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Sunday, July 4, 2010

Up with the breeze on Sunday morning

I have indeed stolen the title of this blog from No Doubt's song Sunday Morning:

I am up early this morning getting some course work done.  I had to write an account of early childhood programmes and their relevance.  I'm stuck on this module for ages but hoping to accelerate into progress this week.  The main curriculums implented in early childhood education are Froebel, Montessori and Highscope.  I know Montessori theory well but I've found Froebel interesting.  A quote of his:

"Nothing comes without a struggle. Strife creates nothing by itself, it only clears the air. New seeds must be planted to germinate and grow, if we will have the tree of humanity blossom . . . We cannot tear the present from the past or from the future. Past, present, and future are the Trinity of time. In the children lies the seed-corn of the future!"

I love this concept of how time is a trinity that cannot be separated.  I wrote a short story about this some time ago.  This story needs more work but I do believe in the merit of it. 

The Highscope curriculum was devised by David Weikart in the 1960's.  A chief characteristic of this method is a review session where children are encouraged to discuss and share what they have learned through concrete experience.  Of course this mention of the 1960's lead me to taking out my Beat poetry book where I found a poem by Gregory Corso called Writ on the Eve of My 32nd Birthday.

Writ on the Eve of My 32nd Birthday

a slow thoughtful spontaneous poem

I am 32 years old
and finally I look my age, if not more.
Is it a good face what’s no more a boy’s face?
It seems fatter. And my hair,
it’s stopped being curly. Is my nose big?
The lips are the same.
And the eyes, ah the eyes get better all the time.
32 and no wife, no baby; no baby hurts,
but there’s lots of time.
I don’t act silly any more.

And because of it I have to hear from so-called friends:
“You’ve changed. You used to be so crazy so great.”
They are not comfortable with me when I’m serious.
Let them go to the Radio City Music Hall.
32; saw all of Europe, met millions of people;
was great for some, terrible for others.
I remember my 31st year when I cried:
"To think I may have to go another 31 years!”
I don’t feel that way this birthday.
I feel I want to be wise with white hair in a tall library
in a deep chair by a fireplace.
Another year in which I stole nothing.
8 years now and haven’t stole a thing!
I stopped stealing!
But I still lie at times,
and still am shameless yet ashamed when it comes
to asking for money.
32 years old and four hard real funny sad bad wonderful
books of poetry
—the world owes me a million dollars.

I think I had a pretty weird 32 years.
And it weren’t up to me, none of it.
No choice of two roads; if there were,
I don’t doubt I’d have chosen both.
I like to think chance had it I play the bell.
The clue, perhaps, is in my unabashed declaration:
“I’m good example there’s such a thing as called soul.”
I love poetry because it makes me love
and presents me life.
And of all the fires that die in me,
there’s one burns like the sun;
it might not make day my personal life,

my association with people,
or my behavior toward society,
but it does tell me my soul has a shadow.

The rain has been wonderfully blurring my bedroom window for the last couple of hours and judging from grey skies there could be a day of rain ahead.  My niece is being christened at 12 o'clock and I'm looking forward to the occasion.  Reading the Beat poets makes me want to write more spontaneously and to write about the everyday events in life.  Every second we live is precious afterall.

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