Showing posts with label Empathy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Empathy. Show all posts

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Is no news good news?

Day after day, I look up towards the horizon, I see the tree leaves opening, open, green, reddening, browning, falling, blackening, rotting on the ground.



Bare branches frame the dawn, the dusk, a midday sun, a night, a year.

Sway, still.

Moments, keep sakes, sketches, musings.

A place, a breath, a dove that calls, a ritual.

I make a mark, a mental notch.


Insignificant significance...



WORSHIP, CHAOS, SUFFERING, SLANDER, WEALTH, DAMNED LIES,

Tabloid fonts, professional grievers, grave faces, po faces, serious faces...blood, guts and glee.

COMMUNE, CONSUME, CONSUMED

Ratings rise with my blood pressure, my anxiety, my feelings of helplessness, my loss of will to act.

I am Charlie, a Migrant, A Syrian, A Copte.




What day is it today?

I click twice.

The tree seems far away.


Wring your hands, wring the tea towel.

I open the fridge and get the milk.

I sit down and open the newspaper.

What day is it today?



Is no news good news?






“What the hell does it all mean anyhow? Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nothing comes to anything. And yet, there's no shortage of idiots to babble. Not me. I have a vision. I'm discussing you. Your friends. Your coworkers. Your newspapers. The TV. Everybody's happy to talk. Full of misinformation. Morality, science, religion, politics, sports, love, your portfolio, your children, health. Christ, if I have to eat nine servings of fruits and vegetables a day to live, I don't wanna live. I hate goddamn fruits and vegetables. And your omega 3's, and the treadmill, and the cardiogram, and the mammogram, and the pelvic sonogram, and oh my god the-the-the colonoscopy, and with it all the day still comes where they put you in a box, and its on to the next generation of idiots, who'll also tell you all about life and define for you what's appropriate. My father committed suicide because the morning newspapers depressed him. And could you blame him? With the horror, and corruption, and ignorance, and poverty, and genocide, and AIDS, and global warming, and terrorism, and-and the family value morons, and the gun morons. "The horror," Kurtz said at the end of Heart of Darkness, "the horror." Lucky Kurtz didn't have the Times delivered in the jungle. Ugh... then he'd see some horror. But what do you do? You read about some massacre in Darfur or some school bus gets blown up, and you go "Oh my God, the horror," and then you turn the page and finish your eggs from the free range chickens. Because what can you do. It's overwhelming!” 




Is no news good news?




“Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? That with Estragon my friend, at this place, until the fall of night, I waited for Godot?” 









Monday, October 17, 2016

Feedback. Silence(d).

It has always been there.

I feel my foot struggling for purchase in the shale.

I hear the torrent bellowing far below.


I glance up as the crow calls.

It angles its wings and dips behind a copse.

We clasp hands, we move on.

Feedback.

It was there on the space above the fireplace.

It was there on the sandstone wall.

I look at the back of the painting, to find the attached note.

It has always been there.

Feedback.

I listen to the sound of the branch.

It sounds brittle, I move my hand to another.

I remember the sound of the branch which broke.

I remember hitting the ground, the wind crushed from my lungs.

I feel for the solidity of the hold, it brings me reassurance.

I remember sudden imbalance and fear.

"What if I were to...?"

I remember words spoken with care.

I repeat those words.

I repeat those words.

"Breathe deeply, concentrate on the task in hand." 

"That is not a step for me to make."

"This is your path, this is your path." 

I remember gestures of encouragement.

I remember that empathetic silence of anticipation.

A sharp intake of breath.

I feel intuitively that this is my path.

I forget the babble of those who would know better.

"The babble", "the babble", "the babble".

Be silent now.

This is my path.

Judge me if you will.

Footnote on feedback.

I was going to speak of a Twitter conversation concerning feedback, assessment and grades.

Try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to include the "tweet babble".

It seemed an irrelevant footnote to this feedback story.

I came back to this exchange:


On reflection, even "telling" seems superfluous.

We are so much more than words.

I remember moments of grace.

There are no words spoken.

I find another tweet exchange to conclude.




Post Script 

Later on this morning, I fell upon an article entitled:

"4 minutes of silence can boost your empathy for others."  

