My insomnia has been awful lately and as I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep a couple of days ago, a strange series of events concerning an old teacher popped into my head. Here is that thought turned into a “story”.

A week before summer break I was pulled into a conversation held by a group of nervous 4th graders to discuss the three teachers who taught fifth grade. None of us knew what teacher we would be assigned to next year (that information was sent to us in mid to late August along with out school supplies and uniform list—-that’s right! Yours truly went to a uniform school from K-6 and I hate to admit that I kind loved it…) and as we sat speculating on the chances of being put into each class, we agreed that no one wanted to be in Mrs. H.’s class.

All year long we’d heard the angry yells and threats erupting from her room, and on more than one occasion teachers had actually stepped away from their own classrooms to tell Mrs. H. and her students to “quiet down”. Whenever this happened a polite apology would be made by Mrs. H, followed by a stupid chorus of her annoying students, and the noise would subside for a couple of minutes…until her screams broke through the stillness of the halls yet again and our teachers were forced to keep our doors shut.

Each time this happened the students and teachers who shared the same hallway as her would talk; in the classrooms, at lunch and on the playground, and despite threats from the principal and other teachers against Mrs. H.’s students no one seemed to care, and nothing ever changed. The yells and threats would continue day after day, week after week, and even the threat (and sometimes actual punishment) of not going to recess did nothing to help.

So, when the end of August came around and it was time for me to find out who my teacher was…well you can only imagine how scared I was when I found out I’d been put in Mrs. H.’s class. For the rest of the summer, I tossed and turned at night, trying to imagine spending an entire year hearing her yells first-hand, despite (most likely) not having done anything to earn them. Mrs. H. was strict. She was a no-nonsense kind of teacher and she always meant business. She never let anything slide and going into her class meant spending an entire year receiving dirty looks from the entire 4th grade wing and the other two fifth grade classrooms.

“If you behave and mind your business, she won’t have anything to yell at you for,” my mother said. “If you behave and are polite, then everything will be okay; and if she ever does yell at you—whether you did something or not—let me know. I don’t send you to school to be yelled at.”

And with a big sigh I would always rebuke my mother’s warnings and advice by saying “WHAT IF?”

What if she yelled at me for something I didn’t do? What was I supposed to do if she yelled to the class all the time? What if I went deaf? What if she was a horrible teacher? **What if she punished me for something the class didn’t do? What if she decided not to take us out to recess? What if, what if, what if….On and on it went until the first day of school arrived. The endless what ifs grew and became more terrifying as September approached and on my first day, as my mother shook my shoulders to wake me up I sighed, unhappy—for the very first time in my life—to be heading off to a brand new school year.

With a heavy heart and an even heavier backpack full of awesome new school supplies I got up, put my uniform on, had breakfast and got on the bus. The entire ride to school I pondered over what I would do if she DID yell at me. I’d been in trouble before but nothing bad had come out of it because I was ALWAYS right, and if she tried anything…boy o boy would I let her have it! My dragon of a mother would march into school, put her and the principal in their place and then—then Mrs. H. turned out to be really fucking cool.

As I walked into my new classroom, a warm and friendly Mrs. H. smiled down at me, officially welcoming me into her classroom. With a hearty wave she pointed to a table near her desk and told me to find my seat, nodding politely in my direction when I sat down. As more and more students arrived, I couldn’t help but wonder why any of them looked so happy and comfortable. Did they not realize what she was doing? Her friendliness was a trick, and soon enough someone would get up to sharpen their pencil, or they would sneeze too loud, or their water bottle would make too much noise, and BOOM! Her chest would pull out the first of the many screams we were certainly going to receive throughout the rest of the year.

[Interlude II: I know the bits above may seem dumb and redundant, and if you have made it this far then thank you! I promise I am almost done with this bit, and I will promptly move on to the next thing. Just give me a chance…pretty please?]

