13 hours ago
Saturday, February 12, 2005
In New York: a surreal walk
The gates spill out their skirts today. Christo, the artist, has repeatedly said that there is no “opening show,” no beginning, that it is a process, continuing throughout the day, until all 7500 gates have released their saffron splendor. But yesterday, a Gates worker told me that they are to start unfurling the fabric just about at 8:30 in the morning.
The blogosphere is represented in the press box, along with the major news networks
I am in the Park at 8. I’ve never seen it so crowded on a week-end morning! Palpable restlessness, people looking around at the still tightly closed gates. I spot a film camera. I follow its owner. He seems to be heading somewhere. Maybe he knows something I don’t know.
He does! Suddenly I am in a place where a large crowd has gathered. Police are keeping the public away, but there is a press box, right next to the gates. Press? The guard shouts to the man I am following. Yes! -- the cameraman shouts back. He has an ID around his neck and an assistant at his elbow. This way! -- he is told. I follow close behind. I wonder if I can get away with this. I can! I am in on the press stand, with the cameras and people with fancy equipment. I tell myself: if I am questioned, I’ll say I, too am writing for the public!
No one questions me. I feel somewhat foolish with my nice little Sony digital. Everyone’s equipment is monstrously complicated. They are exchanging comments on the light and camera settings. I join in when the discussion turns to yesterday’s brilliant sky. Still, no one asks what the hell I am doing there. It must be my black coat – it gets me places.
There is a flurry of activity toward the front. The TV cameras and mikes surge forward, I go with them. I shout with the rest: get down, get down! Move that elbow! Moreover, I have the audacity to push toward the front. I’m short! -- I plead. I am right at the front.
The first gate releases its saffron skirt.
Christo and Jeanne-Claude are here. So is the mayor. So am I. The first skirt comes down. Perfect! Watch out, you have to step back or the cardboard roll will beam you on the head! Mayor Bloomberg is doing the honors (see photo below). I had no idea that the fabric would be pleated!
I say to the cameraman next to me – Jeanne-Claude’s hair matches the gates! He answers - That’s the idea. So, does life imitate art, or did Christo design it to correspond to her preferred hair color?
You should have heard the oohs and aahs
I move on. Groups of Gates workers are making their way through segments of the gates, releasing each, one at a time. Small crowds gather around them, watching, clapping and laughing, as each release brings down the clatter of a cardboard roll that held the fabric tightly together. The workers are equally delighted. They take turns and they photograph each other as we photograph them.
Pockets of community, right in the center of the city. Helicopters buzzing overhead. Joy in the faces of those who are performing for us and those who are watching, participating. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.
The blogosphere is represented in the press box, along with the major news networks
I am in the Park at 8. I’ve never seen it so crowded on a week-end morning! Palpable restlessness, people looking around at the still tightly closed gates. I spot a film camera. I follow its owner. He seems to be heading somewhere. Maybe he knows something I don’t know.
He does! Suddenly I am in a place where a large crowd has gathered. Police are keeping the public away, but there is a press box, right next to the gates. Press? The guard shouts to the man I am following. Yes! -- the cameraman shouts back. He has an ID around his neck and an assistant at his elbow. This way! -- he is told. I follow close behind. I wonder if I can get away with this. I can! I am in on the press stand, with the cameras and people with fancy equipment. I tell myself: if I am questioned, I’ll say I, too am writing for the public!
No one questions me. I feel somewhat foolish with my nice little Sony digital. Everyone’s equipment is monstrously complicated. They are exchanging comments on the light and camera settings. I join in when the discussion turns to yesterday’s brilliant sky. Still, no one asks what the hell I am doing there. It must be my black coat – it gets me places.
There is a flurry of activity toward the front. The TV cameras and mikes surge forward, I go with them. I shout with the rest: get down, get down! Move that elbow! Moreover, I have the audacity to push toward the front. I’m short! -- I plead. I am right at the front.
The first gate releases its saffron skirt.