It featured a video:
 





The video was accompanied by the following text:

"When talking about the problem of refugees, we use dehumanised language, which reduces human tragedy to numbers and statistics. But this suffering concerns real people, who – just like us - have families, loved ones, friends; their own stories, dreams, goals... Only when you sit down opposite a specific person and look into their eyes, you no longer see an anonymous refugee, one of the migrants, and notice the human before you, just like yourself – loving, suffering, dreaming... 

20 years ago, psychologist Arthur Aron discovered that 4 minutes of looking into each other's eyes can bring people closer. Using this discovery, we decided to carry out a simple experiment, during which refugees and Europeans sat opposite each other and looked into each other's eyes. Clearly, it is most important to give each other time to better understand and get to know each other."


I noted the following:

"we use dehumanised language, which reduces human tragedy to numbers and statistics."

Isn't the tragedy of education the use of  "dehumanised language" which reduces people, all our children to "numbers and statistics" ?

I fell upon the words of Clint Smith.




I looked back at what I had written:  

"telling seems superfluous".  

I felt ashamed.

What is education if it is not about enabling others to tell their truth?

"This is your path, this is your path."  
"Your path is not my path."

Life paths may be limited by words given to us even before our birth.



There are those who are born to be heard, there are those who are born and are silenced.

"There's really no such thing as the 'voiceless'. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard." 

Arundhati Roy.






Monday, October 10, 2016

Passing ships.


"Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow





A little girl reaches out towards the approaching coast.

Does she sense the tears which well up in my eyes?

She will walk for a first time on the land that her father called home.

I think of the people that lie there she will never know.

A little girl reaches out..

I wonder how far our humanity stretches?

Other journeys cross my mind.

I think of a four-year old child washed up on social media, on international press, on a beach in Greece.  

Two children on average drown in the Mediterrenean Sea every day.  

Without leaving my office chair, I OK Google searched the information.



Had I thought of children drowning in the English Channel?


How far does our humanity stretch?

As far as the keyboard and the mouse?

As far as the screen?

Can we do no more than shed a (virtual) tear?

Hanging out, messing around, geeking out

It was a Virtually Connecting Hangout from the DML conference that got me thinking.

What does empathy really mean in a digitally connected world? 

Can technology enable us to develop empathy more quickly?



Listening takes time.

The Friday before, I had spent over an hour in the company of Terry Elliott in a Kentucky.

I was speaking at lunch time, Terry had gotten up to chat at rooster time (early).

We had organised a hangout, and spoke of many things, some of which I wouldn't share here.

It has taken over two years of blogging, playing, writing poetry, speaking together for me to talk of things with him that I wouldn't share here.  I consider him, a good friend. He is one among a few real friends that I have made online.

It helps us find our place in the world when we find people that we can trust, no matter where they are.

Between humans, sometimes listening is enough.

Sometimes listening is all that we can do.
.
No short-cuts for empathy.
 
So, I was watching a VConnecting hangout.

Howard Rheingold turned up wearing a hat.

Sometimes, someone's hat is enough to make you feel happy.

Mia Zamora mentioned the idea that it would be great to have an "empathy hat" so that we could understand other people's stories.

I am not sure that either listening or understanding are always enough.

There is something that Maha Bali said during the VConnecting session that had me nodding:

There are no short-cuts to establishing dialogue with others so as to develop empathy, friendship.  

There is no question that working as a connected educator via blogging and social media has enabled me to gain a broader range of understanding of diverse contexts, diverse world views, diverse life stories.  From this respect technology may indeed help us to widen circles of empathy.

Technology has helped me focus on individual stories through narrative research as a means to identify trends, as a means to broadly modify pedagogical action. 

Nothing replaces the time taken sitting next to a person in dialogue.

Using technology in the classroom has enabled me to concentrate my energy on individual dialogue.

Emotional intelligence.

It is one thing to speak together in a private offline space, it is quite another to do so online.

Who do our data trails, which enable more pertinent "recommendations", belong to?


Is spending time "really getting to know" our students to "personalise" our interactions only postive?

How much do educators need to know about their students?

Who should we trust?

How much should we or our students share of our lives online?

Developing our "emotional intelligence" is all very well but whose intelligence is being developed?

