, when he was caught harboring political fugitives from the Cyber-Papacy back in 2045. 

Less publicized was his arrest in Washington.  Even though the place is now a museum, apparently it is still illegal to measure the Pentagon in hopes of arranging an exorcism.  However, Coyote later went on to portray Abbie Hoffman on stage in a one-man-show that local critics heralded as nothing short of brilliant.

An eccentric anarchist, Coyote had become something of a national treasure even before the revolution that gave New Hong Kong our independence.  He was respected not for fighting in the revolution – which he never did – but for helping people keep to their own values when things were at their worst, and for helping negotiate the final peace between ourselves and the UN.

But most of all, Coyote was himself.  He enjoyed doing what he wanted, and encouraging others to do likewise.  He enjoyed being the center of attention, and he enjoyed being recognized wherever he went.  But he also treasured his solitude and was fiercely protective of not only his own but of others’.  When asked about his religion, he often said that while he distrusted any label or organization, he did enjoy wearing Emperor Norton’s old clothes from time to time.  He lived, loved, and laughed, treasuring not only his own freedom but that of others.  He always urged others to build themselves up, never to tear each other down.  And it was in that spirit that he helped us make this place what it is today.

Coyote has been missing for over six months now, and has been ever since the regulator accident.  Here on Mars, any colonist can tell you that everything is as safe as we can get it, but no more than that.  New Hong Kong is no exception.  When the east bank of terraformers went, it took a lot of section nine with it.  Seventy-three people are still missing, and forty-seven of the bodies could not be positively identified.  So, probably Coyote has moved on at last.  Only two percent of those in the area survived, and of those only two percent were relatively unharmed.

Still, it is worth noting that he had been nominated for Governor last month.  Earlier, I overheard some of you who knew him best, saying that if anything might drive him to fake his own death, being threatened with a government position just might do it.  He once said, “A bad politician is a burden on everyone, himself included; a good politician has power over the lives of others and none over his own.  I don’t care to be either.”  So, maybe, just maybe, he’s still out there somewhere.  I like to think he’s waiting for the fuss to die down, or perhaps just enjoying the quiet and the solitude that only the still beauty of our red world can offer.  And I like to think that if he has died, well, he’s probably doing much the same.

So, after the service today, this casket – and the Life-Model Decoy within it – will be treated as he had wished his remains to be treated in event of his death.  They will be cremated, then scattered in a park somewhere where children play.  This is a hard time for a lot of us, so I will leave you with one of his earlier poems.  Under the circumstances it seems appropriate.  It is entitled simply, Sonnet:

Count Basie and His Orchestra the fun’ral service play

Let cats cut rugs as flappers kipple till the break of day

Let vodka and tequila flow with whiskey through the crowd

And every thought be spoken and each speech be laughed aloud

Release the clowns!  The dancing bears!  Have Nero play his lyre

Confetti streets and motorcades and factories on fire

Shall light the way for mourners come with sparklers and balloons

No thorny walls, no teardrop falls, save for in old cartoons

I am not a dying gate, Porphyria yet lives

The maelstrom is a thing for fools who ledger as they give

And shout demands with silent looks, and club with flowers, cards and books

I can yet travel by the day and cross the running brooks

Be damned to rivers!  Tributaries never brought me joy

In anything!  Cast down the ocean!  The kraken is a toy

For old Greek ghosts who kill their hosts and sieve for water at the coasts

Those who go outside and live are those who ‘member me the most

Seal me in and face me down, dry wood and broken bone

If I am to be interred, best if I go alone

Sometime Again,

--Coyote.

(Funeral pic courtesy of bbc.com, and the characters within are (c) Paramount Pictures; lightsabre-toting beatles are courtesy of djgreedyg.proboards.com.  All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.)

A Thought

Greetings, all.

I know this post is a little late.  I got wrapped up in my studies again and lost track of time.  But just the same, I would like to post an invitation.

