At last...

Look. They are just thistles.

It's just a wasteland.

But it mattered to me at that moment.

It matters to me now.



I stopped.

I framed.

I paid attention.

Thistles. Just thistles. No arty filters.

It was just another day.

Today.

I was caught between conflicting feelings.

"Fuck it all."

"I'll read that book."

That book by that well connected, well respected, well accepted peer.

I reviewed the choices.

"Fuck it all."

That book.

"Pay attention to those students." 
"Show them you are there"

I was here.

Conflicting feelings....

Conflicting feelings...

Power to choose.

I chose the students.

A considered choice it was.

I took the spreadsheet.

The students couldn't do that.

Data.

Just fucking data.

It wouldn't really have mattered.

They were just students.

I clicked on a link.

It was a person, a real person.

A person with fears, hopes, expectations...

No expectations...

Low expectations...

A person, with memories, with stories, with stories to write.

"Fuck it all."

What is more important?

It clicked.

This wasn't really work.

It was life.

LIFE.

I got caught up in the joy, the curiosity, the responsibility that was a click away.

I clicked, I measured my words, I wanted the moment to count.

I am just a teacher.

They were just thistles.

She was just a student.

Make it fucking count.

I counted.

I even timed it.

With a fucking iPhone.

It took me two hours.

At last...

Two hours for twenty people.

I calculated.

6 minutes per person.

What counts?

How long is a song?

You don't need so much time.

A word, a reference, a link, a picture, a song.

Just a word.

Just a second.

Just a déclic.

Just a song.

"Fuck it all."

Another person.

Binoche.

Her again.

I shall go and Google her here.

Touches of sense...

There was a teacher they were talking about.

She was talking about her.

Being her.

For the other person.

For her.

So many years after.

At last...

There was a song on the TV.

I posted it here.

To mark the moment.

To remember an instant.

AT LAST.

"Fuck it all."

I'll read the book after.

I'll do the paper, the conference after.

What counts?

The applause?

The status?

The money?

Touches of sense...

I received a couple of mails.

Just students.

They said: "Thank you."

In so many words.

Nothing else.

Counts.

Interstellar on TV.

I am not watching.

I am writing.

I am aware of...

Etta James on Youtube.

Jazz chilling out on the sofa.

Another day.

I am here.

This was life.

Spring flowers.

"It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done.” 

― Vincent Van Gogh

FELT. 

FLOWER. 

FIELD.

FENCE.

FARM.

FELDGANG.

"It's the greenest spring that I can ever remember. It's just incredible right now. It's stunning. You walk outside when it's sunny and it's like O-M-G! W-T-F! And then there are no words...."

Terry Elliott.

OPEN

@Bali_Maha "I pretty much do most things for love, from a place of love." @Bali_Maha https://t.co/YalsagK5ML

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) May 20, 2017

CARE

Maha Bali

LOVE

bell hooks.

BOND

FRIEND

"This could be part of story...when you ruminate."

Terry Elliott.

Terry, Maha, Kevin, Sarah, Laura, Mary Ann, Wendy, Suzan, Bruno, et al.

SPRING

@telliowkuwp @MaryAnnReilly @sensor63 @dogtrax @wentale @NomadWarMachine (No translation required) pic.twitter.com/aveiu6mM1b

— laura ritchie (@laura_ritchie) May 19, 2017

OPEN 

STORY.

No child left behind.

The successful outcomes benefit from sophisticated monitoring and advanced data analysis, a continuous stream of the latest intelligence, distant human piloting and decisive engagement.




No child left behind.

The board meets to congratulate themselves on yet another successful year.

Training budgets for apprentices are up.

Local schools are flourishing.

Unemployment is at a new low.

Faith in freedom is reborn.

The president cuts the ribbon for a new line.

The people come to wave their flags and cheer.

No child left behind.

I watched as the young people around me froze.

A deathly silence fell upon us.

The camera moved around the room.

Chairs and tables had been overturned.

People seemed as if suspended in the air.

All activity stopped.

Nobody was laughing now.

No child left behind.

I looked at the data in the spreadsheet.

1 0 1 1 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1.

It was marvellous news.

I tweeted to my colleagues in the UK.

The students seemed to be engaged with their distant correspondents.

Isn't this what we call "a global classroom"?

Don't we need a [global] "village to educate a child"?

@WarwickLanguage ca marche. #clerwar entretiens d'embauche pic.twitter.com/JT8Nw4v2O0

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) November 25, 2016

No child left behind.


I concentrated my energy on the person behind the zero.

He was a high level sportsman..

That was what explained the zero.

Column 5 - Date.

Column 6 - 1 for presence 0 for absence.

He had done the work.

I didn't have a trace.

Fantasies fill the void.

"He's not interested in my classes."

"He's doesn't care about my subject."

"I am the One with power."

"Zero! He's worth zero."

Fantasies fill the void.

Dialogue 1 - 1 was facilitated by the tools.

Dialogue 1 - 1 helped us to build respect.

Dialogue 1 - 1 moved us to another place.

No child left behind.

Tools extend our reach.

Maps extend our reach.

Words extend our reach.

pic.twitter.com/Yh5dNvyz3N

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) March 19, 2016

I look at the blog statistics.

"Touches of sense..."

142, 000 hits.

No child left behind.

Ronald reminded me.

@sensor63 Searching for children of Native Americans and aboriginals to bring them to the institutions to take their own culture out of them

— Ronald_2008 (@ronald_2008) November 27, 2016

I watched the video again.


No child left behind.