But the yells and screams never came. Well, they did, but they were seldom and very well-deserved. I always behaved impeccably (yes, I was a teacher’s pet), and whenever Mrs. H did yell it was, in my opinion and perhaps yours, too, whenever someone was stupidly and unbelievably bad. I remember clearly when one of my classmates stole a wiener sausage from the lunchroom and for the rest of the afternoon spent the day tormenting the girls in class by asking if we’d be interested in sucking his “wiener”. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

[Aside: why are (some) boys like this? I don’t understand…I just don’t, and the fact he didn’t think anything was wrong with what he’d done made it even worse…ugh; the stories I could (and will) tell you about the boys and “men” I’ve come across…but more on that later.]

When Mrs. H. caught him wiggling the stupid wiener sausage in front of a girl, she went bat shit crazy and her screams were so loud a few of my classmates actually covered their ears to drown out the noise. A suspension was made and when he returned, he was forced to apologize to every single girl in the classroom for being disrespectful. He obviously didn’t mean a single word that came out of his mouth and the following day he had the audacity to bring ANOTHER wiener from home and do the same thing. A week long suspension ensued (I think) and when he finally came back, he stopped harassing the girls in the class for good. He had a bruise on his arm and near his left eye…I’ll let you imagine the rest if you’d like…

(But back to Mrs. H!)

Things in Mrs. H.’s class were always like that. She never yelled unless she had to, and when she did it didn’t last (usually) for too long. And as the days and then weeks and then months went by, our class found itself liking Mrs. H. (reluctantly). Unlike other teachers I’d had before she didn’t hold grudges for long, and she always made a point to apologize to the class when someone was being disruptive. We made an effort (or perhaps were not as rowdy as I’d expected us to be) to not misbehave, and in what seemed like a drastic change from her previous class, she seemed to take a special liking to us.

And then one day, after a couple of months had passed and we’d gotten used to Mrs. H., she sat us down and told us she was leaving. She had applied to be the head teacher of the gifted/talented students at another school and her application had been accepted. She was leaving in about a month or two (I honestly don’t remember, sorry!) and a new teacher, named Ms. J. Snyder, was coming in. Ms. Snyder, according to Mrs. H., had a PhD. and she was very smart. She was very eager to meet us, and she was sure we’d be really good students for her.

[Interlude III: Not that this matters to the overall story, but I have to get this off my chest. Ms. Snyder was, without a doubt, the WORST teacher I’ve ever had. If incompetence and stupidity were a person she is (I am assuming she is still alive), without question, the textbook, thesaurus, dictionary and slang definition of “it.” I sincerely hope she is no longer teaching, and if she is, God help those poor children…]

(Anyways…)

A note was sent in our backpacks that same day and parents were invited to discuss with Mrs. H. and the principal any questions, comments, or concerns they had regarding “the transition”. I honestly don’t know why they made such a big deal out of it. We could have had a pizza party to send her off and then have left it at that BUT NO! Oh, no, my dear stranger! Tears were shed, several parties were held, and after a quick meeting with Ms. Snyder the day finally came. Mrs. H. left our fifth grade classroom and we never saw her again.

[Interlude IV: I just remembered that she DID show up at our 6th grade graduation and that barely anyone remembered her name. Why were our memories so shit regarding who she was if she was such a great teacher? Anyways….]

Ms. Snyder showed up the next day and that’s basically when our fifth grade year went down the toilet, over and under every drain and sewage system in America and finally, after it had collected every single Pokemon card in existence, dumped our education NOT in the ocean—nay nay!, but in the deepest, darkest, smelliest, and filthiest circle of Hell itself. She was mostly friendly, I’ll give her that, but she was a horrible teacher and unlike Mrs. H., who could get our class to do anything with a wave of her hand or a single glance, she had to resort to yelling and screaming to get us to do LITERALLY ANYTHING.

Nothing she said or did worked and my classmates, sensing her weakness, pounced on her like hungry hyenas. Meetings would be held during recess, discussing ways in which to make her life miserable; and no matter how hard she tried no one—not even the teachers—warmed up to her.