I find an article entitled:

The Dark Side of Emotional Intelligence.

http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/01/the-dark-side-of-emotional-intelligence/282720/

How much data are we aware of giving up?

Love networks powerfully.

It is love (and hate) that networks powerfully. 

I suppose I always return strategically to the gospels for inspiration 

Powerful parables work.

Jesus Christ didn't need empathy bracelets or like buttons to change his world.

No written media and his impact would surely have remained anecdotal.

We must bear witness to our times.

Silence speaks volumes.

There was something that Chris said during the hangout that had me nodding: 

There are things that we don't want other people to know, there are things that we choose not to say.

There are times when we imagine that a website may bring us anonymity to share what we would find difficult to say to others...


I Google the word "verlan a French term for a secret backwards language used to speak privately.

"Many verlan words refer either to sex or drugs, related to the original purpose of keeping communication secret from institutions of social control".

I think of how English, of how the internet, is a means of social control.

While this internet may appear to give us greater reach - informational, relational, commercial, it demands that we question whose reach is most enhanced.

Facebook reveals news feed experiment to control emotions.

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2014/jun/29/facebook-users-emotions-news-feeds

Whose language are we speaking?

"Laisse beton."

Visions of Citizenship

I struggle rudely with the term "digital citizen". 
  
What the fuck does being a "digital citizen" mean?

Do we have "digital democracy"?

Do we have a "digital constitution"?

Not all "digital citizens" are created equal.  

Are we a "digital citizen"  if we are engaged in the manufacture of digital devices?


Are we a "digital citizen" if we live in a country where access to the wider internet is  restricted?


Here I am,  a "digitally engaged citizen", I scroll, I click, I type, I make bold.

I share a video of a little girl in tears.




What the fuck do I do else?

I look at the statistics for a Google Search:

[girl charlotte city council tears 650,000 results]

It doesn't stop another bloody killing.

What is the internet really doing to increase empathy?

Beware America's shocking loss of empathy.


Hate networks powerfully...

Troll di laa, troll di dee

This is fucking poetry.

I feel helplessly angry.

It doesn't help.

I think of Howard Rheingold's feelings of cynicism towards the web being a means to develop civic, civil argumentation, and social progress.

Walk the talk...

I struggle to find a needle of hope in a haystack of populist kitty crap.

I think of how social media facilitates assembly, demonstration, action.

Yes, finding empathy with others online can enable us to act locally.

Enough is enough: How Polish Women's Black Protest Defeated Abortion Ban.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tewodros-melesse/enough-is-enough-how-poli_b_12385382.html

I am so fortunate with my internet connected Polish friends.

I immediately feel an increased identification with distant people.

This is progress.

I got to visit Auschwitz with my students.

It reeks of the death of empathy.

“We walked inside and saw these skinny people who were still living, and one of my enlisted men who walked in with me realized they were starving. We had nothing but some candy bars, which we got in a ration, and one of my men gave the candy bar to one of these people who grabbed it and ran away and gulped it down so fast that he became unconscious and probably choked on it when he tried to swallow it before someone took it away from him. These Jewish people and these Polish people were like animals. They were so degraded, there was no goodness, no kindness, nothing of that nature, there was no sharing. If they got a piece of something to eat, they grabbed it and ran away in a corner and fought off anyone who came near them.”

Samuel Glasshow, liberator of Woebbelin

http://www.holocaust-trc.org/the-holocaust-education-program-resource-guide/oh-no-it-cant-be/

How far does our inhumanity stretch?

Most of the time our global media glut does little more than render us desensitised.

We see pictures of dead children, under heaps of rubble, washed up on the shore.

So many people, so many corpses, so many untold stories, not enough tears.

So what the fuck?

Passage to India.

I gawp with my children at yachts on the Cannes seafront.

Which celebrity will we spot?

We don't take a selfie.

There's a couple of elderly people drinking tea on a Bermudan boat.

Surely British...Ceylon Tea, far away from Frinton-on-Sea.

A swarm of red-tshirted lackeys are polishing the brass and scrubbing the deck.

It is coming up all ship-shape.

I make a note that many of the yachts at the quay are flying a red British Ensign.


What stories do these boats tell about our globalised economy?

It is a real struggle not to feel some sort of patriotic (jingoistic) pride.