I did a search for Australia.

Education down under is nothing if not inclusive.

I watched Walkabout on Youtube with an English rose.

I watched the test match.

We won the ashes.


No child left behind.

"I reconciled myself to separation."

We learnt about 1066 and all that.

Shall we ever venture into  "Noman's land."?

We learnt to march.

We learnt to drill.

We learnt to bat.

We did "Target Practice."

Teachers inspired us.

Teachers abused us.

Teachers thrashed us "Behind closed doors."

We escaped an instant the day of the deluge.

No child left behind.

We have a common core, a common culture.

Standards are kept.

Competition is fierce.

Money speaks.

Scores cards are tallied.

Numbers never lie.

No child left behind.

I read Terry's post.

Step Right Up. Get Ready. It’s Coming…It’s Here https://t.co/5mNMH0H021

— Terry Elliott (@telliowkuwp) November 27, 2016

I listen to the song.

"Road to nowhere."

I tweet a response.

@dogtrax @telliowkuwp @ronald_2008 pic.twitter.com/Jk4n7RSros

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) November 27, 2016

I see Kevin's response.

@sensor63 @telliowkuwp @ronald_2008 and yet ... pic.twitter.com/vV7BhYhbuv

— KevinHodgson (@dogtrax) November 27, 2016

That gets me thinking.

Fantasy fills the void.

Road to nowhere @telliowkuwp @dogtrax @EatcherVeggies @ronald_2008 @jmc3ualberta @anna_phd @laura_ritchie https://t.co/koQud6FFLB

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) November 27, 2016

I think back to Kevin's tweet.

"We are on the road to somewhere...."

I think back to the spreadsheet.

No child left behind.

"We are on the road to somewhere..."

No child left behind.

I think back to the spreadsheet.

No child left behind? #digped #clmooc pic.twitter.com/5oO93i7jBs

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) November 27, 2016

I think of all those zeros...all those ones.

At times, I despair.

"I do not think words alone will solve humanity's present problems. The sound of bombs drowns out men's voices. In times of peace I have great faith in the communication of ideas among thinking men, but today, with brute force dominating so many millions of lives, I fear that the appeal to man's intellect is fast becoming virtually meaningless."

Albert Einstein.

Pretty Vacant.

I  have been fringelurking #dlrn15 twitter streams and Vconnecting sessions.

I wasn't able to access the live streams, not sure what I missed.






I listen to people introduce themselves:

I'm a learning designer/consultant.
I'm a doctoral student.
I'm a post doctoral student.
I'm a hyper post doctoral fellow. etc

I'm not a doctoral anything, I'm just curious.

I feel, at times, like a gate-crasher.

I am not marginal. I am me.


Being me, I am marginal.

I remember when I was invited by a flatmate to a Jewish society evening in Manchester.

The others kept assuming that I was Jewish.

I wasn't from Stanmore, Golders Green, I wasn't Jewish. 

Why was I there?

They were confused.

I felt sorry for them, it wasn't their fault, it was mine.

Inclusion was impossible.

I suppose that I might have converted...

There are moments when I have the distinct impression that I inhabit a different planet.

I went to my friend's thesis defence last week.

He was talking about teaching classes of 80 students in Cameroon to speak French.

He had to pay out of his own pocket for his students to have access to the computer lab so that he could do his research in order to present his thesis.

The French/Swiss jury's refined questioning was possible only as a result of their privileged contexts.

As I said to a friend sitting next to me:

"If you are starving you don't concern yourself with how you want your steak cooked." 

We stood up to hear the jury's verdict.

He had made it, he was pronounced doctor.

There were tears in his eyes.

I felt like I was in church.

I never felt comfortable in church.

I don't care about robes and hymn books.
 

There are moments when I have the distinct impression that I inhabit a different planet.

It is not just an impression.

Enrobed learning.

If I embarked in research, it was to help me change things.

It helped us change things.

It gave us sufficient recognition/seriousness/validation/permission to give us the space to change things.

Somebody said "education is broken".

Was education ever not broken?

Two hoots..

Many of the teachers around me do not care two hoots for change.

Many of the researchers around me do not care two hoots for change.

Many of students around me do not care two hoots for change.

They appear pretty vacant.

Pretty Vacant

There's no point in asking, you'll get no reply
Oh just remember I don't decide
I got no reason it's all too much
You'll always find us out to lunch

Oh we're so pretty
Oh so pretty
we're vacant
Oh we're so pretty
Oh so pretty
A vacant

Don't ask us to attend 'cos we're not all there
Oh don't pretend 'cos I don't care
I don't believe illusions 'cos too much is real
So stop you're cheap comment 'cos we know what we feel

Oh we're so pretty
Oh so pretty
we're vacant
Oh we're so pretty
Oh so pretty
we're vacant ah
But now and we don't care

There's no point in asking you'll get no reply
Oh just remember a don't decide
I got no reason it's all too much
You'll always find me out to lunch
We're out on lunch

Oh we're so pretty
Oh so pretty
we're vacant
Oh we're so pretty
Oh so pretty
we're vacant
Oh we're so pretty
Oh so pretty ah
But now and we don't care

We're pretty
A pretty vacant
We're pretty
A pretty vacant
We're pretty
A pretty vacant
We're pretty
A pretty vacant

And we don't care

Lyrics. Sex Pistols.

I listened to people talk about the weather, enjoying dinner, agency and stuff.

I wondered why I was listening.

I wondered if  my time wouldn't be better spent talking with kids around me...

They, at least, might benefit from my care.