Christo and Jeanne-Claude are here. So is the mayor. So am I. The first skirt comes down. Perfect! Watch out, you have to step back or the cardboard roll will beam you on the head! Mayor Bloomberg is doing the honors (see photo below). I had no idea that the fabric would be pleated!
I say to the cameraman next to me – Jeanne-Claude’s hair matches the gates! He answers - That’s the idea. So, does life imitate art, or did Christo design it to correspond to her preferred hair color?
You should have heard the oohs and aahs
I move on. Groups of Gates workers are making their way through segments of the gates, releasing each, one at a time. Small crowds gather around them, watching, clapping and laughing, as each release brings down the clatter of a cardboard roll that held the fabric tightly together. The workers are equally delighted. They take turns and they photograph each other as we photograph them.
Pockets of community, right in the center of the city. Helicopters buzzing overhead. Joy in the faces of those who are performing for us and those who are watching, participating. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.
Friday, February 11, 2005
In New York: The Gates pre-show, part 2
Last moments before the tightly held cocoons at the top of the gates are opened. I walk to Whole Foods – why? Because it forces me to cross Central Park once more (and I am feeding a familial addiction to Angel Fluffs – see photo below). The wind will not let up. I could imagine it doing beautiful things with the banners – but those wont be released until tomorrow.
I love listening to the comments of people who are in the park… Is there a deeper meaning to this? -- one asks. No, I think we should just regard this as a statement about orange – is the response. Take a photo of me lying down next to the post! And: did it really cost $21 million? Is it worth it? My own response: we live in a world were beautiful things are provided for people who can afford them all the time. Why object to something that is so absolutely free, and so enchanting?
You should see the smiles on people’s faces! This is so new to me, being here in the middle of the city and observing how people slow down to take it all in. Pedestrians walk through, with buggies, with groceries (me!), and they comment and say accurate and inaccurate facts about it, but you can tell that they are enchanted. And this is still before the letting go of the saffron banners.
Just a few more photos, so you can see how different the light is in Central Park in the late afternoon, just before dusk.
I love listening to the comments of people who are in the park… Is there a deeper meaning to this? -- one asks. No, I think we should just regard this as a statement about orange – is the response. Take a photo of me lying down next to the post! And: did it really cost $21 million? Is it worth it? My own response: we live in a world were beautiful things are provided for people who can afford them all the time. Why object to something that is so absolutely free, and so enchanting?
You should see the smiles on people’s faces! This is so new to me, being here in the middle of the city and observing how people slow down to take it all in. Pedestrians walk through, with buggies, with groceries (me!), and they comment and say accurate and inaccurate facts about it, but you can tell that they are enchanted. And this is still before the letting go of the saffron banners.
Just a few more photos, so you can see how different the light is in Central Park in the late afternoon, just before dusk.
In New York: The Gates pre-show
I take my time this morning. It’s almost as if I don’t want to be overwhelmed just yet.
[Besides, the wind is vicious. Last night, the flight into La Guardia battled the invisible bursts of air and I think many of us wondered if the plane would give up and land at any random place, instead of the runway. In the end it was routed the “old” way, the way you used to fly in before September 11th, just to the right of Manhattan. The man next to me, sitting huddled into his jacket with a cap pulled low over his head, became excited by the flight, the winds, the entire experience. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a candy bar and insisted that I share. So sweet – both the candy bar and him.]
But by 9, I can’t take my own diddling and I head out, up on 64th where I am staying, into Central Park at the Zoo entrance.
And immediately I see the difference between this and Christo’s earlier California art project, “Running Fence.” New York’s “The Gates” (or, in its full name: “The Gates Central Park, New York City 1979 – 2005,” referring to the time it took, logistically, politically, otherwise, to put this 16-day wonder on the City turf) are not a contiguous serpentine. They follow a curve, a path, a road and then they stop, only to be picked up again elsewhere.
The result is nothing short of magnificent. True, the colors were matched to this day: the blue of the sky reflects against the glass buildings, the grayish brown of the land retreats to the back and the contrast of the vivid orange against the blue becomes piercingly stunning.