On several occasions she brought her children and fiancé to class in order to do story time (WTF?!) and sometimes, if we’d spent the entire morning “behaving” (this meant she’d only yelled once or twice throughout the morning) she’d let us skip math lessons in order to wander around the hallways in small groups, use computers to play games on the internet, eat snacks and watch movies, and a whole bunch of other useless crap that was not helping our education.

Now at this point you may be wondering why. Why did we hate her so much if she seemed to be every child’s dream teacher? Well, stranger it was because she didn’t teach. At all. She would try to avoid lessons the same way a cat avoids water and whenever she DID happen to teach the class she’d end up frustrated and angry because NO ONE knew what to do. But honestly what did she expect? She was never consistent with our education and because she didn’t assign homework and/or allow us more than a day or two on each concept we didn’t understand anything.

Teachers would talk about how misbehaved and academically behind we were and more than once (sorry for overusing this expression but it’s the only one that’s coming to mind at this point) they’d make snide comments about her lack of teaching and control over our class.

Mrs. H., despite her “faults”, had been a very good teacher and under her attentive eye we’d actually been AHEAD of the other fifth grade classes in math, science, history, and reading. Everyone in class, even the kids who struggled, hated her guts because she was making all of us fall behind.

I suppose I should have explained that bit earlier, but I didn’t know how. We didn’t hate Ms. Snyder because of who she was (although we resented her a little for taking Mrs. H.’s place), but because of how EXTREMELY laid back and careless she was. When other teachers talk both openly and behind your back about your teaching style and your students GO TO THE PRINCIPAL (and in my case talk to their parents) to complain about not learning anything…that’s a problem. And it is a pretty big one.

Things got so bad the principal had to go to our class one day to talk to us, and when we OPENLY complained about not learning anything the principal had the nerve to take Ms. Snyder’s side and completely gaslight us by saying that WE had to pay more attention in class if we wanted to do well.

I don’t know whether any of the other teachers talked to the principal afterwards to back up our claims, but when several parents (mine included) went to the school to complain about us falling behind Ms. Snyder finally changed her tune. She yelled less and was more “consistent” with our teaching, but by then it was too late. Our state exams had come and gone and barely any of us had managed to scrape by. The only consolation rested in the idea that she would no longer be our teacher and that sixth grade would hopefully bring a normal teacher who truly cared about our education.

And then we found out.

[Interlude V: When I enrolled at R.E.W.S.S.O.E., home of the teddy bears (yep!, a teddy bear was our school mascot; students voted and that one won), the only grades they offered were K-3. By the time I reached the third grade the powers that be had unanimously decided to expand a grade year as our current class moved on, so that eventually the school would be able to offer a standard K-6 curriculum.]

As the end of the year approached, we found out that the SAME teacher we had “THIS” year would ALSO be out sixth grade teacher. And because this story is already way too fucking long, I’m gonna recap the rest of what happened in a few short sentences.

I requested a classroom change about a week before classes began (a meeting was held, and I put Ms. Snyder on blast for being a horrible teacher) and I was swiftly moved to Mr. Smith’s class. To this day he is still one of the coolest teachers I’ve ever had, and I still have very fond memories of him. He was a total sweetheart, very kind and knowledgeable, and he gave me one of the most valuable pieces of advice I’ve ever heard in my life.

Ugh. I did not mean for this story to finish this way, but I don’t know what else to do with it. In reality (and in the beginning, as I was writing it) the true purpose of whatever the heck this has become was to try to understand why Ms. Snyder thought that telling us that her ex-husband was gay and had married her only for appearance’s sake would get us to like her.

That’s it.

That was supposed to be where the story, but halfway through it felt strange to explain that particular moment in time in extensive length. To this day I don’t know why she decided to reveal such a painful part of her life, and despite thinking long and hard about it these past couple of days, I still have no clue.

One day, out of the blue, she sat us down after recess and thought that it would be a good idea to share something incredibly personal about her life—and that the class would respond with something other than an awkward silence followed by uncontrollable laughter. Was she lonely? Is that why she had decided to tell us? Or was it something else? Something I’m not old enough to understand? I don’t know. I really don’t, and before I continue repeating myself, I’m going to call it quits.

