I have always found temperatures above eight degrees Fahrenheit uncomfortable. Particularly in the evening. A breeze coming through the window right now makes it worth it-- there's really nothing like that in the summer.

Oooh, they're fireflies too.

And the summer wanes. Not really, there is still a full moth left before I begin teaching again; and by "again", there is a bit of dubiousness, as I have recently changed schools, and grade levels for that matter (see posts below). Despite utter confusion about how to teach the new level, at the very least, I feel more focus on the professional aspect of teaching now that the district home seems more malleable. After three years of spelunking through the Massachusetts Department of Education, as well as arguing with my old district's personal Catbert, I've figured out how to move on for an initial and (hopefully soon) professional license. [note, I can never ever spell "license" correct... it's the mixing up the C's and S's).

After this... no idea. But there is a nice focus... I'm finally with a gaming group again, which makes me happy. It's really been a while since I've done the tabletop RPGs and it's easy to forget how nice returning to the hobby is.

Speaking of fantasy, I'd finally given in this summer and read the Harry Potter series. It's not that it isn't good children's literature, it just seemed... out of principle? I guess I still retain a good deal of the ethos of avoiding something that everyone else in the world seems to do. Really was a good series of seven books; I had particularly liked how the story and writing style changed with the age of the characters/intended readers. On the other hand, this has made me more critical of the movies, which I had enjoyed perfectly well until now. Half-Blood Prince, however, I felt would have been unfollowable had I not read the book first... tsk tsk, I'm very disappointed with the adaption.

Funny thing is with fantasy is that now matter how much I love the genre, each NaNoWriMo, I'm still connected to science fiction, which I enjoy, but never held as close as fantasy.

Guess it's easier.

I should really be working right now. I have an entire curriculum to re-develop, but it's hard to know exactly where to start. One of my ideas for this school year (and, alas, all so far) has been to set up a class website, which never exactly goes anywhere.

Other than that, I can't exactly say that there is much to report on today. I'm halfway through the summer and have accomplished virtually nothing which I had hoped for (some weak gardening success, but that's about it). Moreover, the weather has been far from cooperative-- I ask for only five days without rain.

So.... any thoughts on toning physics down to fourteen-year-olds?

A frivolous waste.

This is that which inhibits a writer. I fight the temptation, even now, to type "writer" instead, but this must be fought. This is the entirety of the philosophy behind National Novel Writing Month-- I have too much to do today, I can easily waste my time to write something later, and that day never comes. One will not progress in any discipline without practice and regular discipline of their art, this is why I struggle to write more. With repetition, the words will flow easily.
With repetition, the words will flow easily.
With repetition, the worlds will flow easily.

A professor I once had said, "If you write a poem every day, will you become a great poet? Probably not. If you do not write a poem every day, will you become a great poet? Definitely not." One must keep this up. There are some books out there which will fill you with writing prompts, at which I have scowled and moved on, yet reason must exist for this.

As I sit in my office this beautiful afternoon (I must remember to get on the bicycle today), there is a finely detailed, beautiful fountain pen which Megan gave me years ago. I admire it whenever I sit here, yet there is a certain amount of sadness-- fountain pens are not practical, and it goes unused, never fulfilling its purpose. With the disuse of a beautiful object, one begins to feel that most any use is mundane-- below that of such a wonderful tool. When she and I were apart for a summer, we wrote to one another every day, and each day, I was certain to use a fountain pen and an inkwell, and now no use today seems close to that level. On the shelf next to my desk, there is perhaps a pint of fine ink which is dormant.

I discovered earlier this year that a pint of water weighs exactly one pound. I think this is how one of these quantities is defined. Excuse me, a bottle of ketchup just fell.