What does this say about me?

What did my mother tell me about the flag waving at the Last Night of the Proms?



I think a moment about Britannia ruling the seas.

That imagined British community is beginning to make me feel sea-sick.

Whose passage paid for that Bermudan yacht?




I think a moment about the USA ruling the waves.

“The middle-class standard of the independent self has increasingly become the default American standard for how to think, feel and act in the world…this middle class self is not just a matter of individual attitudes or beliefs; it is an understanding of what it means to be a person that is built into and promoted by the social machinery – law, politics, education, employment, media, and health care of mainstream American society. Although the independent self is widely accepted as the cultural standard, it is not the natural, normal, neutral or even the most effective way of being a person. Instead, it is a privileged and culture-specific understanding of what it means to be a person that flows seamlessly from the resources, opportunities, and experiences linked with middle-class American standing in society.”

What does it mean to develop a "digital identity", find your "voice"?

Who are we developing it for?

Whose stories are we to tell?

Who is paying for it?


"My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together."

Desmond Tutu.








 

Friday, April 1, 2016

Be kind to monsters.

I am sorry.

It's ingrained.
It's under my skin.

It comes from my education.

We were open to the parish.

The local witch comes to tea.

We had witch biscuits and scones and jam.

A week goes by.

Monday comes.


She is found hanging from a tree.

How do you make sense of this?

Local alcoholic comes for respite from the bottle.

He will never hit his wife that one time too many.

He loves the kids so.

He love the kids so.

He loves the bottle more.

He hates himself.

He sobs.

How will they make sense of this?

Grieving family comes to bury their differences.

Troubled souls share their distress.

Dead Papa drums his thumbs on the kitchen table, the time of the evening dinner.

Mama shivers, kiddies shake, won't Papa be at peace yet?

Be silent, be still, be gone, please be gone.

How will they make sense of this?

Lost, infirm, insane, abusers, addicts, losers. rusers, terminally ill all.

We come to find counselling.

We come to mark our births.

Another page turns.

I am born.

I sat on the stairs at the age of four tapping my feet and waiting for the bloody hymn-singers to go home.

Won't they go home now?

"Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty."

I felt wholly not at home.

I didn't swear when I was four.

I would have done, if I could have done.

Those bloody hymn-singers.

Won't they go home now?

How to make sense of this?

Lighted windows rush by, the time of a train journey, to school.

I feel the cold window, pain on my cheek, condensation streams down

Lives flash by.

Lives flash by.

What sense do I make of this?

I have no home.

Little homes, little people, big dreams little means, short lives, sadness and joy,

They fly past, too fast to know, slow enough to reflect some home I miss.

They will miss those little lights when they are far, I think.

"I love working with people," my father said.

"I love working with people," I say to my father now.

He is long gone.

He is dead.

He is here by my side.

We are at peace.

How do I make sense of this?

So here we are.

So here we are now.

We are here together.

What lies behind your smile, your tears, that grin, that bravado, that triumph, that despair?

I feel for you.

I feel for us.

I believe in kindness.

Throw that stone at the monster.

Will it hurt?

Will it scream?

How shall we make sense of it?

Don't you recognise yourself?

It is you, that monster.

Deny, deride, delete.

Go on. Go on. Go on now.

I drum my fingers on the kitchen table.

It shall haunt you yet.

"I was taunted and sneered at so that I would not go home to my meals, and used to stay in the streets with an hungry belly rather than return for anything to eat, what few half-meals I did have, I was taunted with the remark—'That's more than you have earned.'"
"The Autobiography of Joseph Carey Merrick

Joseph Merrick.





Thursday, March 17, 2016

Vanishing returns...



To say that we should lose all objectivity is a nonsense.

Without objective all hope is lost.

We play constantly with scaring ourselves with "conceal - reveal"  with ever diminishing returns.

Conceal - Reveal.

Presence - Absence.

With no point(s) by which to orientate.

We disorientate.

We lose our minds.

We sink into oblivion...or fascism.

Where there is life we may will hope.

Hope is the hump of a camel throbbing between our thighs the time of a blinding storm.

Is this to become camel/sand/man assemblage or a heroic fight against the odds?

Can the two be disassembled?