If you made it this far thank you and congratulations. I appreciate you taking the time to read my wild and often incoherent tangents, and I want you to know that I respect and value your time. It’s mine that I need to learn to appreciate a little more.

Godspeed.

C. W.

“I wasn't even taking my time to think, is there even a time for me to stop? I have too much on my plate now.

And you were right; all the things that you mentioned, were. But then I have no right answers to your questions.

Can't a situation change? Shouldn't people change? Doesn't time come and go? Isn't life keeps on living?

Should an opinion could never be wrong, and feelings could never be predicted, then what's the point of reasoning for something we know we can't agree with?”

---

Let it be left hanging on read. Oct, 2021.

#000783 – 20 de Outubro de 2021

Jam session em que toquei baixo pela primeira vez. Silêncio como tela de argila, ou mar. Trio de cordas e bateria, a faiscar na noite miguelense. O tempo voa, quando tudo é perfeito.

When I was in France earlier this month, I travelled by train from Pau to Paris. It took only four hours, and seemed comparable to the Japanese bullet trains. The train was elegant and comfortable, and I could not even tell that it was going so fast, until I tried to take photos of the passing scenery, and each photo was a blur.

Here in the Anthropocene, it is absurd that such trains are not the international standard. They would make a major difference to the carbon footprint of America, but there is no governmental discussion of such a measure. Nor is it likely to happen in Scotland, as the UK becomes Western Europe’s only “developing country” as a result of Brexit.

#FrenchHighSpeedRail #ClimateCrisis #GlobalHeating #anthropocene #ScottishBlogs

When your loved ones can’t, please help them care for their companion animals.

Dogs, for those who love them, are an important, integral part of our lives. I know I can’t live without them. When I’m old, I’ll need them more than ever and it is my hope that my son, or whoever becomes my care-taker in my old age, will help me keep the dog that’s right for me. And by “keep the dog that’s right for me”, I mean keep the dog that’s right for me safe and healthy.

My current foster is Luke.

He’s pretty cute, right? I’m his vacation foster because he’s bitten one of his caretakers, and the one he’s most bonded with needs to leave town for a few days. So Luke, Max, and I will hang out for a few days getting to know one another.

After just 24 hours, here’s what I know about Luke:

He has a collapsed trachea. A common problem for chihuahuas and similar small breeds. Well done, Selective Breeding! Well done! A collapsed trachea means that Luke leads a fairly miserable life, pacing around chuffing and horking up the water he’s just drunk. He sounds like a seal.

He’s missing his person. I feel it in my bones. He doesn’t trust me enough to let me massage him under his collar, but he does nestle next to my feet when I’m still. And he sleeps in whichever room Max is in.

He needs five different medications that I can’t convince him to take. I don’t know what they’re for. We didn’t talk about it when his real foster dropped him off. But how many of his issues could have been avoided if Luke had enjoyed regular vet care? If someone was paying attention to whether or not he was receiving adequate nutrition and exercise?

Luke bites. He’s getting better, but this tells us that he was not well-socialized. And now the person he was devoted to is gone. Luke misses his person and knows no one else. His trust is hard-earned and tenuous thus far.

After his person passed, with no plan for Luke’s care, he went to animal control where he languished for four months. Until Lucky 13 Rescue pulled him into their foster program.

I know Luke will recover. I’m already seeing glimmers of his personality beyond the fear, distrust, and physical challenges. He loves walks (strolls to Max and me). He’s gaining confidence and has just curled up in a bed, rather than his crate. He loves meatballs, and other snacks he’s never discovered a pill in (he’s discovered a pill in everything). He’s bitey, so I’m not yet ready to lift him on the sofa to snuggle, but he craves closeness. When I sit on the floor he nestles and nudges when I stop petting.

If you, or someone you love, can open your heart and home to a lonely little guy, you know what to do. Apply at www.lucky13rescue.org. With time, Luke will be a little love sponge.

Can’t take Luke on? We get it. Instead, check in with your family who may need a reminder about their faithful companions next checkup.

I was angry for a long time.

