Revisiting "The Hobbit", pt. 1

Prompted by news about the upcoming Peter Jackson films that will be released in the next few years, despite all the setbacks and delays that included the attachment and then retirement of Guillero Del Toro as director, and motivated as well as by nostalgia for my childhood years, I decided to reread a classic from my youth, J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit". The fantasy genre frequently offers an escape for those who feel misunderstood and unable to find their own group, but as an escape, it is one that is carries with it an eternal aura of magic. It was so for me.

I have to admit, I was already receptive to this genre. I had been reading books on the space program, and one of my fondest memories involved looking at images of the planets, especially enigmatic Saturn with the other-worldly rings girding it. I also remember books such as Ted Hughes' The Iron Giant, and saw in it a hopeful parable about the friendship of two lonely outsiders. It also helped, of course, that there was a Queen album that was released in those years that I saw pinned to my cousin's wall, back when most music was sold in LP form and album covers were an integral part of the experience.

Those were difficult years for me. I didn't fit into the new school, and had a hard time finding friends. I suppose that was one of the reasons why I took refuge in literature, and spent more than the usual amount of time in the library, reading Beverly Clearly novels as well as those about Dr. Doolittle. It was about that time, when I was in the 6th grade, that a kindly, middle-aged teacher named Mr. Brown (the name was aptly suitable, because he even looked like one of my favorite cartoon characters, Charlie Brown) took note of my interests, and suggested that I might want to try a more substantial book, one called "The Hobbit".

The cover was intriguing, because I really couldn't figure what the subject matter was. There was what seemed to be a placid hill with buildings within it, but I couldn't make out any of the characters, nor any of the other beings that might be found. It was placid, no rocket ships nor astronauts not spectacular vistas of giant planets, only a hill viewed from a distance, a hill that was inhabited by small, human-like creatures.

Well, I took the book home with me, and began to read it. The book certainly was written in a style that seemed more adult, although there were clear elements of whimsy. It was at times an elevated style, and I loved the reference to other exotic languages, to those of, for example, the elves with their beautiful script. There is a lightness of tone in this first novel, introducing us to a thoroughly domesticated character, the hobbit Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.

The life of this thoroughly domesticated character who lived in an abode that seem immensely appealing to me, not knowing then what I knew later on, that it was meant to capture a pre-industrial vision of rural England, a vision of the past that had been lost long ago, although the English countryside continues to exert its magic. I also didn't appreciate then what I know now, that the vision of this island of stability was facing a grave danger of encroachment and invasion that was meant to allude to recent European history, at least as it had pertained to that period of time in the decade of the 30s when it was written by a philologist and professor by the name of Jacob Ronald Ruel Tolkein, i.e. J.R.R. Tolkein.

It offered us what seemed like the prospect of an innocent adventure, with an odd band of characters. It was very appealing, and I was of course taken by the encounter with the dwarves and the wizard Gandalf. Who wouldn't want to be friends with a kindly old wizard who looked like one's grandfather, and who could amaze one with unexpected powers as well as with sage advice? For someone who lived with his own grandfather at the time (as I did), but didn't speak to him, due to the language and cultural gap (my grandfather was a taciturn Mexican man who had little to say to us, and preferred to keep to himself, very different from my voluble grandmother in Guadalajara who always showered me with affection and whose decision not to live with my grandfather I could never understand).

My parents never told me any stories, so I had to look for them myself. I don't know why this is, but maybe, they might have thought that I wouldn't be receptive to their life experiences. They knew that I and my brother and sister were vastly different from the children they had been, at least in terms of our expectations. As my father always grumbled, they would have been happy to receive a slingshot for Christmas, while they felt that we demanded much more expensive entertainment, and weren't receptive to stories about life back in the old country, so close to the United States, so far from God, to paraphrase the dictator Porfirio Diaz.

The story detailed the adventures of a band of friends who formed a cohesive unit despite their differences, and who were called to seek out and reclaim a treasure guarded by a fearsome foe, Smaug the Dragon. It came to me later on that the character of Bilbo Baggins, a batchelor in his fifties who was quite a domesticated character and who yearned for nothing else other than order, comfort and tasty but proper meals at their appropriate set times, was probably an incarnation of the author himself, Mr. Tolkein, who we must state once again, led a placid life, and was a professor at Pembroke College in Oxford in the department of English literature.

I read "The Hobbit" back then in the mid 70s, and then never reread it subsequently until now. While I did move on to the "Lord of the Rings" in junior high school and reread that trilogy from time to time, in addition to returning to what I remember was the posthumous collection of legends and history that was published as the Silmarillion, I somehow associated that first adventure to an earlier and more innocent period in my life, and attributed to it a more whimsical note that was lacking in the drama and sense of foreboding of the trilogy. The Hobbit just didn't seem to offer the same grand sweep, the same retelling of that dreary epoch of the coming of fascism.