Would  Sean Penn's "Into the Wild" be Malick's fragrant "New World"  with masonihilistic bravado?



Is Inarratu's "The Revenant"  some sort of survivalist "Death Wish" - a sadocolonialism in furs?



What do such depictions of nature say of our nature...of our grasp on our reality?

Difficult questions...

Can empathy only ever be subjective?

If we are subject to nature, do we lose all objectivity?

If we abandon all grasp on objectivity do we lose all hope for compassion?

Is forgiveness to accept that we may be more than just beast?

Is our nature only read in tooth and claw?

Do lines of flight continue beyond a (our) vanishing point?

Aside.

 “there is no line separating earth and sky; there is no intermediate distance, no perspective or contour; visibility is limited; and yet there is an extraordinarily fine topology that relies not on points or objects, but rather on haecceities, on sets of relations (winds, undulations of snow or sand, the song of the sand, the creaking of the ice, the tactile qualities of both).”

Gilles Deleuze, Félix Guattari. Mille Plateaux.

[Found in Deleuze and Space. The Smooth and the Striated.]





Thursday, February 4, 2016

Fear of silence.

I say nothing.

She wants to look from ahigh.

She sees much farther than me now.

She is a giant on the shoulders of a dwarf.




I take the photo in the only way that I can.

The moment is gone.

I feel caught between joy and sadness.

I fear we can not frame more than our shadows.

"Sustainable pedagogy."

I was thinking of those words this morning.

I was overcome with silence.

Night-line.

"Oh, I love silence," he had said to the counselling mentor.

She said nothing, she looked at him.

She said nothing, she looked at him.

She said nothing, she looked at him.

"What I mean is...."

His wordly confidence had left him stranded.

She said nothing, she looked at him.

Non-directive counselling.

It suddenly occurred to me that this moment had been foundational in my teaching practice.

Empathy

I was speaking with a friend this morning.

"The problem with feeling competent is that we can take on too much," he said.

"I ended up with burnout and depression."

I listened to him. I nodded.

I returned and sat to think.

Sustainable pedagogy...

What does it mean to be a sustainable educator?

I search for the foundations of the counselling training that I had received 30 years before.

It turns up Carl Rogers.

I found a conference on empathy.


I sat to listen.

I hear:

"The most effective listening is where you listen for the feelings and emotions that were behind the words..that were just a little bit concealed. Where you could discern a pattern of feeling behind what was being said."

I ask myself questions:

"What are the feelings and emotions that lie behind our actions words, as teachers/instructors?"

"What are the feelings and emotions that lie behind the words and actions of learners?"

"What are the patterns of feelings behind an 'educational system'?"

"What patterns of feeling do our rituals conceal?"

Fear of silence.

I return to listening.

I find a few quotes of Carl Rogers.

I note them down for future reflection.

"Colossal rigidity, whether in dinosaurs or dictatorships, has a very poor record of evolutionary survival."

I think of massive investment in 'educational content'.

What do those investors feel for learners?

I think of rigidity of teacher timetables, of programs, of systems, of assessment, of teacher assessement, of buildings.

What does such rigidity reveal of the feelings for learners and teachers?

"The degree to which I can create relationships which facilitate the growth of others as separate persons, is a measure of the growth I have achieved in myself."

How on earth can our growth be measured?

Can pedagogy be sustainable if it does not accept change?

Are we really concerned about the growth of others or are we too full of our empty selves?

"The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change."
Carl Rogers

What is it to accept ourselves?





Thursday, September 25, 2014

Our nature.

It is the tranquil immersive nature of this image which captured my attention.

I shall sit here a moment.





I was up early this morning, I saw the beauty of the sunrise behind the Puy de Crouel.

I captured it, I tweeted it, I saw it favorited by someone in Illinois.

Where is Illinois?

I haven't quite got used to the rythm of Thursday mornings.

I am unused to having time on a Thursday morning.

I am savouring the freedom of emerging connections which slowly spark from some place somewhere.

There were the early morning exchanges with Maha and Maxime, on their blogs, the shock of Susan's story of a twelve year old boy.

I am taken into this deeper pool of empathy.

I am learning quietly, but apparently with little constraint.

Terry and Keith and a rooster are speaking to me from a moment last week. 