I was scared for even longer.

I pushed people away. While I was hurting, I hurt others.

I wrote about my fears here. I lashed out, as honestly as I could.

I'm not sorry for anything I wrote. I'm not sorry for how I felt.

I'm processing.

In presenting more myself and feeling more myself, I found people didn't care.

They didn't care from a place of hate. They didn't care from a place of ignorance.

People didn't care because I never told them how I felt. I never let myself open up to be vulnerable.

I mean, there are a lot of people that think I'm going to hell for one reason or another. And there are a lot of people that think I'm the most spiritually grounded person they've ever met.

I'm a spectrum.

We all deserve the right to be ourselves. That's why I'm supporting the walk out today.

If you're mad about something, don't stay mad.

You'll hurt yourself, then others.

Just be honest with who you really are.

Blessed be.

---

Let's make no mistake about this: The American Dream starts with the neighborhoods. If we wish to rebuild our cities, we must first rebuild our neighborhoods. And to do that, we must understand that the quality of life is more important than the standard of living. To sit on the front steps—whether it's a veranda in a small town or a concrete stoop in a big city—and to talk to our neighborhoods is infinitely more important than to huddle on the living-room lounger and watch a make-believe world in not-quite living color.

And I hardly need to tell you that in the 19- or 24-inch [10-foot] view of the world, cleanliness has long since eclipsed godliness. Soon we'll all smell, look, and actually be laboratory clean, as sterile on the inside as on the out. The perfect consumer, surrounded by the latest appliances. The perfect audience, with a ringside seat to almost any event in the world, without smell, without taste, without feel—alone and unhappy in the vast wasteland of our living rooms. I think that what we actually need, of course, is a little more dirt on the seat of our pants as we sit on the front stoop and talk to our neighbors once again, enjoying the type of summer day where the smell of garlic travels slightly faster than the speed of sound.

— Harvey Milk

It's been 10 months since my last spewing of thoughts to figurative paper. I'm mostly done with venting. Nothing's really changed. I mean, he got laid off a few months ago — so that's been fun. Covid's still lingering. He's older and wasn't able to find a similar job right away. So, he's now doing some time in retail, but that's barely contributing. And I'm trying to stay supportive. He's always been a bit fragile (medically and emotionally). And we're still legally tied. The goal of finalizing things has been delayed by the layoff. The reasoning... worst case, I can add him to my insurance — and I feel obligated to keep that option available. Plus, I don't think I can get money out of the house (to share some of the equity built when we were together) without having his monetary contributions coming in to show I can pay all the bills. What a drawn out, pain in the ass this has become.

But, on the flip side, this summer, I chose to do some things I used to do. Things that I curbed or inhibited. Or simply gave up. For almost 20 years. When I was more focused on the family unit, than I was on myself. Marriage (or just a committed partnership) is often a compromise. But I think most people don't realize how much, until they're on the other side of it. This isn't a shocking revelation. But going through it was more peaceful and liberating than I'd anticipated. I don't know how many people bemoan the ending of their relationship vs. celebrate it. And I don't mean in a vengeful, but cathartic “burn all his shit” type of way. Bad example? I could see that going either way... But it's like I've stopped taking the pain killers that dulled all my senses — not just the pain. It's so draining to feel like I'm constantly tamping down my thoughts, my wants, my breathing. And again, as I type this, I realize I did not have it bad. There was no abuse. I could have left earlier. Though, there might have been more financial ruin. But still. So, I know this is a lot of privileged complaining. But... my form of therapy. And this summer's complementary therapy? Music. And seeing new places — even those close by.

I started with treating myself to a birthday gift of going to a small folk festival in the next town over. I've always liked music. I have zero musical talent. But I think that's part of it — I'm always so impressed by others and what they can do. And I used to go to a fair amount of shows on my own. Nothing crazy — but it was always a release. It's when I turned my brain off. Sleep doesn't do that. Reading sometimes does. But music? Always. I think I just put that together as I type this. I have an almost incessant inner monologue. That I recently read that not everyone has — I'd always thought everyone did. It's not often silent. And even though my ex may have thought he needed a break from me. I think my need of a break from me trumped his. And I wasn't getting that nearly enough. As I withdrew from the marriage, that voice grew, compounding the issues. A lyric from a song I've heard recently says something about a wife being as cold as a Monday. That was me. Each lie caused me to just turn colder, and my inner voice grew, filling the silence that permeated the relationship.

