Thoughts
Like Blackbirds
Flying in While I fill out
My ARSE
I’’ll teach
thru my
current tenure
allotment—couple of years
left,
where, unless seduced
and falling off into moral
turpitude,
I reckon
I’m enabled to
ply my pedagogical
stalwart
pioneering
even as it
loses credibility with
an upcoming fully tech-savvy
generation
longing for old-school
lectures, leadership, regulation
and rectitude to help make
sense of the whelm of
facts, data,
mixed-media
laptop varieties
of mobile always- at-hand information;
& my
seeming self-reliant
educing anarchy & chaos falling out of
supplementary
favor with my palsied
hands, old age, limp, bluster
& appropriately diminishing
authority.
No country for old men.
I will fade
away and you
won’t have me trying to pinch,
pique,
&
provoke my
virtual service
project always for the
sake of argument
& the practice of communal
liberal art any
more. Nothing but aims,
goals,
rubric- assessment and
measurable objectives, signs
& symbols
of
professional growth and
local food—let me count the ways:
conference papers published, conference
panels chaired,
conferences attended,
other invited lectures or talks,
refereed articles published, book
reviews
published. articles
on
books submitted for publication, websites,
blogs maintained
(relevant to
profession), performances, exhibition, and ther work
completed,
performances and other creative work worked,
grants
written and
received, work on research projects,
academic seminars or colloquia
attended, seminars
colloquia that you participated in as an
invited participant
workshops attended, guest lectures for other WWC
courses, any
paid work as a professional in your field (consulting
etc.) unpaid
professional profession service (reviewing manuscripts,
serving as an
external evaluatior. etc), community
engaged scholarship
(combining professional
scholarship
and
community issues.) and
other indicators of professional passion,
excellence,
disciplinary
compulsion & obsession of the University
Kind trippingly off the tongue.
An aged man is but a paltry
thing, A tattered coat
upon a stick,
unless Soul clap its hands and
sing, and louder
sing For every
tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but
studying Monuments
of its own
magnificence;
And
therefore I guess I might could sail the seas
and come
To the holy city of Byzantium..
(Yeats somewhat reconfigured to fit screed)
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