My readers generally comment to my Facebook page regarding my posts here, but I would invite you all to make an exception if you would.  And those of you who don't usually comment, feel free.  And though this question applies chiefly to the US, I'd like to see if we can start a discussion on this including my international readers.

I heard some time ago that folks were looking at making the Library of Congress a digital database.  And it is no secret that funding for education in the US gets slashed more every year.  Recently, I was grabbing ebooks for my new Kindle (thank you, Dormouse!) and I thought a thought.

What if the Library of Congress maded all non-copywrited works available for download?  It would take time to arrange, of course.  But they could sell ebooks for a small fee each, or charge a monthly membership, and have all proceeds go to fund education.  No, it wouldn't be a huge amount... but every little bit helps.

So there is my idea.  I invite all of you to post your thoughts, knowledge, and whatever else on this.  If it can be hammered into a workable concept, I'll propose it properly.

Are you game?

Sometime again,

--Coyote.



(Infinite library pic courtesy of a post pruittfpgirl made on blog.freepeople.weblinc.com.  All rights reserved by original right holder.)

The Post That Wasn't There

Greetings, all.

Yes, it is true: I ended up missing last week's post entirely.  It was nothing catastrophic, there were just some school projects that took more time than I was anticipating.



But now I am almost caught up to where I want to be - or perhaps I should say when I want to be - and my merry tales of fortune and adventure should carry on shortly.  It won't be long.  I have to finish the tale of the Dead Rabbit after all, and there is poetry to compose and celebrations to attend, maidens to slay and dragons to avenge, and books and books and books to write.

The current deadline for Book III draft is this coming spring.  Our fans are some of the cleverest carbon-based life forms in the universe, and so I am confident that, like so many fans of other genres, you will abide with good grace while the final product is perfected.  Nothing haphazard is allowed past our steely gaze.

Soon all the scenes will be in place, the flow will be smoothed, and then it will just be a matter of editing.  Nothing too drastic, of course.  Rather, we will rely upon a gentle touch for a gentle world.

The delicate task of editing and rewriting.

Walk with grace,
--Coyote.


(Building Rome courtesy of http://www.ssqq.com; Picture of Mother Kali is courtesy of http://enmanas.blogspot.com.  All rights reserved by original creators of art, or else those who have managed to haggle the rights away from them.  Whichever.)

Squeaking Under the Wire and Twit Notations

First of all, the good news: I got my blasted funding!

The Financial Aid office put me on Financial Probation, for reasons that currently remain unclear.  So, now I am on Financial Probation and Academic Probation, but I am allowed to borrow money from Uncle Sugar at exorbitant rates to educate myself. 

Had they sent me an email along with the written letter as is customary, I would have had the weekend to prepare.  But since they sent it snail mail only, I got the news Saturday night and quickly arranged to get books and everything else Monday.  Fortunately, my Monday class starts late – otherwise I would be mildly hosed.  Though only mildly – people have started classes without books before.  So, my trek through academia at Wossamotta University continues, at least for the time being.

I will jest about being a neo-luddite from occasionally, but in sooth something like this would be infinitely more difficult to navigate without the Internet.

Secondly, the renaissance sword group I run with, Random Wit and Rapier Twits, had a meeting not long ago, and I took some impromptu minutes.  I’m not going to post anything dealing with Twit business here, obviously – that would be rude.  And any tips here are the kind that Twits everywhere wish more troupes would follow anyway.  But upon reviewing the notes after I posted them, I realized that perhaps I should have edited for more than just typos. 

For what follows, the fault is entirely mine.  We were discussing costuming and garb.  I swear.

Men’s garb: loose shirt with long cuff or bracer.  No Imperial entanglements, please.   

Take a second shirt, in the name of Reason!  Ideally, three: have a back-up in case of tearing.  The underarm rip leads to Nippleman issues (and his faithful side-kick, Teat-Mutt).

Kilts are for Scots or Irish only.  Wrap-around or sewn.  No regimental, please.  Bunnies are fine.  “Mommy, what’s that?”  “Just let me die.”  Represent, man.  Represent.