I can feel my mind wander from time to time with the rhythm of our conversation.  I dip into the stream.

I am catching my breath, what was that? What was that I hear myself say?

"Time is short."

"What will be our message at the last clap?"

 "What can we acquire?"

We are talking of, we are talking of...

"COMMUNION"

How on earth did I ever hear myself say that word, live?

I was live on air, on Youtube.

I have that tendency to run ahead of myself, I lose the signal.

I recognise my lack of patience, I recognise my hastiness.

"I am hasty, too hasty chaps."

It's a Thursday morning I have a moment to shut up and listen.

This reminds me of Mariana Funes and our exchanges.

We are speaking, we are connecting now in silence.

Terry captures angels so well.

I want to tell my captured self to shut up and listen to Terry.

Being connected to angels, all these guardian angels around us, watching over us.

It is a great image Keith, a great image. You are right.

Am I lurking now, am I lurking next to tranquil pool, on a Thursday morning?

Are we children of eternity?

How are we to be framed?

Terry reminds me of a poem I wrote to a Tunisian friend and poet.

He is right, he is so right, we need to feel the sides, the constraints, our cultural frames.




I know this.

I know sitting here.

I am being written by my friends.

I am being written by unknown people I will never see.


Our nature
This has meaning for me, now, sitting by a pool.

I see my life flowing out, flowing past and I am content.























Friday, September 19, 2014

The Spaceman Episode.

Where was I now?

I go to the costume shop, and as if by magic, the shop-keeper arrives. Good Morning [afternoon] [evening][night] (choose appropriate) Sir, how can I help you today?


Each day I go into the changing room, I take off my bowler hat, and then all at once I am attired in a new costume.

At the back of the changing room, I open a door and suddenly find myself in a new country/[planet]/[town]/[village]/[landscape] (choose appropriate) and embark on a new adventure in which I will meet the inhabitants and learn to adapt myself to their/my/our? world.

These scenes come from my favourite TV program (or at least my favourite TV program when I was 6) Mr Benn.

Costume changes
Clearly Mr Benn had a big impact on my imagination because, I only had one ambition as a child and that was to be Mr Benn.

I wanted to have adventures, change costumes and live many lives.

I shall attempt to synthesise:

I have been unemployed, a factory worker, a waiter, a salesman (on phone and door to door), a probation officer, a counsellor, an agricultural worker, a labourer, a taxi-driver, a van-driver, a production assistant in the media, a journalist, an actor, a public relations executive, a translator, an interpreter, a writer...(now, I come to think of it, I could say that now, I had never assumed that costume before)

I have been a teacher: of farmers, factory executives, secretaries, technicians, scientists, teachers, unemployed, computer analysts, sports-people, world-record holders, builders, painters, sculptors, soldiers...

I have been a researcher as long as I can remember.
Now they say I am a researcher. (what took them so long to recognise me?)

I have been almost completely British, I am now perhaps half French.

Oh you get the message.

I have indeed succeeded in my ambition, I even referred to Mr Benn in a conference I did in Plymouth in 2011 entitled "In Search of Nomad's Land".

An absolute obsessional identification, I would say. I am Mr Benn's stand-in.

Space changing
In recent months, it has become apparent to me that Mr Benn's world is becoming outdated as a metaphor for my life. It started with my working with the UK for the CLAVIER project, and then it accelerated.

Today as a teacher I am working with the UK, Poland, Italy, Sweden, Finland, Japan, the USA, Brazil, Cameroun.

5 years ago, I was only concerned with a room of twenty five students at one moment, today I am concerned with perhaps something over a 1000 or more students and teachers who are all over the place.

Things are going haywire
As another term starts, after only one week, things are going haywire. First day in class, we had students chatting with a friend of mine working on a Ski Resort in Australia, during the week we had students reading my blog, seeing their snow hat from last winter being commented on by people all around the world and retweeted by Rihanna (a robot - I kept that quiet not to spoil the effect) on Twitter.

Happy Birthday
Then it was Maha's Birthday, why don't we sing 'Happy Birthday' I thought, - well why not?

In thirty seconds, their singing was on the internet winging its way to Egypt, and the USA, and Brazil, and Australia...well wherever.