I talk to a group of Gates workers. There are 600 scattered throughout. All are paid $6.25 an hour and are given one free hot meal each day at the park. Wisconsin? I know about Madison! – one says. It’s a progressive state, isn’t it? But so far from everything! Yes to all of that, I answer. Kristen, a worker from Seattle tells me to find her tomorrow. She’ll save me a scrap of fabric (they’ll be handing out swatches of it on a first come basis). Her friend, a retired New Yorker, lifts up the base covers and shows me how each gate was assembled.
I go to the Metropolitan Museum because there, from the Terrace, I know I can get an aerial view. But the terrace is closed to visitors today. A reception is being held there for Christo (people say he is French, but he only lived there later in life, after a childhood in Bulgaria). I go to the elevators anyway. Maybe no one will notice if I go there now, before any of the guests show up. They notice and turn me away. But I think I can catch the elevator on the second floor, without guard interference. I do! I alight at the Trustee’s Dining Room. A receptionist greets me. I tell her I am here just to take a few photos. I hope I sound official. My black coat hides my unofficial looking corduroys. She says – yes of course, go right ahead. I comment on the brilliant weather, the view, the beauty of it all. She smiles.
Outside again it is still cold. I buy a Gates t-shirt in support of Central Park Conservancy. And on Madison Avenue, I snatch a sample pair of prototype boots (next year’s style, sold for one fourth the price). I am lucky because French distributors always use my size as the prototype. The boots are almost orange. My day is complete.
[Besides, the wind is vicious. Last night, the flight into La Guardia battled the invisible bursts of air and I think many of us wondered if the plane would give up and land at any random place, instead of the runway. In the end it was routed the “old” way, the way you used to fly in before September 11th, just to the right of Manhattan. The man next to me, sitting huddled into his jacket with a cap pulled low over his head, became excited by the flight, the winds, the entire experience. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a candy bar and insisted that I share. So sweet – both the candy bar and him.]
But by 9, I can’t take my own diddling and I head out, up on 64th where I am staying, into Central Park at the Zoo entrance.
And immediately I see the difference between this and Christo’s earlier California art project, “Running Fence.” New York’s “The Gates” (or, in its full name: “The Gates Central Park, New York City 1979 – 2005,” referring to the time it took, logistically, politically, otherwise, to put this 16-day wonder on the City turf) are not a contiguous serpentine. They follow a curve, a path, a road and then they stop, only to be picked up again elsewhere.
The result is nothing short of magnificent. True, the colors were matched to this day: the blue of the sky reflects against the glass buildings, the grayish brown of the land retreats to the back and the contrast of the vivid orange against the blue becomes piercingly stunning.
I talk to a group of Gates workers. There are 600 scattered throughout. All are paid $6.25 an hour and are given one free hot meal each day at the park. Wisconsin? I know about Madison! – one says. It’s a progressive state, isn’t it? But so far from everything! Yes to all of that, I answer. Kristen, a worker from Seattle tells me to find her tomorrow. She’ll save me a scrap of fabric (they’ll be handing out swatches of it on a first come basis). Her friend, a retired New Yorker, lifts up the base covers and shows me how each gate was assembled.
I go to the Metropolitan Museum because there, from the Terrace, I know I can get an aerial view. But the terrace is closed to visitors today. A reception is being held there for Christo (people say he is French, but he only lived there later in life, after a childhood in Bulgaria). I go to the elevators anyway. Maybe no one will notice if I go there now, before any of the guests show up. They notice and turn me away. But I think I can catch the elevator on the second floor, without guard interference. I do! I alight at the Trustee’s Dining Room. A receptionist greets me. I tell her I am here just to take a few photos. I hope I sound official. My black coat hides my unofficial looking corduroys. She says – yes of course, go right ahead. I comment on the brilliant weather, the view, the beauty of it all. She smiles.