The codpiece is out of style by Elizabeth, but was the padded bra of Henry’s age.  Disco goldfish.  Paunch noses.  Tickle-me Cookie Monster.  Vast, vast poetic license.  Come now, are we not comedy?

Skirts are long rectangle, or the gourd skirt Triangle Man effect.  Also bum roll.  Not what it sounds like.  Tapestries better for overskirt, heavy flannels are good too, but something with weight is required.  Modern materials are fine so long as it looks good.  But whatever skirt is on your waist, have it on a waist band, not on a drawstring.  I think so, Brain, but burlap chafes me so.

Ladies with bodices require boning, some more than others.  Laces can get almost anywhere.  Stays are also possible.  Bloomers for modesty.

[Character Name]: A ruff.  Muslin?  Something cheap, as always.  White, off-white.  Because there is nothing more pompous than a bird that has swallowed a plate.

Have a belt just for your equipment: it’s all about the thickness.

No capes.  Edna Mole is God.

Gangdam style is definitely Korean, not Japanese.  Apparently this is very important. 

Love sacks are much better than they sound.

For the record, the gaff about Gangdam Style being Japanese was mine – that’s how it ended up in the notes. 

While I do not currently perform with the Twits – that would involve lots of sunshine and crowded lanes – I am there for support.  They are a very fine group, and I think they are bringing something important back to the Ren Fest scene.  And, soon enough, the world will see what that is.

Sometime again,

--Coyote.

(Sunrise picture courtesy of musicandhappiness.com; coyote maze pic courtesy of sundaycomicsdebt.blogspot.com; characters from Bloom County were created by Berke Breathed; the Twits own themselves.  All rights reserved by their rightful owners.  No narwhals were harmed in the making of this blog, but some were exposed to Twilight novels and may still be feeling disoriented and hostile.  In case of narwhal encounter, use your best judgement.)

Crimson Tapeworms, Attack!

From the email of Coyote, as of this week:

“Coyote,

I'm sorry for this news - I was able to find the email where we had asked this quesition - see below.   That seems to be what the notice you received is referring too.  I'm afraid my Financial aid knowledge is limited so I'm not sure what is going on here.

We are all back tomorrow - Wednesday.  It will be a crazy day but hopfully you can talk to someone there. 

Let me know if you have trouble connecting with them  - or also, what you find out.  I am curious.

Ms. Salvation

WU Councilor”

The question involved was my asking if a rephrasal of a rule in the SAP would be used to destroy my Financial Aid.  The new rule changed the limit from a set number of hours (72) to a percentage of the hours required to complete one's chosen program (150%), but was otherwise intact in spirit and intent.  I was over the limit previously, but my appeal regarding my old GPA had allegedly allowed me to continue regardless.  So, being the suspicious mammal that I am, I had actually asked some time ago: would such a minor change eliminate my appeal's effects completely?

The letter from Ms. Savagehenry in Financial Aid that I had received then, and which was attached to Ms. Savior's email now, indicated that, and I quote,

 “. . . while you are under an appeal approval, you cannot have any withdrawals, incompletes, or grades of F.  If the semester GPA is a 2.0 or better, then you would remain financial aid eligible as long as there were no W’s, I’s, or F’s.”

The day that the WU campus closed for winter break, they had sent out the letter that I’ve reproduced elsewhere.  Suffice to say, it said that they were taking away my Financial Aid (again), and had the gall to chide me for somehow not living up to my end of the bargain.  So the day the offices opened I was there, hacking my way through the jungle of red tape as best I could, braving their red tapeworms with my little machete. 

The Lurker Below awaits.

It is amazing just how rude people can be in an office setting.  On both sides of the desk, point of fact.  On a positive note, there were enough people pleasantly surprised by courtesy that several times I found allies when I had expected none.  On the down side, far more often I found that, time and time again, I had to be the one grown-up in a childish situation.  And through it all: here’s this slip, here’s that form, make these printouts, oh, we don’t need that, who told you to print that, and on, and on, and on.