So, that day, I spent the whole time hanging out in a field, listening to different bands. No kid begging me to leave. No spouse rolling his eyes and making fun of the music or the people. No one TALKING through everything. It was amazing. The music was great — but just being there, and being able to feel like I was allowed to enjoy it and bathe in it. It had been too long. So, I started checking out some of the bands I saw, and some others I'd seen online. Instead of making plans “if nothing else comes up,” I chose to make plans around the music and the destinations where they were happening. I went on hikes in towns nearby before ending the day, listening to live music. I saw new places that are close, but not that close. And it was great for dipping my toe into the covid-infused air, but not feeling like I was taking any real risks. If I had no kid, I'm sure I'd take more risks. But each time I consider it, I wonder what would happen to him if I got really sick, or didn't make it. I know, statistically, I'd probably be fine. But I just can't get past the guilt that would haunt me the moment I got sick, if my toss of the dice did me in.

But this leads me to my current distraction...

Nara (12)

Vers la France…

Prendre des cours de français… C'était un sacré programme pour une fille qui n'était plus jamais allé à l'école depuis l'âge de 15 ans, ce qui n'était pas rien, mais, après tout je parlais assez bien l'Anglais, ça devait aider, déjà je lisais couramment les romaji. Mes amies et amis ont été tout de suite partants pour me trouver ça, ils étaient enthousiastes à l'idée que j'allais devenir française, même si moi je n'y croyais pas vraiment. Keiko, forcément n'était pas enthousiasmée du tout, la perspective de notre séparation ne l'enchantait pas plus que moi. En fait, nous étions assez déprimées l'une et l'autre, nos nuits étaient plus fréquentes mais beaucoup moins joyeuses qu'auparavant. Assez vite je trouvai un cours accéléré de français par un professeur très très très diplômé ce qui justifiait semble-t-il un prix très très élevé. Je n'avais pas beaucoup de choix, il me faudrait trouver davantage d'extras au club pour dames, ça devrait pouvoir marcher.

L'apprentissage des langues étrangères au Japon ne diffère pas de ce qui se pratique dans toute l'Asie : On apprend TOUT par cœur, toutes les règles de grammaire avec les exceptions, en français c'est charmant, toutes les conjugaisons 1^er groupe, 2^e groupe, 3^e groupe, verbes irréguliers, vous connaissez vous êtes français, les règles d'accord, être et avoir, les pluriels, choux hiboux genoux, etc. etc. etc. J'ingurgitais comme un personnage de Rabelais, je me goinfrais, les dieux et mes ancêtres m'ont heureusement dotée d'une très bonne mémoire, et ça n'était pas de trop.

Donc, au bout de 4 mois je savais lire, c'est un fait, et ma connaissance de l'Anglais m'a énormément aidée. Je me rendrai compte immédiatement en arrivant à Roissy-en-France qu'une chose avait été gravement négligée : je ne comprenais absolument rien de ce qu'on me disait et personne ne comprenait la bouillie qui sortait de ma gorge. « Mais ceci est une autre histoire »

Je ne recevais plus aucune nouvelle de ma famille, j'avais cru 2 mois durant qu'ils m'avaient oubliée. Septembre et octobre s'étaient passés dans cette ambiance bizarre, nuits dans un bar à parler anglo-américain avec des femmes esseulées qui souvent s'intéressaient plus à mon physique qu'à mon esprit, amours désolées avec Keiko, répétition sans fin des mais où et donc or ni car et autres rengaines prononcées de manière totalement fantaisiste cependant que je croyais que c'était du pur parisien.