Outside again it is still cold. I buy a Gates t-shirt in support of Central Park Conservancy. And on Madison Avenue, I snatch a sample pair of prototype boots (next year’s style, sold for one fourth the price). I am lucky because French distributors always use my size as the prototype. The boots are almost orange. My day is complete.
In New York: saffron-colored fabric
7500 gates on 23 miles of footpaths in Central Park. An art project 26 years in the making – up for sixteen days then down again. Like life – born, then left only in the memory.
Christo, the artist writes that it is a golden ceiling creating warm shadows. Newsweek declares it to be a stunning extravaganza whose purity lies partly in being so impractical and ephemeral. Tomorrow, all the cocoons are opened. 7500 impractical gates.
This morning, I'm off to explore the emergent path of saffron. It is up and waiting. The sun is brilliant. The stage is set.
Christo, the artist writes that it is a golden ceiling creating warm shadows. Newsweek declares it to be a stunning extravaganza whose purity lies partly in being so impractical and ephemeral. Tomorrow, all the cocoons are opened. 7500 impractical gates.
This morning, I'm off to explore the emergent path of saffron. It is up and waiting. The sun is brilliant. The stage is set.
Would you accept $10,000 to shave your head and continue your normal activities sans hat or wig without explaining the reason for your haircut?
[In answer to a blogger’s question, as posed here]
Of course! I’d do it for $5,0000. I’d do it for free if a handful of good friends did it with me. I’d eat spiders and get a tattoo. These are only ornamentations in life, they speak to none of the essentials.
Besides, I keep a blog, don’t I? If you think about it, that’s more ridiculous than any of the above.
Of course! I’d do it for $5,0000. I’d do it for free if a handful of good friends did it with me. I’d eat spiders and get a tattoo. These are only ornamentations in life, they speak to none of the essentials.
Besides, I keep a blog, don’t I? If you think about it, that’s more ridiculous than any of the above.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Games, bets, no meals, no automobiles
Gary, an American living in southern Poland, throws out a question for his readers. The deal is we answer it in unison, posting a response on the same day (tomorrow) on our own blogs. Then we compare and contrast.
I had always wanted to do this during one of our blogger dinners in Madison. There, we’d have the pressure of time and no opportunity to cheat and peak. Still, an invitation to simul-blog is always to be treated seriously and so I signed on to the challenge. If you are a blogger, you might want to as well. Just follow the link to the post on trackingsuits. The handful of participants are a wonderful group of bloggers whom you probably haven’t read thus far. Check them out -- they all are thoughtful, creative, interesting and funny (plus Ocean supports any community that crosses an ocean or two -- from India, through Germany, France, to the States and of course, Poland).
I’m off to New York for a few days. Next post will be from there.
I had always wanted to do this during one of our blogger dinners in Madison. There, we’d have the pressure of time and no opportunity to cheat and peak. Still, an invitation to simul-blog is always to be treated seriously and so I signed on to the challenge. If you are a blogger, you might want to as well. Just follow the link to the post on trackingsuits. The handful of participants are a wonderful group of bloggers whom you probably haven’t read thus far. Check them out -- they all are thoughtful, creative, interesting and funny (plus Ocean supports any community that crosses an ocean or two -- from India, through Germany, France, to the States and of course, Poland).
I’m off to New York for a few days. Next post will be from there.
Games, bets, meals and automobiles
I never gamble. I do not want to depend on luck for my good fortune. I have never bought a lottery ticket and I have not touched a slot machine since I was seven and stranded in Vegas for a week (my dad had a car accident while we were passing through; it was his fault, too, but I pretended not to notice this little aside as everyone rallied behind him and caused him to come out financially unscathed).
But Marginal Utility offered a deal I could not resist: Rice on the Republican ticket in 08 - Tom says dinner on him at Charlie Trotter’s in Chicago. The TradesSports politics market indicates I have more than a spittin’ chance to eat my way to culinary heaven if I take on this challenge and so I signed on. My reasoning: it’s not a gamble, it’s a win – win. Rice is the nominee, I get to eat the dinner of the century. She’s not on – I relax (and pay for a round of drinks).
