Samuel Scoville: Pedagogies For the Depressed

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Pedagogies For the Depressed

Success strokes, and pampers my Belief.
Failure stokes, sticks and provokes my Faith.
My Faith is absurd. Passes understanding. Makes
no common sense. Ridiculous to the savvy.
Obnoxious to the conscientious. Hate it.

METISs . Be here now devoid of personal agenda

as if in-game response able to hap happening

not what ought to be—lost in it watching my

students one by one zip up their back packs

push in their chairs and walk out of class early.

Done with it. Is what it is.

To Provoke and Educe is not the same deal as

to Instruct and Inform. Really different.

Incommensurate. Pete Provocation and Irene

Instruction walk into a bar. Do you think they’ll

Just Get Along? Who’ll be boss? Dominant

pair of dimes? I’m going to tell you. Give you

the answer. It’ll be on the exam. Write this

down.

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I choose, as a determining POINT in my life, to acknowledge a bullet fired into the armpit of my grandfather, Samuel Scoville, Jr. by a thief in the night sometime in the late 19^thc.

The thief escaped, my grandfather having pulled his own pistol from beneath the pillow, squeezing off a couple of rounds and sending the burglar scurrying into the Connecticut night...

For reasons of family notoriety, the incident was reported in both New York and Philadelphia papers. A former roommate in Philly called up Young Goodman Sam, inviting him down for a weekend gala: The Yale-Penn Football game. “You can take my sister Katherine, and chaperone me and my fiancé, he said.

In those days couples were not advised to be alone. Unaccompanied.

Sam took a steam-driven locomotive train down to Philadelphia, escorted Katherine to the leather-helmet contest, fell in love, asked her to marry him. She did & they lived more or less HAP-ily ever after, generating a tribe of offspring who like wise generated in kind so that if it hadn’t of been for that bullet, well, it’s impossible to begin to consider how unimaginably different life-as-we-know-it would have been. No one can say.

For one thing: YOU, dear Reader, wouldn’t be reading THIS HERE right now, resurrecting these words to walk around in your skull-haus this very be-here-now moment. So even you are impacted forever by that bullet.

(I could drive up to Connecticut right now, retrieve the small bite of lead, drop it in your hand and remind you how co-incidental our life is—how inexplicable, how arbitrary & selective our accounts, how much we omit which is also absolutely necessary, how inadequate our because & affects.)

The bullet is a NECESSARY but INSUFFICIENT cause of who-I-am, without which any explanation would be incomplete. Sam Scoville

Samuel Scoville