Et puis un midi le facteur me livre un recommandé, que je signe comme il se doit de mon joli hanko. Mon passeport, une carte d'identité tous neufs, mes certificats, acte de naissance et que sais-je un dossier complet : J'ÉTAIS DEVENUE FRANÇAISE sans avoir à bouger un doigt, j'étais domiciliée à l'ambassade de France à Tôkyô je sais pas trop pourquoi, j'ai jamais cherché à savoir. Il paraît que la procédure avait été extrêmement rapide, un record…

Je craignais que le temps joue contre moi, j'ai donc mis les bouchées doubles pour mes cours. J'ignorais qu'acheter un logement à Paris, aussi petit soit-il (32 m carrés, en fait) prend au moins 3 mois et que c'est incompressible même quand on s'appelle (…) et que le prix compte assez peu, parce que bien sûr on va y loger une fille indigne, une petite putain dévergondée aux mœurs douteuses mais c'est aussi un investissement à terme. Et finalement je reçus mes clés, ma nouvelle adresse et la paperasse nécessaire pour l'électricité et tout le tralala seulement fin décembre. Par la même voie on me fit savoir que ma place aller-simple dans le Tôkyô-Paris avec escale et en économique (ça, exprès pour bien me faire savoir que je n'étais qu'un rebut, pas une voyageuse respectable) était réservée dans un vol prévu pour la fin de Janvier 2019. Ça me laissait 1 mois pour faire mes adieux. Ce fut un mois difficile et déprimant pour Keiko et moi, le jour ou je montais dans le train pour Tôkyô nous pleurions « les larmes amères des amants séparés à jamais », les amies et amis venus me dire adieu n'étaient pas plus réjouis, je leur confiai en larmes celle qui fut mon premier amour, nous nous promettions d'écrire et tout ce qu'on veut, bien sûr, et puis le train est parti, moi dedans triste comme un arbre mourant, eux dehors que je n'ai jamais revus.

Et adieu Nara.

Ensuite commence un autre récit qui s'écrit chaque jour, l'histoire d'une jeune femme venue toute seule d'Asie, parfois comique, parfois dramatique, souvent tendre par la grâce de l'amour et de l'amitié, dont je suis curieuse de connaître la suite, curieuse de voir ce que demain apportera.

The Cab are masters of pop rock. Like the band Parachute, they specialize in making these melodic and very clean sounding pop rock tracks.

Now it's time to leave the lights And hope that the future is just as bright Please think of me back home I'm so, I'm so close And even though I'm so far gone Know that I've grown With one last song A piece of me to hold So, so close We are so, so close ♪ ♫ ♪

#TheCab

Acabo de ver el documental en Netflix sobre los eventos de la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Sobre la mesa, se colocan las decisiones éticas o no, para la matanza de millones de seres humanos.

El bombardeo en Dresden, en Tokio, Nagasaki e Hiroshima, quedan en el olvido, pero no creo que hayan sido decisiones éticas. Lo moral o ético, siempre conduce a caminos más lentos de solución, que a la postre cobra igual número de vidas.

El exterminio de millones de judíos en los campos de concentración nazi, tampoco fue ético, fue claramente, obras del mal. Sin embargo, la historia siempre la interpreta el vencedor. Se conoce mucho más de los campos de exterminio que las muertes por los bombardeos aliados. La guerra no ennoblece a nadie, los valores éticos sobran.

Nadie conoce de los católicos que murieron en Nagasaki, ni de la población calcinada horriblemente.

Hay alrededor de 15,000 bombas nucleares actualmente, que detonadas juntas harían explotar el planeta. ¿Será ético mantenerlas en las bodegas ?El equilibrio militar depende del número de bombas en resguardo. Estas bombas son las monedas que compran la estabilidad del planeta, hasta que surja una nueva moneda que sea más potente y novedosa, que rompa el balance militar.

These valleys That we tread both far and wide These lost moments between steps and breathe How we lose so much time How the trees become superficial When walking by Fading, one into the next

Memories are like that after seeing so much of the same they blend together and some fade until I don't remember them at all

How much have I forgot

#poetry

I remember when Matt Mullenweg first announced the Gutenberg editor for WordPress, there were a slew of review posts (many critical). I have been largely quiet on the matter, as I have always felt that time was needed to give it a chance to fully develop.