[Listening to her during this last week makes me a little nervous: she has a persuasive edge to her and she may in fact, if she survives the nomination process, pull out a win over our Democratic candidate X, especially since there is no candidate X who at this point even begins to spark anyone’s fancy. I’ll bet anyone (should I pony up a brand new car? If I win, will someone buy me a snazzy brand new car?*) that Feingold will NOT be on the ticket. Damn, this is how betting leads to corruption of the soul and an empty bank account…]
* This is a speculation, not a serious wager; the terms of the Feingold wager are yet to be determined. Always read the fine print!
But Marginal Utility offered a deal I could not resist: Rice on the Republican ticket in 08 - Tom says dinner on him at Charlie Trotter’s in Chicago. The TradesSports politics market indicates I have more than a spittin’ chance to eat my way to culinary heaven if I take on this challenge and so I signed on. My reasoning: it’s not a gamble, it’s a win – win. Rice is the nominee, I get to eat the dinner of the century. She’s not on – I relax (and pay for a round of drinks).
[Listening to her during this last week makes me a little nervous: she has a persuasive edge to her and she may in fact, if she survives the nomination process, pull out a win over our Democratic candidate X, especially since there is no candidate X who at this point even begins to spark anyone’s fancy. I’ll bet anyone (should I pony up a brand new car? If I win, will someone buy me a snazzy brand new car?*) that Feingold will NOT be on the ticket. Damn, this is how betting leads to corruption of the soul and an empty bank account…]
* This is a speculation, not a serious wager; the terms of the Feingold wager are yet to be determined. Always read the fine print!
Blogger Brian's beautiful baby boy is born
A few days late, but who's counting...
I am sending the link to Brian's blog not only so all can admire the picture of his (very new) son (some institutional pride here since Brian is a law student), but also because Brian's second blog (SosySteps) is always good to click on whenever you want to reassure yourself that there is indeed a new generation of wonderful children out there who will someday take charge.
Brian and Kris -- congratulations from all of us!
I am sending the link to Brian's blog not only so all can admire the picture of his (very new) son (some institutional pride here since Brian is a law student), but also because Brian's second blog (SosySteps) is always good to click on whenever you want to reassure yourself that there is indeed a new generation of wonderful children out there who will someday take charge.
Brian and Kris -- congratulations from all of us!
a cowardly, cowering ninny
Over on one of the European blogs, a writer wanted to take a pause for a day (I’m guessing that this was the motivation). He wrote something like this – okay you commenters (he has a fairly regular trickle of them), why don’t you have a conversation among yourselves today? And then he retreated. And they spoke up.
Now, everyone who has ever mentioned the word “blog” to me knows that I am terrified of random people saying random things and so I would never ever enable a Comments function on Ocean. I love it when people write emails to me and I almost always answer. Indeed, I have met some wonderful people in this way. Friends for life and all that. But I am way too marmish and sensitive to give free reign to readers who would, I am certain, slaughter me or something/someone that I care about in public while my attention was elsewhere.
However, today I was tempted, just for this one day, to let people talk while I took a back seat and listened. I have a hell-schedule of teaching and then traveling and I really did not think I could afford to take a moment to post anything. Still, I held back with this kind of an open invitation. Why? Because this is how I imagine the comments would look were I to solicit the words of random readers (I’m making up names, but the personalities are of people that I know read my blog):
Polish kielbasa is inferior to German sausage and in any event I don’t eat sausage. But this does not stop me from posting a comment! Because sausage rules and I rule and you Polish goons, geaks and freaks are all the same, pushing your keilbasa as if it were the import from paradise. Roll out the brats, dude!
-- raving anti-kielbasa lunatic
I came to your blog via xxxx (a PD blog from DC) and I expected some legal insights, given that you are a law prof. I must say I was horribly disappointed. May I suggest picking topics more profound than oatmeal in Pittsburgh or martinis in Madison if you wish to maintain some semblance of a professional reputation?
-- lawyer in limbo
Nie wiem co mam napisac. Na pewno mowisz po Polsku ale ja nic tutaj nie widze co by mi tu odpowiadalo.
