jumpingfish

Perhaps you have heard about this Apple ad from 1984 (even if you weren’t watching the Super Bowl halftime on TV that year). The ad never played again, but it was a watershed event, the dawn of a new age.

But even if you know the ad, have you paid attention to exactly what the disembodied head on the screen said — to his full speech up to the point of the hammer throw?

Here is a transcript:

We have created for the first time in all history a garden of pure ideology, where each worker may bloom, secure from the pests of any contradictory true thoughts.

Our Unification of Thoughts is more powerful a weapon than any fleet or army on earth.

We are one people, with one will, one resolve, one cause.

Our enemies shall talk themselves to death and we will bury them with their own confusion.

Relevant today? Why or why not? Discuss.

The second Pyracantha gave up the ghost this summer. The first one died years ago. Neither of them was in a good place, planted under the eves where even when it rained they probably got no water. The passing of the first one never bothered me, and the demise of the second was neither a surprise nor a disappointment. They are non-native invasives. Good riddance.

With a week of vacation ahead of me, I went outside to dig up the second one. I lopped off a branch. And then I leapt back. There was a creature lurking there. 

There behind a sprig that was still alive. There behind the non-native, invasive berries. There on the wall of the house, certainly taking advantage of the warmth to counter the cold front that had just blown in. There was a prehistoric eye staring at me.

I pulled back the bush thinking it was pinned to the wall. It didn’t move. I poked gently at it. It moved lethargically. 

So it was alive. But heck, it was cold. That’s what cold blooded creatures do when it gets cold: they stop moving. So I left it alone.

Hours later, Trudy returned from the store with a reptile cage. She wasn’t convinced by my point of view. She was worried about the lizard, thought it was hurt. She wanted to let it get better. So we put some mulch it the cage. And two sticks. And a Pine cone. And I went outside to get the lizard. 

I pulled back on the pyracantha and picked it off the side of the house. It didn’t flee, but after I had it in my fingers, the lizard started twisting and bending and turning its head and snapping its jaws. It turned and twisted, and each time the lizard managed to assess the geometry of the situation better. Each time, its snapping mouth seemed closer to my fingers. 

It is at this very moment that the Fair and Industrious Trudy came out with the reptile cage into which I promptly deposited the lizard, and we took him inside.

The story ends well, we think, for the lizard. As it warmed up, it became more active. And as it became more active, we convinced ourselves that there was nothing wrong with it. So although we’ve never seen a Texas Spiny Lizard ever sitting still on the side of our house, we figure that the lizard knew that the neighbor’s cat was on the prowl (much to our dissatisfaction) — that the cat had the lizard pinned down. And that since it was cold outside, the lizard couldn’t dash off in the way that Spiny Lizards usually do. 

So we release our guest into the undergrowth of the backyard, hopefully far enough away from that cat (for a while, at least), that a refuge might be found. It watched us warily from the cage after we opened it. It moved slowly at first, unsure perhaps of what this new turn of events meant. And then with a poke or two from some Pine needles, it dashed under some wood.

And we probably won’t see it until next spring.

Tonite I drove into the darkness. Under the overpass. Around the turn. Past the corner where the street lamp shines. Up the ramp. Into the darkness.

The city was shining in the distance. Skyscrapers punctuating the black along the river.

Over the bridge. My exit approached. In no time, I was speeding back thru the darkness, across the bridge, over the river, back past the shining city. To the corner where the street lamp shines. And the driveway where Trudy’s car had beaten me home.

She arrived before me, because I had driven out into the darkness and back. And she had to feed the doggies. And she was waiting and laughing in the driveway when I came home. Because I was supposed to get home first and feed the doggies. Except that I didn’t. Because… of the driving into the darkness.

I was observing another teacher’s classroom a few weeks ago. They were studying forms of government — anarchy, theocracy, monarchy, democracy, … The discussions that flowed in that class were nothing like what we get in mine. After all, how excited can students get discussing how the discriminant in the quadratic formula determines the number and types of solutions — whether they are rational or irrational or complex or… (You see what I mean?)

Anyway, they were talking about absolute monarchy. The teacher had some notes in her power point that the students were dutifully copying down — clearly a procedure that is a standard part of every day.

A girl raised her hand.

“Is Lichtenstein an example of an absolute monarchy?” she asked.

Someone in the back of the room said, “Geez, how do you know so much!?”

The teacher paused for a moment and then suggested, “…because she reads!”

A student of mine had been struggling. He knew it, and he would come in for help during tutorials. He asked good questions. He tried hard. I sent some links to Khan Academy to give him additional background and practice. Since then, he’s been more comfortable with the material, and his grades have been inching up.

It was Friday. It was the end of the day, and there was a beach-themed pep rally in the gym. The freshmen, sophomores, juniors and seniors were arrayed in their quarters of the bleachers. I was standing in my Hawaiian shirt among the seniors, periodically scanning left and right — letting them know I was there, letting them know I was watching. Sometimes this is successful. Sometimes it is not, and I have to step into the middle of a mass of boys horsing around a bit too much. (Nothing like a teacher in your midst to dampen the fun!)

Thi student I mentioned was off to my left. He saw me scanning. He smiled and then his eyes went wide. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a piece of paper and ran over to where I was standing, handing me the sheet. It was a set of problems I had assigned as extra credit. 

I smiled and took the paper. He smiled back and then dashed back to where he had been standing.

Then he looked back at me and held out a thumbs up. 

I smiled, nodded, and folded the paper and put it into my pocket.