But then, a miracle happened.

At the very end of the series of lines and forms and needless printouts, I was able to talk, not with just any councilor, but with the fine young lady who has been working with me through all this, almost since the beginning.  And if you think I was put out, Ms. Salvation was livid.

It turns out that I am allowed an appeal, because this SNAFU came from a different department than the last one.  I wasn't denied FA because of anything to do with my grades, but because, sure enough, I was over the new Federal Limit on hours.  At least this time they weren't trying to claim the rules had never changed. 

As an aside, judging by the crowds and the stress level there that day, it wasn’t the only change – and I was far from the only one being shafted.  Apparently, the Federales have been changing things around to make it harder to qualify for Federal Aid in education, to cover for the slashes they’ve been making in funding education in the first place.

Brilliant.

So, writing an appeal.  Fine.  This I can do.  Part of this appeal, however, involved writing out every single class and class designation, in order, that I will be taking throughout the rest my time at Wossamotta U. 

My councilor is magnificent, and she helped me assemble this.  Almost everything I’ve taken counts towards the base requirements for both my Associates’ degrees, so of the almost sixty hours left to qualify for a degree almost fifty hours are electives.  We chose all the remaining electives from things that would count towards my Bachelor’s degree in Psych.

“Hey, this is a really good list,” I said.  “May I make a copy of this?”

I am the death of trees.

The Lorax: not on speaking terms with Coyote since 2012.

Attached to this was my appeal letter, which more-or-less said the following:

“Good people,

From 1989 to 1992, I attended Wossamotta U strictly for the purpose of staying on my parents’ insurance.  I was suffering chronic health problems at the time, and my grades during that period reflect this.  However, that was twenty years ago.  Since my return to Wossamotta, My semester GPA has consistently been suitable for placement on the Dean’s List (above 3.5). 

After my first return semester, I was placed on Academic Probation and Financial Suspension.  My “successful” appeal removed the FS but kept me on AP, for reasons that have never been made clear.  Now, having completed my second return semester, I have been denied all Financial Aid because the number of classes taken from 1989 to 1992, when added to my recent semesters, exceeds the new SAP policy.

I therefore am asking you to allow me the next four semesters to complete my education here and gain the degrees I have chosen, becoming a Wossamotta University alumnus in good standing.

Thank you for your time and consideration in this matter,

--Coyote Kishpaugh.”

At this time, they had the rest of that day (Wednesday), Thursday, Friday, and Monday to review my case.  I was hoping my getting everything in quickly would help.  After all, I turned my paperwork in as soon as their system would allow (the 2^nd of January). 

But payments in full are due on Monday the 7^th.  Five days is not a long time in an office, especially when they span a weekend.

The next day, Thursday, I received the following email.  While I had sent the previous letter some time ago, she no doubt gets a lot of letters, and she had been on vacation.

“Good morning,

As you probably know, our office has been a bit crazy busy since we opened this week.  I was not able to get to this email any earlier and for that I apologize. I see that you have turned in your SAP appeal for exceeding the maximum time frame allowed.  The appeal will be reviewed within a few weeks, and if approved, your financial aid award will be reinstated.  The maximum time frame is a federal regulation that all schools are required to follow.

I also want to let you know that due to the appeal, your financial aid award has been cancelled.  The payment deadline is Monday, Jan. 7, at 5 pm.  If you do not pay your tuition in full or sign up for the payment plan, then your classes would most likely be dropped for non-payment that evening.  If that happens, you can register again starting at 12.01 am on the 8^th.  I do hope that you are able to make arrangements so your classes won’t be dropped, or if they are, enroll again as soon as possible.

Contact me if you have questions.

Sincerely,

Marsha Savagehenry

Wossamotta University

Financial Aid Counselor”

This brings us to their Payment Plan.  I have no money even for that.  I considered arranging to be on it anyway, since first payment is well after I would have access to my Student Loans.  And, assuming that my appeal went through and was approved, that would allow me to keep my classes.  Contrariwise, if they ruled against me I’d be stuck with a college bill I couldn't pay, and cast out into the bargain.  And that would affect every form of reputation that this kind of nonsense revolves around.

