Embroidered cloths and dream treading.

"Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

Y.B. Yeats.

It is easy to lose sight of what is capital in all of this.

CARE.

FELLOWSHIP.

Yes, I said "fellow ship."

We are in this together.

For the duration.

A clock ticks.

Embroidered cloths.

It is easy to suit and to be tied.

Who is the suit for?

Whose are those ties?

Fancy dress, dressing up ridicule, naked embarrassment.

It is easy to make anti-dress-code statements.

It is easy to make others feel ill-at-ease.

Tread softly on my dreams.

A penny drops.

Listen, be attentive to others.

Fellow ship.

I love working with Marcin, we have been working together for nigh on six years.

We were working in a class for teachers together a few months back and we were late.

I asked them not to speak but individually to write down how they felt, what they thought about our late arrival.

I then asked them to note down their first impressions of Marcin, myself and a Columbian student teacher without speaking to us or asking us any questions.

It is fascinating how much information they were able to glean from the situation, our appearance.

Marcin was dressed in a formal jacket.

I wasn't.

Marcin was considered "serious".

They didn't really say how they considered me...

Embroidered cloths.

It was a beautifully structured, carefully researched presentation.

It's cloth was woven with finely referenced citations.

It concerned and had impact.

It did what it said on the box.

One character jumped out at me.

@WarwickLanguage @makle1 #unicollab2018 lol pic.twitter.com/L1QtZIXckz

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) April 26, 2018

Embroidered cloths.

"Did you see his Complexity presentation for the conference in Corsica?" 

I hear them discussing in one of the autoethnography preparation sessions.

"It had 74 slides...that was crazy!!!"

I remember my discussions with my colleagues.

"OK, I'll cut those slides, you are right it is a bit too much."

I was quite proud with having cut it down to 74 slides.

They sort of looked at each other, resigned, and sighed.

No doubt they felt fortunate that I would be on my own in this.

They trusted me enough to accept their names as authors on the first slide.

I am thankful for their trust.

Many haven't gone so far as to trust me.

I hear them discussing in one of the autoethnography preparation sessions.

No doubt they were concerned about what crazyness I would come up with for the next presentation.

I hear their laughter.

I loved their laughter.

We are in this together, with our differences, with our foibles.

What joy to feel freely accepted!

What joy not to feel straight-jacketed!


Embroidered cloths.

Marcin came up with a structure that he liked.

I was only too happy to let him take the lead in this.

He is a proper researcher.

I am...well...I am me.

I like working with constraints.

I learnt this late in life.

Constraints offer space for play.
Constraints offer space for creativity.

I was only too happy to do a proper, timed, hierarchical, scripted presentation.

Talking sustainability with @makle1 for #unicollab2018 https://t.co/Wj879hYRsc pic.twitter.com/WjOHszysge

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) April 26, 2018

I felt almost like a grown up.


Dream treading....

Well, I only suggested the working title, the idea that it might be a collaborative autoethnography, that it should bring us together, Teresa, Claude, Marcin and myself in Krakow, Christine in Clermont.

CLAVIER WTF?

I had considerable joy submitting our working title to the research laboratory in my request for funding.

I was only slightly miffed when the title was quietly dropped somewhere along the way.

Between November and April, we worked on our individual narratives, in our individual ways.

We worked together on trying to make sense of our common and individual experiences with CLAVIER.

We grew familiar with our ways of meaning.

Little by little, prompted by an idea of Teresa which nobody really understood or could find a good reason to reject, we started working on a presentation quite unlike anything that any of us were familiar with.

What struck me was the fun, the trust, the creativity of the venture.

Depending on who was available at a given moment, the "performance" would emerge, shaped by each and all of us.

Working with just twenty minutes, I found that they only way to express complexity, emergence, nurtured networks, student led activity et al was with a video form.

As an exercise it was immensely stimulating. 3 minutes, no more than 3 minutes.

Once in Krakow, we had a padlet, slides, a script, stage directions but no real idea of how it might play out as we had never had time to rehearse.

We had never been in the same physical space together at the same time.

Marcin and I met online while I and Claude were eating and drinking in a restaurant to prepare for the presentation on "Sustainability".  There is no "sustainability" without food or drink.