Pretty quickly, Kevin had remixed their song, Terry had Zeega'ed the birthday meme in Arabic, Maha had blogged on it and sent back a sung response to my students (they are unaware of that for the moment unless the one Tweep has done his job for the masses and sent it viral in Clermont Ferrand STAPS).

Out on the town with mates
Yesterday, I started the day with a blog post entitled 'In the Tribble Valley' inspired by a series of tweets between people who I had never met (I did see @heloukee from afar in Plymouth in 2011, I seem to remember, I detected a familiar accent and demeanor). These people are living in completely different contexts, in completely different time zones, from completely different cultures.

My only way of assimilating what was going on was to imagine a fictional environment in which these characters met, interacted, and played. I am pretty sure that this environment would be completely different for each person involved in my Tribble Valley Saga.

This is clearly not Second Life or the World of Warcraft but a space much more liminal, much more fluid, much more powerful.

It is a shape-shifting space.
Yesterday, I continued the day with a picnic, a #clavpicnic at for me lunch-time. When I arrived at the picnic spot (a hangout) nobody had turned up.

No matter, I was preparing myself for a presentation with my friend and colleague Marcin Kleban in Krakow.

I was in the room with him from my learning space in Clermont Ferrand. I could hear the bad acoustics of the room in which he was/we were?. We were sharing the slides on the screen in Krakow inside the slide share of our hangout on air. which was simultaneously being broadcast to the world. After the first three slides, I chatted noisily (you can hear it on Youtube) to Keith in Florida who had turned up in the picnic.

He told me he would go and get a coffee. He had had a hard night.

(I shall make a mental note for next time not to forget to mute the headset - metaphor to remember - it's just like the translator's cabin that I used to work in for the Short Film Festival in Clermont Ferrand REMEMBER to MUTE)

We had never done that before, we only tried it out the day before.

There will be a few tweaks to be made after a debriefing, but the immediacy of being in a room in Krakow, from a room in Clermont Ferrand was absolute, to the extent that I was able to butt in to respond to questions from the people attending our conference..in Poland.

Connection embodied
Marcin and I's relationship has no doubt been enriched by visiting each other's homes and countries this year, a dream for many people who have extended online personal networks and the ties which bind us I feel are profound - perhaps because of the distance.  There is a part of Poland in me now.


Picnic in space
Meanwhile back at the picnic spot, Terry and Keith had turned up. It was six and seven o'clock in the morning for them and they had dropped everything to spend a little time at a picnic to chat with friends.  The picnic was clearly not in the Tribble Valley as the cockerels, (roosters  as Terry says) were calling in dawn, Keith was sun-tanned in Florida, Terry was all backlit Dutch painting.  I was in a learning space in Clermont Ferrand after having finished my spot in Krakow. I am not at all sure where we can say we are? I have the impression that it is like being 3 spacemen in spaceships on journeys through the universe who are desperate for connection to others who have meaning for them.

Space communication
A light lit up on the Spaceship's dashboard. It was Susan. Could she connect too? I have no means of picturing Susan's space at the moment she asked that. I scrolled through Susans desperately seeking Susan. No time to find Susan amongst the world of Susans. I get back to Terry and Kevin. There was one of my best friends Blaise, in Cameroun who spent last Christmas with us. Could I connect him up? I frantically flicked a few switches on the dashboard. No means of connection, frustration felt and noted.  I shut down the picnic transmission. I noted other Spacemen, Arthur, Ronald perhaps who had been listening in to our conversations, unknown to us while we were travelling through space connected by some virtual, umbilical tube.

Down to earth?
I come back to earth, I look back at Connected Courses home page and look at the blog/twitter feed. I note a talk between Mimi Ito and others I don't know. I start watching that, a bit distracted by my thoughts.  I click around, I see Gordon's Comment grabber. Cool work Gordon! I had seen his fantastic work on Rhizomatic Learning with Dave Cormier. I come back to 'Connected Courses' I click on units 1-6. I suddenly discover that this is really a course. That comes as a bit of shock. There are suggested readings, links, that comes as a bit of a shock. This is a course, I had forgotten what a course was. I make a mental note. Please try harder to remember that this is a Course.