"It's a sure thing, doll.  What could go wrong?"

Any gamble where you risk more than you can afford to lose, or risk any major loss based on a bureaucrat’s whims, is a Bad Gamble.  This plan would qualify under both definitions.  No payment arrangements for me, thank you.

So, right after midnight tonight, I’m re-enrolling in my classes as best as I can.  Apparently, since Financial Aid payments hit around the time classes start, that will buy me more time.  If they’re all full, perhaps I can at least find something on my previously mentioned class list, cleverly photocopied for just such an emergency. 

In the event that some chowderhead does in fact deny my Financial Aid, I’ll be spending the next few months looking into other means of paying for upcoming semesters.  Last year I couldn't get any scholarships because of their Academic Probation nonsense, and this year may be the same.  On the other hand, maybe not.  And if all else fails, there are jobs that might hire me, and other campuses I could try. 

Just because the world tells you to stop, doesn't mean that you should.

Sometime Again,

--Coyote.

(Tapeworm pics courtsey of grandmasherbs.com, rosarubicondior.blogspot.com; paperwork picture courtesy of aloneintripoli.blogspot.com;  protest picture courtsey of obrag.org; the Lorax was created by Dr. Seuss long before environmentalism was cool; Guys and Dolls photo is courtesy of tikiloungetalk.com; and Don Quixote was created by Cervantes but the picture is courtesy of donquijote.cc.  All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them, inclusion here is not an attempt to infringe on the rights of anyone.)

The Lioness' Return with Bells

Greetings, all.  I hope that you and your families are all well this fine festival season.  The Lioness has been back for the holidays for about a week now, and she brought with her the gentleman she’s been seeing.

Actually, he seems a fine fellow.  However, as her adventure in Georgia didn't pan out quite as well as she’d hoped (aside from him), it seems that the Lioness will be staying in Kansas after he goes back, preparing for his eventual move here.

Which, of course, presented the inevitable problem: where the devil do we put these people?

Fortunately, I had a scheme.  Well, actually it started out as the Laughing Mouse’s plan, and then I schemed it.  A little.

Now, you might think this would be a simple matter.  Just have the Lioness move back in to her old room, and bunk with the Wolf Cub who owns it now.  After all, sisters share space all the time, right?  However, if this had even for an instant seemed like a reasonable idea . . .

. . . you plainly don’t know the Wolf Cub in my house.  

So, this plainly called an agonizing reappraisal.

Reconstruction, carefully done.

With great precision. 

Just a small adjustment, really.

And then, viola!  New Lioness room!

At least, that’s the idea.  In the meantime, she and her gent (there is no suitably masculine equivalent in this context for “lady,” have you ever noticed?) are sharing the Transformer Couch.  It’s a work in progress.

Remember: Optimus Prime died for your sins.

In other news, no, I have not heard anything back about my Financial Aid.  Looking at when the message was sent, and when they went on vacation, mine would have been in the last batch of letters sent out as they turned out the lights and left for the holidays.  They’ll be back five days before all payments are due.  So even if I can get this straightened out in a week: hail and farewell, Spring Semester.

Still, it’s been a good holiday.  Lord of the Rings is just as stellar as it has been every year, everyone seems to like the Lioness’ beau, and the Tigress and the Raven have been enjoying immensely seeing their oldest so very happy.  And, rest assured, so have I.

Sometime again,

--Coyote.

(All Lion King characters are (c) Walt Disney Studios; phone booth photo courtesy of securedgenetworks.com; Wile E. Coyote is (c) WB productions; the growling wolf pic is courtesy of fanpop.com; wrecking ball image courtesy of Wikipedia; Transformers are (c) Hasbro; books flying away photo courtesy of powerupwhatworks.com; final pic courtesy of wallspapercraft.com.  All righte reserved by those who reserve them.)