I was not surprised to read about the importance of paper even in an increasingly digital world. Human beings tend to be most comfortable with a concept when they can touch it, see it, even smell it. Paper affords us that luxury. In an era where most information is computerized or, at the very least, visualized, having a more concrete representation of whatever information we are trying to pass on helps with the comfort factor. It makes us feel just that much more in control of the situation, that much more actively influential and that leads to a sense of power that is all too elusive and all the more coveted because of it.
Paper = power?
I’m not necessarily saying that’s true but I do tend to see the parallels in certain situations. For instance, if I were to type a document on an unsecure network and leave it to be viewed by whoever may feel the urge, there is a chance someone may feel the need to alter or adjust said document; perhaps to adjust a fact or too, perhaps to add their own thoughts or ideas. Whatever the hypothetical reason may be, if that adjustment were to be made, there would be nearly no way of knowing where the other persons thought end and mine begin. It would be as though my very imprint of information, lo, my actual document in its original form, would be forever lost to the editing styles of one John P. Anonymous. But with paper, no matter how many times you erase or how good your white out may be or how similar my handwriting may be to someone else, it is impossible to remove all memory of one sentence or phrase and replace it with a completely different one. As soon as that pen or pencil touches the page, the author has permanently changed its purpose, its meaning, perhaps it’s very reason for existence. The once blank sheet is now the beginning of a short story, or a letter to friend, or a diary entry, or list of statistics from the latest stage in your most profound experiment to date. It has become something with just one simple movement of fingers.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Cat People My Left Foot...
Of course we respond to that mischievous cat.
That wild and crazy Cat in the Hat,
with his antics, insanity, tricks and all that.
We are children when we first read The Cat in the Hat and those are the things we wish we could do, if mommy and daddy wouldn’t put us in time out for it. The fact that this author identified with the damn fish is all too obvious, considering he analyses this book with the idea that the mother is a philandering children’s welfare case at best. I feel like, perhaps, he wasn’t breast fed enough as a child, or has some repressed angst about his own childhood. His brazen harshness slightly offends me, but it isn’t surprising in the least considering his “fish” affinity.
All of that aside, the idea that children learn by phonics is much more agreeable and obvious. When I was first learning how to read, I was one of the lucky children who was blessed with a want to read. I loved it. It was a way for me to jump into worlds and planes of existence that I wanted, so badly, to be real. I had an imagination to stop the world and, even when I had to read in school, I would find books and such to read outside of the usual homework. That is what worked for me. Constant practice and education at school and at home. My grandfather would sit down with me at the dinner table and chose a word out of the dictionary, teach me how to pronounce it, and explain what it meant in terms I could understand. I always had new and exciting words in my vocabulary that made me feel smart and accomplished.
What I do understand, unfortunately, is that not everyone has that opportunity, nor does everyone enjoy reading. My brother, for instance, didn’t have my grandfather around as much as I did due to his increasing illness. Not to mention he simply didn’t enjoy reading. He would have much rather gone outside and played hide and seek or climb trees. Don’t get me wrong, I loved playing with the neighborhood kids as much as the next tom boy, but I was the one who climbed the tree, book in toe, to sit on a limb and read about the most recent development in my favorite series.
My point is reading takes practice. Lots and lots of practice. Not necessarily memorization, but just as with anything else, practice makes perfect and too many children don’t get the kind of constant practice they need. No matter what books they are, if you keep reading them, eventually, you get really good at it.
That wild and crazy Cat in the Hat,
with his antics, insanity, tricks and all that.
We are children when we first read The Cat in the Hat and those are the things we wish we could do, if mommy and daddy wouldn’t put us in time out for it. The fact that this author identified with the damn fish is all too obvious, considering he analyses this book with the idea that the mother is a philandering children’s welfare case at best. I feel like, perhaps, he wasn’t breast fed enough as a child, or has some repressed angst about his own childhood. His brazen harshness slightly offends me, but it isn’t surprising in the least considering his “fish” affinity.
All of that aside, the idea that children learn by phonics is much more agreeable and obvious. When I was first learning how to read, I was one of the lucky children who was blessed with a want to read. I loved it. It was a way for me to jump into worlds and planes of existence that I wanted, so badly, to be real. I had an imagination to stop the world and, even when I had to read in school, I would find books and such to read outside of the usual homework. That is what worked for me. Constant practice and education at school and at home. My grandfather would sit down with me at the dinner table and chose a word out of the dictionary, teach me how to pronounce it, and explain what it meant in terms I could understand. I always had new and exciting words in my vocabulary that made me feel smart and accomplished.
What I do understand, unfortunately, is that not everyone has that opportunity, nor does everyone enjoy reading. My brother, for instance, didn’t have my grandfather around as much as I did due to his increasing illness. Not to mention he simply didn’t enjoy reading. He would have much rather gone outside and played hide and seek or climb trees. Don’t get me wrong, I loved playing with the neighborhood kids as much as the next tom boy, but I was the one who climbed the tree, book in toe, to sit on a limb and read about the most recent development in my favorite series.
My point is reading takes practice. Lots and lots of practice. Not necessarily memorization, but just as with anything else, practice makes perfect and too many children don’t get the kind of constant practice they need. No matter what books they are, if you keep reading them, eventually, you get really good at it.
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