After thirty five years I am returning to "The Hobbit" to explore my encounter with this book. Perhaps it can be likened to another treasure hunt like that of the characters, for now I tend to view many of my formative childhood experiences in this way, a life filled with turning points and ephemeral and glittering moments of peace and happiness. Perhaps it will help me also to re-connect with the person I was back then. It is always the sense of returning to a special place, the currency of suffering that renders the past more palatable and immensely appealing.

I thought myself a man by leaving behind children's literature (as such I classified the Hobbit) when I grew up,  but now I return to these classics to capture something of their poetry, their sense of an age long ago, when friends were more stalwart, when foes were more easily identified, when we didn't feel asphyxiated by a culture that suffocates us at times with consumerism within a matrix of power and dominance that is modern capitalism. (Just as predatory as the old capitalism, but with better marketing and an aura of inevitability in the age of globalism and the demise of alternative ideological systems.)

Thus, I would like to write about my experiences upon re-reading "The Hobbit".

Chapter One: An Unexpected Party

In this chapter we are introduced to the character of Bilbo Baggins, a respectable hobbit who seems tailored for a life of comfort. He is rich, and he is very bourgeois in his outlook, reflecting the middle-class values of a settled society. He is a miniature version of a burgher of old, and yet, he has a hidden yearning. His family tree has ancestors who were notable because they were unusual, and we may count among them the "Old Took" who left a legendary legacy. He bequeathed him a receptivity to tales of adventure and novelty, even though in other aspects he would seem to be immune to the appeal of novelty.

As stated in this story when his home is invaded by a group of thirteen dwarves who were summoned mysteriously by a mark that Gandalf the wizard had placed on his door, he falls under their enchantment.

Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick. He looked out of the window. The stars were out in a dark sky above the trees. He thought of the jewles of the dwarves shining in dark caverns.

This was a yearning that would overtake me as well, and while I didn't have the benefit of a company of dwarves barging into my home, it would still overtake me as I thought back then of dwarves, of elves, of dragons and of wizards. I too was overcome by an urge to explore, and it was easy to imagine myself as an otherwordly character, an identity that would prove much more authentic than that of a fifth grade student who was mercilessly bullied.

I was also taken with the mention of an episode with a fearsome foe, the "Necromancer". Gandalf is explaining to Thorin, the chief of this party of dwarves, how he had obtained a mysterious map, and he tells him that it was given to him by his father who he encountered as "a prisoner in the dungeons of the Necromancer". It is said that Gandalf barely escaped himself, and I wonder if this foe might have been an incarnation of Sauron, but I suppose that if this had been so, the surprise of having seen Sauron return would not have been as evident in the subsequent trilogy. In a land as expansive as Middle Earth, there is abundant space for many menacing figures, and this is only one who I can imagine has carved for himself a territory where he preys on other creatures who come near.

The thing is that despite the fearsomeness of this episode, Bilbo is moved to prove his worth. He will be the "burgler" for this party, an occupation that could have been more diametrically opposed to his everyday identity as a respectable Hobbit. And somehow, Bilbo agrees, despite his doubts and his resolve to take refuge and wait until the party leaves without him.

Chapter Two: Roast Mutton

In which the party ventures out on their trip, moving out to the lands of the East. They begin to expeience the difficulties of the road, and they lose almost all of their provisions in one episode where a pony ventures out into the river.

The burgler (Bilbo) is sent out to investigate a fire that they perceive in the distance, and he will encounter a group of three "very large persons" who turn out to be fearsome trolls. They speak in an unsavory dialect that can't help but suggest a working-class identity, as evident by their "great heavy faces", "their size and the shape of their legs" and, of course, their "language, which was not drawing-room fashon at all, at all". I can almost cut through the note of disapproval in this description.

Needless to say, Bilbo and all the dwarves are captured by these dwarves, and are about to be cooked if not for the timely intervention of Gandalf who had been scouting up ahead and returns. In a strategem that seems almost too simple to be believe, he sets them to arguing, and they stay up arguing until struck by daylight, after which they become stone-like figures. If trolls are so simple-minded as this, how is it that they have managed to survive up to this point?

The trolls have a treasure trove, and the party will find swords of elvish origin that they will carry with them subsequently. They have been baptized as adventurers, knighted so to speak in an episode that recalls to me the way Don Quijote sought to be knighted as well before venturing out on his quest to right the world. In this case, however, this party is not motivated by such a mission. All they want to do is to wreck vengeance on Smaug and capture their share of treasure. I suspect it is more of the latter rather than the former that motivates them, but it fills up the mind to think of what treasure the dragon might have. If they were able to obtain pots of gold and beautiful, ancient elvish swords from three ordinary and rather stupid trolls, what will they obtain from Smaug?