-- niezadowolona z Warszawy
Hey muz, how come you haven’t answered our emails in the past 24 hours? And how come you never call? It’s all about your blog now, isn’t it?
-- a *relative* living far from home
I seekth thou, dearest, with sweet suggestion,
For willst thou giveth me indigestion
To think that all doth scorn my syrup
Thou kicketh my ass with one sharp stirrup
-- LDMsquared
O.M.G., it’s that lascivious, lecherous, lunatic again! Get him out of here!
-- embarrassed in eau claire
I recognize the communist overtones in your blog. I looked up your father and learned that he was a member of the Communist Party in Poland during the crucial years of Communism Over There. I am not a communist nor especially loyal to Poland but it pleases me no end to expose you in this way.
--Immigrant from you know where
And so on. Thinking about the range of possible contributors makes me produce more sweat than did the guy at the gym who covered the elliptical machine with a running stream of body water. So, thanks but I am too much of a thin-skinned and tender-hoofed ninny*. I guess I’ll just have to find the time for a (benignly marmish) post myself, work and travel notwithstanding.
*And inevitably someone from my past would write and point out that this was indeed my nickname while in grad school. I won it at a poker game and it stuck.
Now, everyone who has ever mentioned the word “blog” to me knows that I am terrified of random people saying random things and so I would never ever enable a Comments function on Ocean. I love it when people write emails to me and I almost always answer. Indeed, I have met some wonderful people in this way. Friends for life and all that. But I am way too marmish and sensitive to give free reign to readers who would, I am certain, slaughter me or something/someone that I care about in public while my attention was elsewhere.
However, today I was tempted, just for this one day, to let people talk while I took a back seat and listened. I have a hell-schedule of teaching and then traveling and I really did not think I could afford to take a moment to post anything. Still, I held back with this kind of an open invitation. Why? Because this is how I imagine the comments would look were I to solicit the words of random readers (I’m making up names, but the personalities are of people that I know read my blog):
Polish kielbasa is inferior to German sausage and in any event I don’t eat sausage. But this does not stop me from posting a comment! Because sausage rules and I rule and you Polish goons, geaks and freaks are all the same, pushing your keilbasa as if it were the import from paradise. Roll out the brats, dude!
-- raving anti-kielbasa lunatic
I came to your blog via xxxx (a PD blog from DC) and I expected some legal insights, given that you are a law prof. I must say I was horribly disappointed. May I suggest picking topics more profound than oatmeal in Pittsburgh or martinis in Madison if you wish to maintain some semblance of a professional reputation?
-- lawyer in limbo
Nie wiem co mam napisac. Na pewno mowisz po Polsku ale ja nic tutaj nie widze co by mi tu odpowiadalo.
-- niezadowolona z Warszawy
Hey muz, how come you haven’t answered our emails in the past 24 hours? And how come you never call? It’s all about your blog now, isn’t it?
-- a *relative* living far from home
I seekth thou, dearest, with sweet suggestion,
For willst thou giveth me indigestion
To think that all doth scorn my syrup
Thou kicketh my ass with one sharp stirrup
-- LDMsquared
O.M.G., it’s that lascivious, lecherous, lunatic again! Get him out of here!
-- embarrassed in eau claire
I recognize the communist overtones in your blog. I looked up your father and learned that he was a member of the Communist Party in Poland during the crucial years of Communism Over There. I am not a communist nor especially loyal to Poland but it pleases me no end to expose you in this way.
--Immigrant from you know where
And so on. Thinking about the range of possible contributors makes me produce more sweat than did the guy at the gym who covered the elliptical machine with a running stream of body water. So, thanks but I am too much of a thin-skinned and tender-hoofed ninny*. I guess I’ll just have to find the time for a (benignly marmish) post myself, work and travel notwithstanding.