We planned for a "dress rehearsal" of "Lived experience of connected practice."  the day before the "performance".

Teresa was stuck in a shower.

We were going to improvise with Lukasz taking the role of Teresa.

Then I found Teresa out of the shower.

We were saved.

We were able to rehearse "Lived experience of connected practice."

This was indeed lived experience of connected practice.

Dream treading 

The sustainability presentation had gone to plan, now we were sort of ready for the "performance".

We positioned ourselves around the room.

I felt in my element with space to roam.

I felt in my element with possibilities to improvise, to play with the situation.

Teresa moved to take control of the tech.

I remember feeling relieved that she was there.

It was scripted.

I remember feeling really relieved that she was there.

Marcin felt more at ease seated near the front.

I suggested he move towards the middle.

Marcin felt more at ease seated near the front.

Claude was comfortable somewhere near the middle.

I remember feeling in my element at the back, able to observe, to sit with the audience.

I remember Teresa putting her arms on my shoulders to quieten me to let the others speak.

I shall remember the joy of feeling part of something.

Something emerged between us.

Something is not the word.

There was a sense of energy, a space, a connection between us.

I have known this in relationships.

I have known this in churches.

I have known this in theatres.

I have known this in nature.

A sense...of being a part...together and that there is something which we have which connects us.

In aikido they talk of KI.


“While we can learn or study techniques for almost anything we might want to accomplish, real understanding is not the mere accumulation of knowledge. Understanding cannot be realized by listening or reading about the realization of others. It must be achieved firsthand via substantive, direct perception in the moment.” 
― H.E. Davey, Japanese Yoga: The Way of Dynamic Meditation


"But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

Y.B. Yeats.

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.

Censored?

The Empire strikes back!

That's it my secrets have been discovered.
(see cogdog fake ensor here)

Why didn't I protect my brand?

Now they all know.


TOP SECRET RECIPE
A Touches of Sense post includes the following:

Courier Font

Absurd bits of bold text

(which appear for no apparent reason in the middle of a blog post)

Dots....
(He forgot the dots - HA HA HA like a missing hologram - it's clearly a fake)

Life-affirming message/No message/Obscure message/Search the message(s)crypticism

An emotive narrative snatched generally from childhood or some dreary box or Cogdog.

Blood.

Sweat 

Tears.

[LOTS OF TEARS]

Why didn't I protect my brand?

Sh..........(t)

It wasn't as if I didn't have prior warning.

Stolen Cogdog photos in Iceland
Stolen Courosa photos in Canada
Stolen Cormier rhizomatics in Canada
Stolen Dogtrax poems in the Auvergne

Sh......(t)

Cold countries! 
(The Auvergne is very cold in winter)

That's it. Beware Cold countries.

They spend more time on the net.

KimDoTCOM - cold Country.

He will have his MEGAcomeuppance.

Sh...(t)

How did Cogdog know I was about to post about COFFEE?
How did Cogdog know I was about to post about COFFEE?
How did Cogdog know I was about to post  about bored CROWS?

I have been hacked.
I have been counterfeited.
I have been COUNTERFêTED (note clever French reference)

My crows have been hacked.

Then the bit about the WOODWIND band.

That is my grand-father second from the left.

NO you can't use my grandfather's photo. (Search for the link - CLUE it's on the left)

How did he know?
How did he know?
How did he know?

[Note absurd repetition for no apparent reason that is part of my BRAND - so don't copy, copy, copy...]

How did he know?

Now I understand why he wants an open web.

It is to take our idea.

MY IDEA.

I shall review privacy settings.

I SHALL LIVE IN A CAVE. 
(with no wifi)
I SHALL ENTER INTO FRIENDSHIP WITH giant killer SPIDERS


NoONE shall read.

NoONE shall know.

NoONE shall care.

MY PRECIOUS, MY PRECIOUS.

AHHHHHHHHHHH

sensor63 falls into MAGMA lake and sizzles like a sausage.

END

Thank you @cogdog for inspiring this tragic investigation into the ownership of cultural CAPITAL
[cash in post]


Please note Social Capital is all MINE.


CASH IN POST

Enclosed:

New Cogdog Bank note:  #d$106 dollars  

Let it bleed...

I watched the pin-prick of crimson gradually spread out to become an ugly bleeding blotch on the sheet.

I couldn't quite comprehend that the stain belonged in me.

As the blood crept up the bedclothes, I was suddenly afraid.

What if I were dying?

I was feverous, I was not quite conscious of what was going on...

Ringing for help seemed like a sensible thing to do.

How wrong could I be? 

I imagined that they would somehow comfort me. Wasn't that what they do in hospitals?

A nurse appeared, she looked at the stain.

She didn't seem to take any notice whatsoever of my fear.

Without a word she disappeared and came back with unidentifiable instruments.

The look of the instruments made me more afraid.

Her silence, and in particular her rictus terrified me.

When I saw what she was planning to do, I mustered all my strength to shout.

"No, no, stop."

It was too late.

She killed the person that I had been.

She killed the youth that I had had that night.

I knew that I was effectively dead. 

How does one live when one knows one is dead?

I was half alive and I came home.

Nobody would have guessed, but I knew.

To the outside world perhaps I appeared sad.

Death is not sadness.

How do you live after death?

I went through  many metamorphoses over the years, I was like a snake shedding its skin.

Shock at trauma was my first noticeable state.

I couldn't even put words to my distress.

Shock was replaced with a refusal to accept that what had happened was my reality.

This was all a nightmare. 

I would awake from this nonsense.

The nightmare was resistant.

My father said,

"You have been through hell."

He was wrong, I lived still in hell.

I was consumed with rage, with hatred.

Why me?

Didn't they realise that I had a life to live?

How could they have got everything so horribly wrong...the bastards.

How do you sue doctors?

How do you make them understand the suffering that they have caused you?

I will find a solution.

I exhausted myself in my monomania.

There must be a way out of this situation.

I will find a competent doctor,  a man, a woman I can trust.

Each new attempt to be cured was met with hope, euphoria at the idea that I had been clever enough to find the real expert amongst the quacks.

Each time, the energy spent on the idea of a cure was drained out of me when the promise of rebirth came to nothing.

I found love, how could I trust?

How can you trust someone when you are no longer the person that you love? 

I felt always as if I was cheating. I was sure that people would realise that I was simply wearing a mask.

I was doing my best to wear my mask.

My mask of me. 

My mask of me before the rictus.

I felt always that they would discover my truth.

I was undead, I was unmeritting of love.

I refused to love myself, the self that I had become.

Let it bleed

There is still a part of me that is undead.

I will not let the hope of life die.

The memory of what I was has dimmed, but I can go back there now without fear of paralysis or pain.

There is still all that I am, all the rage, all the love, all the fear embodied in this stain of life.

I am learning to accept suffering as part of my story, a part of my story that I can repaint to show a light.
I am learning to accept suffering as part of our story, a part of our story that we must repaint to show a ligtht.

Let us rage over our lost youth, our lost stories, our lost loves.

Let us bleed our life over blank sheets.

Let us weep.

These sheets are tagged with our humanity.

Let it bleed my friends, it is that which binds us.

Let us laugh out loud at this madness.

Laughter gives us strength.

While we may...

I remember seeing a man with AIDS, homeless on the streets, he was brandishing a banner.

"Why not me?"

I got the joke.

Behind closed doors.

All discussion was useless.

Sentence had been passed.





Fat reddened neck, sweat glistening, opened shirt collar, tie slightly to one side, beige suit,  I watched between my legs as he raised his arm high.

Time seemed as if suspended.

I was taken aback by the severity of the impact of the metre long bamboo cane.

Then he did it again.

My confidence in school justice took a hefty wallop.

My mates were pretty impressed at the heroic bruising which lasted two months.

I was one of the fortunate ones.

I met a fellow victim of gratuitous violence a few years on.

In retrospect, it is amazing that he survived.

Over a period of four years, the red-neck beat the child over 145 times.

I do not apologise for opening the door.

Heavy petting

There were a number of us who brought their pet rodents to school.

One even had a snake.

I must have been captivated enough in Latin class.

I called my gerbil twins Romulus and Remus.
.
They accompanied me in their cage to school.

I was somewhat envious of the kids who were invited on the boat in the Lake District.

I was one of the fortunate ones.

The science teacher didn't seem to go for me.

Pet grooming led naturally to heavy petting.

I do not apologise for opening the door.


Painting and decorating

The kids were not the studying types.

The kids were not keen apprentice painters or decorators.

They were docile, drugged and compliant.

They had, as far as their teachers' reports read, completed the English program.

They had, as far as their student exercise books read, copied the English program.

They had, as far as I could make out, understood nothing of what they had spent so many hours copying.

They had decorated the space.

There was one kid who always arrived late.

He appeared incapable of any sort of concentration.

He was blind in one eye.

He had problems of balance due to a deformity of his inner ear.

He clearly didn't have the slightest idea of what was going on.

Apparently nobody bothered to mention to him that being forbidden from climbing up ladders or on scaffolding might some day handicap any attempt of his at finding meaningful employment.

I gave up with English, we listened to the kids speaking Arabic, Portuguese, and Wolof.

They seemed to enjoy speaking their languages.

I didn't follow the copying program.

I was one of the untrustworthy ones.

English teaching seemed to be superfluous.

I don't apologise for opening the door.

Artful...as in Dodger.

A giant of a boy threw himself at what he considered to be the easiest route to the try-line.

The easiest route was...myself.

He took the wrong route.

He stopped short...

The bigger they are...the harder they fall and all.

I enjoyed tackling.

"Bravo that boy, very brave!"

I smirked, I admit to being not a little proud of that tackle.

Refereeing the match was a talent-scouting house-master who went by the name of Dracula.

A few months later, I was in Dracula's study.

"Tell me, Simon, what are your ambitions?"

"I would like to play rugby for England."

"Yes, yes... but what else?"

"Would you like to be head-boy for example?"

"No, I think it is ridiculous that older boys have power over younger ones, I think the idea that monitors are the only ones who are allowed to wear brown shoes is...ridiculous."

I liked the word ridiculous, particularly the stress on 'dic' and the  two last syllables, I liked the way the tongue moved to say it.


I embodied disdain. 

From that moment, I was marked as a nuisance, an annoyance, one not to be trusted.

Not even brown shoes would buy me, good heavens.

His final words when I finally escaped his clutches were:

"We shall miss Simon's way of... er making his position...er his disagreement...clear."

Prostitution Ring

"Are you prepared to prostitute yourself for this agency?"

I was a little surprised at the up-frontness of the interview question.

I figured that that was how they must speak in Public Relations.

"Of course."

I said it, convincingly enough for them to move onto the next question.

"Would you like to drive a BMW? All our executives get to drive BMW's."

I wasn't too sure about the BMW.

The serial car-incidents flashed before mine eyes.

• My father's Austin - Gate post.
• The vinyard's Citroen Van - Dangerously close to tumbling down a valley near Beziers.
• The boss's Morris - Ran out of petrol in rush hour in Oxford Street.
• The boss's Citroen - Break-down in Camden
• The boss's Transit Van - Scratched before exiting car-dealers.
• The boss's Taxi - Abandonned while driving itself in Drive.
• The four driving tests - FAILED.

I reckoned that the BMW could probably wait.

Coffee-mourning

I was invited at the weekend for a coffee.

I thought that that was a little suspicious.

It appears one always gets offered a cup of bloody coffee when they give you the sack.

"Thank you for giving me the sack, that way I will not have to put up with any more of your stupid jokes and I will be entitled to unemployment benefit, as otherwise I would have had to have  resigned."

Those were the words that I remember spitting, or words to that effect.


Trust me. It's Official.

As we are talking about TRUST this week here in Connected Courses, I feel the need to come clean.

I love working in a team for a cause that I can embrace, fully.

I enjoy being in a band of imagined villains, pirates, outlaws.

I am terribly uncomfortable with badges, labels, official sort of stuff...

Unless of course it is part of a piratical plan.

If that's the deal, "Ahoy mates!"

The Academy won't save us. 

Oscar might come in handy.

I am brought back to a book of one of my favourite authors Joe Simpson - him of Touching the Void.
He never really comes to terms with the idea that one day he will not be a marginal climber on the dole.

I am, I suppose, like my friend Terry Elliott, an outsider.

I reread his article this evening: Iconoclasty 101: Outsiders in Academe for reassurance.


The Academy won't save us!

I want to enable us to have a space where it is difficult to distinguish facilitators from facilitators.

I want to us to have all sorts of biographies, all sorts of photos of unknown urchins with whom we may connect.

Artful then?

I am not sure how possible it is for me to be other than....

Dodger...

Pulling here, pulling there and giving a broad grin to a band of fellow urchins.

For Mia, Howard, Claudia et al.

Compagnie d'apprenants

Rounders, the ball comes my way, I give it a big wallop and then run round, sort of.

Here's a sort of wallop:

I was in Nancy in November 2010, for a conference which I blogged about in "What are you?".

That was one perspective on a process I have been living over a number of years. I was there to talk of  "company of learners" - "Compagnie d'apprenants" in the company of learners.

I felt, perhaps wrongly as a result of my own fear, that I wasn't in the company of learners.

My anger comes out in my blog post. I am not sorry for my anger.

I felt unable to connect.

I was in Clermont in 2008, a maverick, to talk about using social networks in teaching , my mother had just died, the internet didn't work, I felt unable to connect with many of the people there. I was over the edge.

The words of one of my students, one of my fellow learners helped me continue. Those words, some of them, are translated here in this post Nagasaki mon amour.


I was in Pau in 2010 to talk about how to find meaning in language learning with connecting learners via their passions, via affinity.

I attended the conference in secret. 

During the summer I wrote unexpectedly a sort of article in French while sitting next to a swimming pool, I didn't know I didn't have to write an article.

I was able to write an article, to come so far because of my colleague Marie Christine Rustan.

Without her, nothing would have happened. I would have remained isolated probably, unhappily in a disconnected classroom.

She helped me with my French, she helped me fight.

She trusted me. 

This is a tribute to her, to all the learners with whom I have been able to learn - sometimes despite them.

They put up with me

This is a tribute to my wife, my two sons, two daughters who help(ed) me with my French, miscellaneous cats, dog and fish and all my family spread out around the world and elsewhere.

I spent hours writing that article I didn't have to write. I am not sure what my family thought.

It would have been difficult to explain.

Aikido taught me to respect the other as myself.

Pau is a long way from our home. My family came with me, the internet didn't work, my family had made great sacrifice to accompany me, their anger helped me to complain to the organisers to find another slot.

I spoke, I was in tears at all the frustration I had felt, the people in the room were touched.

I was touched. 

That would be Taches de Sens dans les Nuages

The accompanying portfolio/website would be Taches de Sens

I started a blog.
This would be this  Touches of Sense
I didn't really know why or if I would ever write more than one post.
To boldy go represents the first.
It will also represent the last.


I came out in the open.

I started to find wider support in my institution.

I was able to go to Learning without frontiers in January 2011 in 2012.
I was able to spend special privileged time in the company of my uncle in his final two years.
I was able to see Steve Wheeler speak.
I learnt what Twitter was about.
I began to feel really connected.
I was no longer alone.
I might be a maverick, a one-off.
I was no longer weird.
I wasn't completely crazy.

In April 2012, I fulfilled my ambition to speak at the Plymouth Enhanced Learning Conference.

I felt able to experiment, to venture into Nomad's Land.

There were not many people present but the voices of Alec Couros and another person who spoke with me after, reassured me. I felt connected, I felt supported. I could take risks, safely.

I wrote about this experience here in Swings and Roundabouts.


I met Catherine Cronin, I think first in London and then again in Plymouth, I met Mary Anne Reilly, we spoke over dinner about Nomads, about Rhizomatic Learning. I felt connected. I felt that I could communicate, I felt nurtured. I was not alone.

In September 2011 a connection with my friend Teresa Mackinnon, met on Steve Wheeler's blog Learning with e's, opened up a path to connected learning via his blog via Twitter. It was thanks to his blog that I learnt that I could comment safely, the perhaps that I might even blog. I felt as many do I had nothing to say. I could never contribute anything. I still lived with the words of an ex-boss in PR,

 "and you can't bloody write".
(not like you Tony, not like you)

With only an hour face-to-face meeting with my friend Claude Tregoat we set up connections for 500 students in a project which would become to be known as CLAVIER.

They trusted me!  

In August 2012, with my colleague and research mentor Christine Rodrigues, she trusted me (I didn't know how some of you guys do research stuff) (I didn't know how to use the library) I was able to get a presentation, a study on social networks of language learners online, entitled Building Bridges, accepted at Eurocall in Sweden. We still have to find the time to write the article.

I met with my friend Marcin Kleban. After a twenty minute discussion we started a project of 40 language teachers and learners, he trusted me.. I met with my friend Blaise Ngandeu, I was able to learn about Nexus Analysis from my friend Maritta Riekki.

Suddenly people in my institution appeared to be taking what I had to say seriously..to almost trust me.

In August 2013, with my colleagues Christine Rodrigues and now Marcin Kleban we presented again at Eurocall in Portugal a study, Telecollaboration in Historical Spaces, looking at the barriers and openings  to widening connected learning among teachers and learners.

We are still looking for a place to publish the article. So if anybody has some bright ideas?

Meanwhile Teresa Mackinnon has been able to represent our rhizomatically evolving project in the UK and elsewhere got it accepted as a case study by a European Project.

In January 2014, I signed up and played along with Dave Cormier's Rhizomatic Learning Course, I started with no time, plenty of fear, and no expectations.  I found that not only I could write regularly when well connected but with ease.

I was able to really accelerate my reflection, my competences, my network connections, my vision of my place in this world.

I dabbled along with the #ds106 crew, that was fun.

That was a new sandbox.

In August 2014, I followed my friends Terry Elliot, Kevin Hodgson, Keith Hamon, into CLMOOC, I learnt to haiku, I rediscovered my love for art. I met a new friend Susan Watson. That playing around naturally led to Connected Courses.

There were names that were already familiar to me:

Howard Rheingold (yes he speaks)
Jim Groom (yes he speaks and speaks)
Alan Levine from #ds106 (he seems to have the biggest spanner),
Alec Couros, (he has lots and lots of great slides and talks and makes us laugh and think)
Mike Wesch - the guy who helped a bunch of students to make 'Visions of students today.
Mimi Ito, (I just read your report, and your book thanks a lot!)
Helen Keegan the one from Salford who does amazing stuff with gamification in front of Manchester Town Hall...et al.

I had already connected myself with their worlds through Youtube, through books, through Steve Wheeler, through lurking but never participating in MOOCS with Steven Downes et al.


Meanwhile our CLAVIER #tag is expanding its attention like topsy, people are popping up from all over the place to connect with us. These are heady days for a teacher who was told off, warned that his career might suffer if I didn't just teach. That was the worst thing they could have said to me. I found pleasure, space, just to play, to learn, to connect, to teach in secret. This is no longer a secret.

This morning, after a blog post I shared with my friend Maha Bali, a few tweet chats with more of the rhizo14 crew.

I found a moment to watch Catherine Cronin's ALT Keynote: Navigating the Marvellous.

 All the thoughts about space, about openness, trust, respect of learning across spaces, the importance of hermes-like tags which can cross boundaries,were as if condensed in her conference.

That for today is quite possibly the best conference I have attended Catherine. A special thank you.

You know there are moments when things just click.

Things have just clicked.

These Connected courses may not yet have started...but for me the connected courses started in an open classroom in 1995 with a group of unemployed language learners. It was impossible to teach in a traditional way. For me these connected courses started way, way back before I was even an embryo.

This has been a pretty long warm up to this class.

Rhizomatic learning expresses how I learn, how I have lived my life.
It has brought me to write these lines.
I write as Catherine says not with hubris but with humility.

I am now out of in the open. I am unmasked.

I trust myself and I trust you.

This/I/We is/are a product of converging lines, conflict, resonance, trust, play, and love.

I feel that finally I am indeed connected in my disconnections and that indeed with my diverse particles I belong somehow, somewhere in the company of fellow learners.

I thank you.

You mean an awful lot.


(Note to self. That was unexpected)
(Note to self - I think this is what Maha calls a Meta post?)