Chapter Three: A Short Rest

The party proceeds on their journey,and when told of how much further the Misty Mountains lie, Bilbo feels a moment of regret. "He was thinking once again of his comfortable chair before the fire in his favourite sitting-room in his hobbit-hole, and of the kettle singing. Not for the last time!"

I feel the pang of regret that Bilbo feels. Who doesn't feel this yearning for comfort, especially as circumstances become more difficult? However, they will find a comforting community. They are on the road to Rivendell, where Gandalf has friends, and they will encounter elves.

These elves seem otherwordly, but also, fey in a way that wasn't evident in the subsequent trilogy. In the films by Peter Jackson, the elves are thin and haughty, as if they found it disreputable to have to deal with other races. They inspired awe but they weren't particularly warm. In this first novel, however, they are presented to us as creatures who sing in the forest, who utter silly rhymes and who, creepily, seem to know the names and the history of the members of the parties. And yet, they inspire comfort in Bilbo, even if it is said that the dwarves think the elves "foolish".

I try to imagine what I would have thought at this presentation of the elves. It was certainly a mysterious way to encounter them as voices that ring around them and emanate from the hidden shelter of the trees. Elrond, the leader, is a majestic figure, however, and is presented as wise and stately, having seen much of the history of the various communities of Middle Earth.

Chapter Four: Over Hill and Under Hill

As the expedition continues venturing up a mountain they encounter a frightening thunderstorm, "more than a thunderstorm, a thunder battle." It is described in memorable terms as a personified battle between stone-giants, who "were out, and were hurling rocks at one another for a game, and catching them, and tossing them down into the darkness where they smashed among the trees far below, or splintered into little bits with a bang." This was such a wonderful visual description that I had to include it. It would certainly have captured my attention back then, when I was taken by tales of monsters in expanded scales of reference.

The peril lies in the fact that the weather forces them to take shelter, and they unknowingly do so in a cave that turns out to be a passageway for goblins who come out and take them prisoner during the night. This is revealed in an almost dreamlike way, as Bilbo becomes aware of a crack opening up in the back and the animals being led in before the dwarves are captured. Luckily, Bilbo is able to scream a warning and Gandalf escapes.

These goblins are apparently related to the orcs we came to know in the trilogy, and although they are fearsome, they certainly seem less so. For one thing, they seem to be not much larger than the dwarves who are able to challenge them with their elven swords before succombing. For another thing, they gloat and they sing, and this element of singing somehow renders them less intimidating, despite the fact that this singing amount to taunts.

Clap! Snap! the black crack!
Grip, grab! Pinch, nab!
And down down to Goblin-town
   You go, my lad!

They taunt their prisoners by referring to them as "my lad"? They use homely terms such as "Goblin-town" that seem to suggest a certain level of domesticity? It was my impression that if they were orcs, their expressive powers would be much more rudimentary, if they did make much noise in any case. It would have been more terrifying if they were silent, or relied on a gutteral, animal-like language such as roars, war cries, jeers and grunts. And the narration contributes to this metaphorical defanging of the Goblins who, while still fearsome, are also not so fearsome, because they can't help but recall children to my mind. How else to react to this description of the goblins as they investigate the baggage and packages of the dwarves, which were "being rummaged by goblins, and smelt by goblins, and fingered by goblins, and quarreled over by goblins". This is a children's tale with adult touches.

In a typical bit of heroism, Gandalf ventures back, having escaped capture, and he rescues the dwarves who were about to be attacked by the Great Goblin and his chief officers. It is a stirring rescue that will anticipate the episode in the Mines of Moria that was to come in the Lord of the Rings, and it perhaps constitute a recurring theme in these works where characters visit underground realms. Perhaps deep and dark spaces hold deep and dark secrets and thus allude to the psyche and the secrets that are repressed, as seems to have happened with one memorable character who appears in the next chapter.

Chapter Five: Riddles in the Dark

Here we are finally introduced to the character of Gollum, one who is every bit as tortured as we imagined him but who also seems more fearsome than we remember him. He is still able to evoke some pity on the part of the reader for he is able to recall moments in his deep past when he had a family and when he used to live with his grandmother, recalling thus a moment when he was loved. And now he is isolated (except for his ring), swallowing deeply and capable of cruelty and much deviousness. He is a poisoned character, and Bilbo encounters him because Bilbo is unable to escape when Gandalf shows the way, and instead ventures deep into the center of the mountain.

Gollum lives deep inside the mountain, in a little island in the midst of an underground lake, in total darkness, preying on stray orcs who venture too deep, and ocassionaly venturing out of the tunnels to overpower one or the other in order to supplement his diet of fish. He challenges Bilbo to a duel of riddles, and they are able to trade answers for some time before Bilbo, in a moment of ultimate frustration over having exhausted his supply, asks Gollum to guess what he has in his pocket. Of course it is the ring, that ring that would assume so much symbolic power at a later moment, and as Gollum discovers that his precious possession is missing, he hurries back to murder Bilbo and reclaim his prize. He doesn't, as we well know, and Bilbo escapes, proving himself to be a very resourceful character who has evolved dramatically from his presentation in the beginning of the novel.