*And inevitably someone from my past would write and point out that this was indeed my nickname while in grad school. I won it at a poker game and it stuck.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Teaching on a late Wednesday afternoon
The seminar room has no windows. And it is warm. Initially it had no desk or table at the end where I sit and so I would balance my tea mug, my notes, and my other papers on a makeshift, wobbly movable something that had slanting leaves, causing things to spill and papers to slide.
I enter dressed in proper teaching clothes: skirt and sweater set today. I keep my long scarf just in case the temps drop and I get nippy. But as I give an overview of a point (I’m talking about Burundi today, the class is Comparative Family Law and I want to demonstrate the interplay of customary law and imported general written law) I keep being distracted by the scarf. It reminds me of something the Pope would wear. Off it goes.
Is it me or is it hot in the room? It’s me. Off goes the top sweater, I am now in short sleeves. That’s better.
I want to keep going because the materials are so interesting (I would think that), but everyone hates teachers who sacrifice breaks and so I stop. I go up to my office, catch my breath, get more tea. On goes the sweater. It’s cold up here.
Back to the classroom for the final round. I get so into this topic that I sound hoarse by the time I’m done. I ask them if I had been shouting. They smile benevolently. Someone finishes her macaroni pizza. God, I’m hungry.
I enter dressed in proper teaching clothes: skirt and sweater set today. I keep my long scarf just in case the temps drop and I get nippy. But as I give an overview of a point (I’m talking about Burundi today, the class is Comparative Family Law and I want to demonstrate the interplay of customary law and imported general written law) I keep being distracted by the scarf. It reminds me of something the Pope would wear. Off it goes.
Is it me or is it hot in the room? It’s me. Off goes the top sweater, I am now in short sleeves. That’s better.
I want to keep going because the materials are so interesting (I would think that), but everyone hates teachers who sacrifice breaks and so I stop. I go up to my office, catch my breath, get more tea. On goes the sweater. It’s cold up here.
Back to the classroom for the final round. I get so into this topic that I sound hoarse by the time I’m done. I ask them if I had been shouting. They smile benevolently. Someone finishes her macaroni pizza. God, I’m hungry.
We begin a run with the rooster
If the Chinese New Year imposes Rooster-type traits on children born now (the Year of the Rooster starts today), I say hold off on your plans to conceive until we reach again the Year of the Snake. In a BBC article that describes the typical characteristics ascribed to people born under the different animal symbols (find yours here), I learn this about Rooster-ites:
People born under the year of the Rooster tend to hide their conservative natures via a display of aggression and self-confidence, however they are very "dignified". Roosters come in two types: those that are very somber and those that are very communicative. They love to be the focus of attention, showing scant regard for the feelings of others and as a result they are often susceptible to flattery and sycophancy.
Me, I was born in the year of the Snake. True, snake-types aren’t going to come around again until 2013, but it may be worth holding back on your desire to mate and procreate until then. Compare us to the above:
People born under the year of the Snake are intellectual, superstitious, sceptical, astute, have elegance, innate wisdom, and possibly some levels of supernatural capability. Snake people rarely seek independent advice or advice from others, possibly because on the whole they don't communicate well with others.
P.S.: I am working on my communication skills. That is something that you can acquire over time. Innate wisdom and supernatural capability on the other hand – those come from Snake-birth.
People born under the year of the Rooster tend to hide their conservative natures via a display of aggression and self-confidence, however they are very "dignified". Roosters come in two types: those that are very somber and those that are very communicative. They love to be the focus of attention, showing scant regard for the feelings of others and as a result they are often susceptible to flattery and sycophancy.
Me, I was born in the year of the Snake. True, snake-types aren’t going to come around again until 2013, but it may be worth holding back on your desire to mate and procreate until then. Compare us to the above:
People born under the year of the Snake are intellectual, superstitious, sceptical, astute, have elegance, innate wisdom, and possibly some levels of supernatural capability. Snake people rarely seek independent advice or advice from others, possibly because on the whole they don't communicate well with others.
P.S.: I am working on my communication skills. That is something that you can acquire over time. Innate wisdom and supernatural capability on the other hand – those come from Snake-birth.
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