When I heard news that the classic editor in WordPress was going to be replaced, I was pretty happy about it. Truth be told, the classic editor was so dated it was becoming embarrassing. While once a class leader, by 2018 it was more enjoyable to write in a Google Doc.

WordPress was ready for an upgrade. While I knew it would mean a lot of work for my developers to update LearnDash accordingly, I was pleased with the direction Matt and the WordPress core team were taking to remain competitive (and to keep their investors happy).

What I didn’t expect was a complete shift from the typical WordPress value proposition.

In my ignorance, I thought that the updated experience would focus on making a killer writing experience for bloggers. Something like Medium or Substack, but better. Something done the “WordPress way” that helped writers bring their words to life on the world’s greatest CMS.

What we got was something in-between a page builder and writing tool, and as of the date of this article, it’s not a class leader in either category.

You can’t be two things at once, at least not very well. Yet, this is what we have with the Gutenberg editor.

From Day 1, Gutenberg was sold to us as a front-end page builder.

First, it was pretty apparent to everyone that it was nothing close to a front-end builder. Like, not at all.

That was a mistake, and I think the core team realized it afterwards. Since then, corporate has changed that terminology slightly to “full-site editing”, and it has caught on. This is probably for the best, as there is nothing front-end about Gutenberg, but it still conveys a similar value proposition to users.

But not only were we promised a site builder, we were also told that the new editor experience was an excellent writing tool. It was clear to all of us in attendance during its unveiling that Gutenberg was definitely not that, either.

I was okay with this at the time because everything was new. It has been years since then, and Gutenberg has come a long way (in particular as a page builder). I have seen folks create some pretty attractive websites using it. I particularly think that Kadence does an impressive job with their layouts. Websites using Gutenberg also load very fast, which is of critical importance.

But I feel that these page building developments have come at a cost: the writing experience in the Gutenberg editor is pretty bad. Is it the worst thing out there? No. It’s sufficient, but its performance largely depends on your site and the number of plugins you may have installed.

Now, I know of regular bloggers who think it’s somewhat enjoyable. While that’s great, I have to ask: is the writing experience actually better than platforms such as Medium and Substack?

I put out a tweet about how I felt Matt’s Gutenberg editor was positioned more as a page builder, and not for writing. I received some replies from folks who said they have grown to appreciate it, like this one from my friend Alex:

https://twitter.com/AlexStandiford/status/1431634045167824899

This seems to be the prevailing sentiment. The experience is something that you get used to using. Though, I am not certain if that's the tagline WordPress would want to use:

“Writing in WordPress: you'll get used to it!”

The lack-luster writing experience is what gets to me the most. So much so that I don’t even bother using WordPress for this blog. I use WriteFreely instead, another open-source software but with an emphasis on writing and simplicity (I have a deep-dive article that I am finishing related to this. If you’re interested, subscribe at the end of this post to get notified).

All of this said, I always recommend WordPress to people looking to build a business that relies upon organic traffic from Google. And as a CMS, WordPress can’t be beat! You can create super advanced functionality without any code.

So, what is the real plan here?

I have to believe that there is a long-term plan with the editor experience that we are not privy to in the WordPress community. This feels especially true given the large amount of investment to come Automattic’s way in recent years. But to be fair, long-term plans are never shared from corporate. Two and three-year plans maybe, but not five to seven-year objectives.

And while the community has for the most part adopted Gutenberg, it did feel a little forced. Meanwhile, Elementor continues to crush it. This is starting to create an awkward scenario where Matt’s homegrown page builder is losing out to a third-party page builder for WordPress. It’s not a good look currently, but I do think that the gap is starting to narrow.

I continue to pull for Gutenberg. I know that it will grow as a page builder, and maybe along the way it can become a decent writing tool as well, but I am not confident that this is a top priority. Regardless, there are smart people behind the whole project, and it shows.

#WordPress