Chapter Six: Out of the Frying-Pan, Into the Fire

Amazingly, Bilbo escapes the mountain and after running for some time and despairing about finding his companions, finds them once again. He now has a talisman of power, the ring, and this will prove to be useful as we well know.

However, the entire party is fleeing, fearing that the goblins will overtake them with the coming of the night, and thus they fall into a trap. They find a clearing surrounded by trees, and they take shelter when they discover that the wolves (the fearsome Wargs) are arriving, forcing them to climb up the trees. I can easily imagine the terror of this moment, and the desperation as they realize that the Wargs are in league with the goblins, and will certainly take advantage of this situation. However, the band is rescued unexpectedly by the eagles, who swarm in and rescue them just as the fires are about to overcome them. They are delivered to a far-away outpost in safety, much closer to their goal, but the band also has a moment of despair because Gandalf claims that he needs to leave them as he pursues other urgent matters. Much the same form of abandonment took place in "The Lord of the Rings", but I suspect it will be remedied by a re-encounter soon.

Chez Ramona's

This location is across the street from a local community college. No, I never worked nor attended that institution, but I envy the students who have this option so conveniently located. My place for comfort food was trusty old Tommy's Burgers, up in Westwood, always good for a satisfying chili burger. And yet Tommy's doesn't inspire any cravings the way Ramona's does.

It just so happens that this establishment is close to a major freeway that leads to the airport, and as such, it is convenient to visit. It also happens that, out of the three locations for this particular establishment, this is the one that is the least crowded and thus, prepares your order the quickest.

I discovered Ramona's when I was working as an engineer in the 1980s. A fellow engineer told me about it, and I used to frequent another locale. If I didn't bring my lunch, and if I felt the need to leave work in order to escape the tedium of my working day, then I would go to Marco Pollo or Ramona's. There was also the possibility of Thai food at a corner strip mall, but somehow a strip mall depresses me just as much if not more so than life trapped in a cubicle. I was happy to escape that life.

Ramona's is famous for the cafeteria-style service. You order, the frumpy servers prepare your plate, and you take it with you because there is no space to eat inside. The specialty was burritos, and I was always partial to the beef and potato option with rice. If not that, then a combination plate. Perhaps what most attracted me was the tanginess of the enchilada sauce. It tap-danced on your tongue and resonated in a pleasing, mildly piquant and yes, sweet way.

I passed by Ramona's on my way today to another location in that great sun-baked metropolis known as "El Lay".Things were much as they have been. The expectation of great food, a minor wait, and then pure pleasure as I carted my precious plate back to my car.

It's not haute cuisine, as is abundantly evident from the photos. The ambiance leave much to be desired. It has a turnstyle and gates that remind one of Disneyland, and the service is, frequently, indifferent. However, I'm addicted.

Perhaps nostalgia has added to the taste that I remember and savor.

A Frosty California Day

Today I went to a local community parade. I had no other plans for an outing today, and I didn't want to spend it at home, where I knew I would spend the day trying to avoid looking at the materials I had to grade for my classes. Given that it had rained for much of the night, and more rain was predicted for this afternoon, I thought it was best to take advantage of the brief window of opportunity to go out and get some air. And so, I ventured out to a local community nestled next to the San Gabriel mountains.

It was very chilly, and this understandably cut into the attendance for the event. I've been to this particular festival several times, starting back in 1990, when I felt reasonably young and energetic. My energy and my self-image are not what they were before, but I can still appreciate elements of beauty, such as the layer of snow that was left on the mountain, and the spectre of gloomy and threatening clouds that was afforded to us in this location. It threated to rain again, but fortunately, it didn't.

This was an ordinary community parade, with many community units ranging from the mayor and beauty queens to local bands. It was my impression that the turnout suffered noticeably. This used to be a much bigger event but, then again, when I had attended it in the past, it usually too place on a sunny day. The first video is of a drum major for a marching band practicing her pacing in front of the review stand.

I couldn't resist taking photos and videos of the cloudscapes. It is such a change of pace to have such moody, dramatic weather. The wide, expansive cloudscapes made me feel as if I were in the Midwest once again.

Revisiting the 70s again

In this season in which we await the Academy Awards show to be aired this upcoming Sunday, I decided to finally watch a classic from my past. I have to confess that I was motivated as well by periodic feelings of nostalgia for a decade which has been much maligned as an insignificant and insipid period. In this case, I finally saw the classic movie "Chinatown".