Favourite TV programs
I start thinking about Mimi, and then wonder what ever happened to one of my favourite programs. A pretty recent program with three guys: Click, Link, Embed. Whatever happened to the three guys. I am already missing their program. I followed up their program with investigation of their blogs. I like their blogs. I like their comments. I like Spaceman Howard's hat.



Time-planning
I suppose I have to look up in the schedule to see when they are on.

Crap detection?
I identified immediately with their show. I reckon that this must be like Mr Benn. We need characters who somehow capture our imagination. We need to feel embedded in a culture. We need security of signal in a world of complexity, in a world of noise and nonsense. (Crap detection?)

There is danger here.

Who do children identify with? Superman? Spiderman? Ironman? Barbie? Gandhi?

Star-hopping
I start thinking about how I navigate the blogs, how I navigate Twitter, how I smile when I click on recognisable avatars.

Empathy
I am beginning to extend my circles of empathy, I am beginning to see that I am part of a much wider world.

This feeling fills me with hope for my children.

I am reminded of quotes of Einstein, the ultimate Spaceman:




Wow, how did that happen? 

I don't remember Albert Einstein appearing in the Spaceman episode of Mr Benn. 

Note to self: REMEMBER THIS IS A COURSE.REMEMBER THIS IS A COURSE....

Note to self: Children may need a new Mr Benn.



Monday, September 5, 2011

Eieio... (Phone)...

Two year old in restaurant.

- No no sit down. No, no!!!
- Please, if you sit down, you will have an ice-cream.
- No! NO sit down!

Parental exasperation, last resort.

Parent takes out iPhone. Two year old looks triumphant and sits down immediately.

- EiEiO, EiEiO!

Instantly the toddler is transformed, she is in a state of transe-like flow.

-Old Macdonald had a farm, EiEiO!

That App cost me three or four euros but it's worth every centime. If I had tried singing every nursery rhyme I know, my daughter would have ended up standing on the restaurant table, in the ice-cream.

-  No! No sit!

I am quite sure that we don't all bond with the same objects around us in the same way, so it is very difficult to judge technology objectively. For some kids, it's a handkerchief, for others a teddy, but heaven forbid that you should forget the object of love and its importance for the loved one.

As far as I can see, the smartphone to this toddler appears  principally to be an interactive nursery ryhme. To me, it is an essential professional tool for learning, teaching and networking.

For my colleagues at work, there are those who appear desperately attached to their cassettes, the photocopier, the cardboard folders, books and all and I can only say that I am beginning to feel empathy for their apparent resistance to another age.

The other day, in a frenzy of domestic space rationalisation my wife threw out all the CD boxes for my CD's. After all, who should give two hoots for plastic boxes? You still have the music and the sleeve notes.

Oh reader, my despair! For me, the joy was in the gestures; reaching out to the box, turning it around in my hands, feeling the slight designed-in resistance on opening the lid....The Cure! Boys Don't Cry!

All of this brings me back to the day I saw a TV presenter spread jam on a CD in order to demonstrate how relatively indestructible a slice of music this would be. It must have been in the 80's when I had time to listen to my music.... My two year old did the same test recently, I feel frankly that I have been conned.

I don't go for music downloads, I am like many of my teaching colleagues. It's not that I can't see that my students think me absurd for actually buying CD's but I suppose I am of another time. I have too many memories...

It is not that we cannot see that we should perhaps move on and keep up. Reason is what makes us grumpy. Giving up that which makes one feel secure, takes time and gentle encouragement. We don't like being dictated to, particularly when it comes to our tools (comfort blankets...)

Kids are generally pretty good at helping their parents to evolve. They are only too happy to show them what they know how to do. They have the time, peer support network, and curiosity to learn how stuff works. They have less or no nostalgia for the old ways of doing things. Their time is coming.

Now teachers, I feel we have to find some way to compromise here, to own up that it's ok to have teddy bears, to know nursery ryhmes. The kids wil help us learn, or they will learn quite happily for us, if we let them.

We all need to have confidence in our need for security and to let go. We are living in a different epoque but Old Macdonald still has his farm, with pigs, horses, donkeys, and sheep...

Eieio.

Sometime in the future

- When I was a kid we used to have a thing I loved. I think they called it an iPhone. But I called it EiEiO...

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad