Thursday, 10:25 am

Marion street footbridge off the ferry, walking amidst a gaggle of schoolchildren on an excursion to the big city. We pass a panhandler, one of the regulars. He puts his plastic cup to the side and calls out, “Stay in school, kids. And do your homework! … You don’t want to end up like me.”

His eyes sparkle with a smile that the children see and return. The sun comes out just then, brilliant and bold, and my eyes sting with sudden tears.

Laid up in bed with the flu and flying around the world with my laptop.

Gurinder Osan Copyright 2009 AP

I was reading the print version (per our Sunday Luddite ritual of morning paper in bed, sections strewn across the duvet and ink blacking my fingers) of Pacific Northwest magazine and found this short travel article on Sikkim, India alluring, intriguing, inspiring. I think most of it is due to the photo, which was taken by AP photographer Gurinder Osan, who specializes in social documentary photography. His perspective reminds me of the best National Geographic photography, which I grew up poring over. A little web searching brought me to his 2005 photo of Kashmir earthquake survivors, with its breathtaking composition and beauty amidst such suffering.

Gurinder Osan Copyright 2005 AP

The Arts and Life section has a piece on Rufus Wainwright, who’s playing tonight at Benaroya Hall–and that brought us to listening to his cover of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. Just beautiful.

And then the even more beautiful version by Jeff Buckley: I could listen to this a million times and still get my heart broken and uplifted all in the same song.

Here’s the link.

And finally, Imogen Heap’s version.

S. and her friend went as a star and moon this year.

One of the houses we walked by on our jaunt to town.

Cuts quite a dapper figure, does Richard.

My favorite costumes this year were all the jellyfish streaming and swirling in the crowd.

And as always, my no-fuss witch costume.

Having just sat through a lecture on rhetoric theory and discourse communities, I got a first-hand immersion in at least 3 different discourse communities bumping up against each other on the 72 bus from the U district to downtown yesterday.

U-District, 3:45 pm

The bus is full, packed tighter than usual. I move in line further and further toward the back of the bus, where a pack of hispanic teen-aged girls is giggling maniacally. Loud sighs from riders around me signal their frustration with the girls’ noise level. They go on, oblivious or maybe defiant. I stand with one hand on the rail, keeping my balance, keeping my eyes on the city streaming past the window.

A young black man to my left suddenly shouts at them to shut up and they respond with racial taunts. The man lets everyone know that he’s a pimp from Vegas who’s done time and he won’t put up with this s—.

Ahead a few feet, a young white man with long hair pulled into a ponytail turns around and identifies himself as a Rastafarian from Tacoma. A few muffled laughs, a guffaw, some disparaging snorting rises from the riders around him. He says he knows when it’s time to chill out. “Settle down, little brother,” he tells the black man.

The pimp yells, “I’m not your m—f—ing brother. I’m black! You’re white, man.”

The Rastafarian smiles and says, “Yeah, but I’m also half Sasquatch. You learn anything in prison, little brother? Like how to modulate your voice in public. You need to mod-u-late your voice, man.”

“I’m a g-damned n—! I ain’t gonna lower my f—ing voice. I’m a snap some necks on this f—ing bus and not give a f—. That’s what I’ll do.”

The girls in the back of the bus start in again on their sing-song chant about charcoal. The black man roars for them to shut up and I move a step away from him, careful to be casual. I’m an accidental player on this stage with no desire for spoken lines.

The white Rastaman reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out a gun.

“This is a Captain Hook squirt gun,” he says as the bus erupts with tension into small screams and roaring laughter. He lectures the pimp on how he only uses a water gun, how he doesn’t kill. He’s still going strong when the black man throws up his hands, says he’s had enough, and steps off the bus at Convention Place Center. The Rasta exits also. The bus driver, miles away at the front of the bus, drives on.

Yesterday evening, I took the camera out to the backyard to try to capture the strange and beautiful pearlescent light that’s been hovering lately. While my eyes saw things as bathed with silvery light, it was just too dark for shooting without a tripod. These couple of shots are the least blurry of the bunch–the first is looking over the backyard to the west, and the second is of my asparagus berries. Pretty, huh?

I’m just waiting for the first killing frost–so far, the nasturtiums and the artichoke act like it’s still high summer, but wowsa–is it ever cold this morning! 36 degrees while I stood out with the kiddos for their morning bus a few minutes ago.

As we trudged up the hill toward the east, A. said, “Look at the fogwork! It’s beautiful.” The clouds were cresting and curling in that same amazing light as our teeth chattered and we kissed goodbye for the day.

Suyematsu Farms, B.I.

The guiding rule for the kiddos is they must be able to pick up and carry their pumpkin. S. managed to lug this one to the wagon–it weighed in at 25 lbs! I hope at least a pound of that is pumpkin seeds to roast and eat later.

The air at the farm was full of autumn smells that took me right back to childhood: steaming hot horses, damp straw bales, sweet clean smell of squash.

Make brandied pear sauce:

approximately 8 pounds of ripe Bosc pears
2 oz brandy
1 tsp cinnamon
2 tsp ground cardamom
2 oz lemon juice

Peel and core pears. Put pears, brandy, cinnamon, and cardamom in a heavy stockpot and simmer until pears are soft. Add lemon juice. Pour into blender and puree, then pour back into stockpot to reduce for about 30 minutes. When it’s lovely and viscous, ladle it into containers (I’m going to freeze these jelly jars–which you can do if the jars are straight-sided).

With a scoop of vanilla ice cream, I bet this tastes like pear gelato. I’ll soon find out!

I read an interesting paper today in preparation for one of my classes: Gail Stygall’s “Resisting Privilege: Basic Writing and Foucault’s Author Function.”

She notes that 90% of teachers’ comments on basic writing is negative. You can just see the red angry circles, slashes, corrections, etc. on the kind of papers Stygall describes, and she brings to light an ironic truth: the students that need the most support get the most censure.

So it goes with parenting and my dear first-born. I realized something tonight after a particularly trying interaction: while my instinct is to correct and censure and scold, she needs me to praise her efforts and intentions and look for opportunities to praise. Turns out that being a student and being a parent are recursive roles.

Yesterday I practiced grading some papers; that is, I read through essays high school students had written and scored them according to the 6 + 1 traits. This system attempts to make the process more uniform and less subjective than it has traditionally been, and I found it a natural and easy way to make my way through the papers. I’ll find out on Tuesday what the papers actually earned (the essays were from standardized test prompts), and we’ll see if I’m a cranky ogre in need of reform or an old softie inclined to go easy.

Because this was the first time I have actually sat down to grade student essays, I wanted to establish a habit of being completely present for the reading and scoring. I think working from home can be very convenient and constructive for some projects, but for grading and commenting on papers, I want to be away from homespace. I went to the library and set up in a carrell, which worked perfectly for my purposes. I read the papers all in one go, with no distractions, which is one way I think teachers can try to control for the subjectivity inherent in scoring essays.

After a few days of rain, the mushrooms are ponderous and prolific in the Grand Forest.

Mushroom, Anthropologie style: nice mix of ruffles and gorgeous delicate hue.

I saw a number of these inside-out fellows. They remind me of umbrellas in too stiff a wind, ribs to the sky.

This one is the most intriguing shade of metallic purple. You know, I’m coming around on purple lately.

And this meaty guy thinks he’s a ruffled oyster stranded far from the sea.