Back in the mid 70s I was a young child, but even then, I was a reader. It seems somewhat awkward to confess this, but besides reading Peanuts anthologies, Beverly Cleary novels (the Henry Huggins series) and many, many science fiction novels, I also used to read Mad magazine. Of course, I never used to let this be known among my classmates. This was a hidden pleasure, for the reason that this item would have sealed my identification with the outcasts group of kids who were never popular and who were instead the butt of many jokes. This was still my fate, but I didn't want to attract any more attention to myself, and found it prudent to buy my issues and keep them at home, where I would reread them over and over, enjoing as I did the sly and subversive and, yes, zany take on popular culture. I suppose it reflected something in my character, and I wonder at the juxtaposition between Charlie Brown and Alfred E. Neumann and why it seemed to sum up my personality.

Mad magazine has many features with recurring characters,such as the "Spy vs. Spy" series, as well as the engaging marginalia (the drawings on the sides) that featured the work of Sergio Aragones. They also always included a spoof of a popular movie or television series or even cultural phenomenon, although by the time the magazine had been published, the trend or item might have been past its' peak of popularity. They were always enjoyable, however, and now I have no regrets about confessing that as a kid in junior high school, I eagerly awaited the new magazine and pestered my parents to buy it when I accompanied them to the supermarket. It was the only incentive I had for doing so, after all. And, after all this time, I remember the adaptions of movies such as "Close Encounters of the Third Kind", "Star Wars" and, of course, "Chinatown".

I vaguely remember the plotline as gleaned from this satirical take. It seemed to involve a private eye who had several run-ins with thugs, and who had his nose slashed. It involved water and real estate as well, although Mad magazine always introduces exagerrated comic touches. Thus, I watched the movie anticipating finally the opportunity to see the "straight" version of a film that had been critically lauded.

As I watched it, I found myself overcome by nostalgia. Naturally, it wasn't for the period in which the film is set, which is the year 1937, but for the 1970s, and my memories of stars such as Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway, who were fixed into my consciousness at that time. It is a film noir which, as applied to the city of Los Angeles, is very much in lines with what we associate with this setting. After all, writers such as Raymond Chandler made their careers exploring what was for them a timeless setting of moral ambiguity, in which eternal human frailties are explored.

I wonder at times about why this genre should have been so suited to Los Angeles, a city that was very much a dynamic creation that was predicated on dreams. Los Angeles is not an ancient city, and it has experienced a period of explosive growth in which many new dreamers have arrived fueled by hopes of a new beginning. Perhaps it feels like a mecca for lost hopes, and that is why this earnest feeling is such an innate feature of film noir. It is a feeling that is present in any instance of film noir that I remember seeing, as was also present in another favorite film, the science fiction classic "Bladerunner".

There is, of course, also a mournful air over what has been lost. Perhaps it is precisely in that intersection between dreams and the corruption that festers within human nature that we find the narrative power of this genre. Corruption is always present, and I feel at times as if we are reenacting ever again the primordial narrative of a utopia that is corrupted by the snake in all its eternal guises, a snake that we carry within us.

It was fascinating to see Jack Nicholson as a young and dashing figure, playing a character who had been scarred by past experiences. When an allusion was made to his past history in the force, and the experience of working specifically in Chinatown and the confession of the character that when working in that area, the best policy was to do "as little as possible", because there was an implicit recognition that we never really understood the true nature of the conflicts that were made manifest. To be an officer in Chinatown and to be asked to intervene was to be unable to distinguish whether one was helping to prevent a crime or unwittingly helping to consumate it, and this was very much the case in this movie as well where the discoveries made by the detective towards the end serve to uncover a sordid history that undercuts the narrative of culpability he had thought to so carefully weave.

If we learn anything about human nature is that is doesn't change, and that while we may find ourselves in a mileau in which people prey on each other constantly, we also find angelic creatures who strike us with the pathos of vulnerability.This was certainly the case with the Faye Dunaway character.

She projects this vulnerability in a visage that seems as serene as that of a Madonna, one marked by eternal sadness. I can very much appreciate the allure as well as beauty of this character, and she never conveyed for me any sense of menace, even when she was handling a gun in that pivotal final scene in the end.

The P.I. ventures from one scene to the next as he slowly pieces together the sordid details of an arrangement whereby a real estate scheme, in conjunction with a personal family tragedy, combined to provide the dynamic impulse for the series of events. Rapacity is echoes in both the public and the private domain, after all, and the dam for which a bond is to be issued would seem to represent paradoxically the unleashing of pent-up energy and appetites that bring out both the best and the worst in us all. As the PI confronts the aged real estate baron and asks why he is motivated to carry out this scheme when he has all the money he will ever need, he exclaims that it is for "the future", laying claiming thereby to a legacy whose true and complete nature won't be evident until the end, when we find out about the hidden daughter.

I was completely engrossed in the film, and it sparked for me another sharp pang of nostalgia for the 70s, that decade that at the time I was so desperate to escape. I can't imagine why I waited so long to view this movie, even after the advent of VCRs and videotapes. Perhaps I have always been too moored in the present, something that is all the more evident when we are young, giving primacy to immediate experiences, but without the time to reflect on the past. Now that I have aged, this has changed, and I seem to yearn to go back, to see and hear and feel what I remember only dimly but with a deep sense of loss.

And that sense of loss what permeates the genre of film noir as well.

Back Seat Driving

The watchword for today is "student-centered teaching". Well, it is more than a word, it is a phrase, but it refers to a new approach to teaching, and I am very intrigued. I couldn't stop thinking about it as I drove home tonight.

Last week I was evaluated in one of my classes. It was a nerve-wracking experience, despite the fact that I had been given notice several weeks before and had prepared accordingly. I have been observed at least a dozen times during my short career, and have also observed and commented on the methodology employed by others. The person who is observed is always nervous. In this case, my evaluator was a much-maligned tenured professor who I had never met before, but who had been portrayed as an individual with a sadistic streak by other colleagues and by students.

She wasn't quite as she had been presented. It may have been that she behaves differently with colleagues, but it may also be that her methodology isn't sufficienty appreciated by her students, and they have taken to focusing on her personality as a convenient target to express their dissatisfaction.

While teaching that day I had another out-of-body experience. I remember trying desperately to maintain focus and not reveal how nervous I was, seeking as I did to maintain an aura of competence. My class responded very well, as they have been doing during the past academic term. They sat at attention, they offered their comments when invited to do so, and they responded to my humor even when I decided to break from my script and incorporate a more spontaneous activity. Periodically I would look to my left to where she was seated, in the front seat next to the door. She had a comforting expression and tried to participate from time to time with innocuous remarks. It gave me confidence.

At one point I made a grevious error when talking about two renowned Dutch artists of completely seperate periods. It was with embarassment that I acknowledge my mistake, as became evident when one of my students noticed the error. It did make me feel uncomfortable over the weekend as I chided myself for this rather elementary mistake, but the fact is, when your mind is working at a feverish pace, there are bound to be mistakes. My colleague admite as much today during our conference. At this point I will make sure to situate both Rembrandt and Van Gogh in their proper centuries.

As mentioned before, today was the day for my debriefing, so to speak. I went to the office of my evaluator and we talked about the report she had written. By and large, it was positive, with only the occasional insertion of terminology that seemed somewhat questionable to me for the connotations that were associated with certain words. One of these involved having my methodology labeled as "traditional". No one wants to be labeled as such, because we like to think of ourselves as situated perpetually on the vanguard of our professions. The other involved the term "teacher-centered".

If my activities and methodology were to be labeled as such, then this can't help but bring up the obverse, which is "student-centered". Thus, I found it natural to ask that she give me her conception of "student-centered" teaching, a term that I had encountered over ten years ago and that seems to be popular in my profession. She looked uncomfortable and gave me a response that was halting at first, but then gradually a received a fascinating peek into another world.

Once again, the term is not new. It is common for academics to laud this approach, but I doubt seriously if the majority really knows what it entails, much less carries it out. Like "proactive" and "reciprocity", these are terms that have been coopted to share in a certain mystique of relevance and insightfulness. If one conducts an internet search, one will find many, many links and references to it, but as far as it having been discussed when I was completing my student training, this was not the case. Ours was a practicum whereby we learned on the go, focusing more on the practical rather than the theoretical. This was an approach that was much criticized by some students during my period at that university.

After all these years I still plan out my lessons in detail, and take my lesson plan to my class every day. I collect them afterwards and, although I have been tempted to reuse these plans when I teach my courses again, I never do so. I carry my script and proceed with my lesson as if it were a theatrical work. The fact that I have a text indicates, however, that I am utilizing a "teacher-centered" approach because I plan out meticulously the items and activities I plan to discuss and incorporate, rather than letting the students do so.

And so, Prof. D. (the person who had observed my course) told me about another professor who adhered to the alternative approach. It turns out that the teacher is reduced in his or her role to that of a facilitator, one who receedes into the background as the students are guided to undertake their own presentation of the material. Yes, the students have presentations, and they are left to carry out their own research and present their findings, with the teaching affirming or commenting as appropriate. I was fascinated by this because this is the approach that is common in graduate seminars, but hardly seemed appropriate for undergraduates. I am still somewhat skeptical, but my colleague insisted that she had seen it working well in another class taught by someone else. Not wishing to miss this opportunity to expand my repertoire, her comments helped to stimulate curiosity on my part.

The thing is, I am still somewhat skeptical, because I see this phrase bandied about commonly on the "Statements of Teaching Philosophy" that academics are routinely asked to produce when they are seeking jobs, but it never seemed as if the people who used this term really knew what it meant. People just know it as a methodology to which some prestige accrues, and they wished to partake of this prestige by earnestly affirming that they utilize a "student-centered" approach. It was plainly evident that the obverse, the "teacher-centered" approach, was linked to the past and, as such, was anathema. Who knows what those teachers actually put in place when they are teaching because, when observing them, I certainly haven't seen anything like the methodology that was described by my colleague.

Perhaps I should observe this other teacher. It may be that I have been sold a bill of goods, but if indeed this other teacher has successfully implemented this approach, I would like to learn it. It behooves me to always be ready to incorporate new approaches. I am too young to be labeled as a traditionalist, and even if I were not to take age into account, any educator needs to be open to further evolutions in pedagogy.

If a modern teacher is a facilitator, it will entail undertaking significant changes. I have to say that if I am to take a back seat, I may well find it exciting.

Sinking into reality

I just finished watching Christopher Nolan's film, "Inception", and I was intrigued with the idea of how we all create our own seperate realities. It certainly isn't new, and we are long familiar with the age-old question of how we can know what we know. We all share a tendency which leads us to believe in the idea of stability, one that is all the more powerful when it comes to the idea of identity.

This movie was written and directed by Christopher Nolan, the acclaimed director who first came to my notice with his film "Memento", in which he played with the conventions of narration by progressively delving deeper into the past. It was a fascinating experiment, and he was just as adept in his rebooting of the Batman franchise which had grown increasingly hackneyed during the past few years. He offered us a new and psychologically edgier version that brought to mind some of the flavor of Frank Miller's reworking back in the 1980s ("The Dark Knight Returns"), that seminal series that I remember reading and enjoying so much when I was in the last few years of college.

In this case, we would seem to delve once again into the idea of perception but also obsession. It is try that we all color our realities and are only selectively open to the myriad stimulation that we receive on a continual basis. Apparently what this film posits is the invention of an apparatus whereby the subconscious of two or more individuals can be brought into contact during the dream state, thus opening up windows into the deepest secrets held by each of us, secret that we ourselves suppress and take care not to reveal.

Leonardo DiCaprio stars as Dom Cobb, a name that seems faintly allusive and assigned to a character who seems to hide a secret of his own. This is evident from the very beginning by the appearance of a mysterious woman who continually seeks to subvert him at the same time that she seems to express tenderness towards him. In reality, she is his creation, his memory, his image of someone who would seem to have slipped out of reality the way that he has, and who continues to haunt him

If epistemology is the science of perception, then it is true that Dom is overtaken by epistemological concerns. He would seem to operate with his own certainties, as he assembles a team to embark on a grandiose project, that what gives its name to the film. Inception involves an act of implantation, an idea that overtakes the other person and convinces him with the imperative of something that is irresistible because it consumes him. It can't help but prove ironic that we viewers come to realize that the implanter is himself betaken by an obsession that seems to obsess him, and is slowly revealed by means of the earnest inquiries of his new assistant, an "architect" (a designer of dream landscapes) recruited in Paris.

As the move progresses, the team descends into layer upon layer of dream landscapes. To the sceptical viewer, however, this can't help but bring to mind many objections. How is it that a technology that is dependant upon a mechanical apparatus can be used in turn within a dream to enter into another layer of reality? How it is that the reality of this apparatus assumes its own reality as a technology and allows them to sink into layer upon layer, delving ever deeper, as if personal symbols and the constellation of codes and patterns that describe each individual at a given time were so penetrable?

I am reminded at times of the idea of memes, that idea pioneered by the biological evolutionist Richard Dawkins to refer to the way in which items of meaning are propagated from person to person until they can assume a life of their own, expanding and evolving as they use human consciousness as a medium. But I am also reminded of the novels of the science fiction maverick of forty years ago, Philip K. Dick, he who wrote such seminal novels as "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep" (the basis for the movie "Bladerunner"), "The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch", "The Man in the High Castle" and "Ubik".

In Dick's novels we are confronted with questions regarding the nature of reality. Does it have its own existence, and are we extensions of it, or is it in reality dependent upon perception and the presence of a consciousness that can construct and interpret it, thus bringing to mind a more complex process of interaction? It is almost like the old Zen parable of a tree falling in the forest without any observers. How can we tell the difference? Can we draw such a distinction between the external and the internal?

The answer would seem to pivot on the question of consistency and continuity but, as we see in this film, the narrative progresses from one level to the next with only the flimsiest pretext of preserving this quality. Yes, they are searching for secrets that seem to elude them, in particular, trying to unlock the secrets of a mind (their target) who resists them at the same time that he seems strangely vulnerable. And the film certainly seeks to suggest these novel aspects with a certain Matrix-like intensity that emphasizes the articificial nature of these landscapes, ones that seem to my eyes to be strangely un-dreamlike, despite the surreal aspect of the movie posters that would seem to suggest otherwise.

There is never an element of absurdity or of jarring discontinuity that seems to haunt me when I wake up from a dream. The landscapes, while unusual and at times fantastic, involving as they do fortresses and claustraphic buildings as well as intense chase sequences, seem to be strangely consistent. They are recognizable and ultimately sensical, and that is part of the cognitive optimism that seems to pervade this film. There is no element of irreducible strangeness, other than the obsession that seems to drive Dom as he pursues his quest to implant that idea (you are your own man), a quest that is paradoxical because it is carried out in an articificial manner (it is implanted, after all).

Needless to say, in the dream within a dream within a dream to the fourth level, Dom encounters once again that haunting projection of his dead wife, the wife who served as the object of his first act of inception. She was implanted with the idea that there was another reality, and as a consequence, was never able to believe in a stable reality after this. She was taught to doubt, and she was launched on her own quest that we are led to believe forced her to commit suicide once she was awoken. A viewer must necessarily question whether this is a convenient fantasy, a wish fulfillment that may or may not have taken place, and one in which she always did represent a projection of a split consciousness, a split that characterizes us all.

The excursion into terrain pioneered by the Wachowski film "The Matrix" leads to nonstop action and conflict, and this at times has the effect of jarring us from what could have been a more contemplative film. It seems very much designed to appeal to the young demographic, while offering an additional layer of meaning that should appeal to the intellect. And yet, I am not entirely convinced, and I am left with the idea (perhaps it has been implanted as well?) that this is ultimately a film with a pretentious nature, one that is ultimately a vanity project that is meant to invite critical appeal. It has none of the shocking and mesmerizing nature of another film that came to mind and that has resonated with me since I first read it almost thirty years ago, the classic written by Stanislaw Lem, "Solaris", and brought to the screen magnificently by Tarkovsky.

I enjoyed the film, but it didn't really sink into my consciousness. I was not quite convinced, although I continue to look forward to future Nolan films. If anything, I am tempted to go back to my source material, to Dick, to Descartes, to ancient Gnosticism and to Zen parables. The ending seems almost too enigmatically suggestive, and it belabors the point that we are all our own faulty, misled, and endlessly-challenged creations. We create ourselves in an unconscious way, and we may never completely resolve our underlying tension.

The Afro-Latino Festival at MOLAA

After writing my review this morning, I decided to go attend the Afro-Latino Festival that was being held at the Museum of Latin American Art in Long Beach. It was a cold day, but not rainy, and I very much wanted to see some cultural performances. Anything instead of having to grade tests today. (Yes, I know, I am procrastinating like a college freshman.)

It was an uneventful drive, but I still arrived late. Part of this was due to inadequate Mapquest instructions that had me driving along residential streets, and part of this was due to the fact that I was delayed because I had to stop to purchase batteries. It was all for naught. The batteries weren't used, and when I arrived, I also had to spend time finding parking in the residential area. I missed most of the performance by the Afro-Peruvian group, Matalache, and I could hear them from the street as I tried to find a spot. When I finally entered the building and made my way to the Sculpture Garden I was pleased to find a large and very hushed and what I would term a "devout" crowd.

Matalache had already been performing for some time, and at that moment they had a group playing the Peruvian cajones. These are wooden boxes upon which they sit and perform percussion movements. They are very rthymic, and having attended other Peruvian events, I was pleased to see that they were highlighted.

Interspersed with the music there were various dancing ensembles made up of groups of differing age who came out and performed dances. I suspect that many of them are the sons and daughters of Peruvian immigrants, and I am always happy to see that they are making an effort to preserve the customs of their unique heritage.

Afterward came a group called "Las Cafeteras", a joyful but also seriously commited group of Chicanos from East Los Angeles who play jarocho music. They call themselves "Pochos Jarochos", and I love the fact that they would claim that label of "Pocho" proudly.

I first saw them at the SAESL Tardeada in Lincoln Heights last summer, and I had been relishing the chance to see them again at a festival. They perform in many venues, and they combine a mission of revitalizing and preserving native musical traditions, especially the sones jarochos, with a passion for social activism. They opened up their performance with a denunciation of the divisive Arizona bill, SB1070, that was the target of so much condemnation, and justly so.

They played, they sang, they danced and they delivered a political message. All with humor and grace.

In the end, there were various performances from a Cuban musical and dance group that was listed as "Katy Hernandez and Company". Although it was only about 4 p.m. by then, it was very cold. We've had showers for the past few days, and a chill air that was blowing in. In addition, this museum is located close to the coast, and the cold comes in directly from the ocean.

Nonetheless the Cuban group performed with passion and grace. The performers, I noticed, were older than the other groups, and very diverse. They stalked on stage, then ventured out into the crowds, and they combined graceful moves with hystrionics, all this meant in a positive sense that they took care to express themselves.

They were also very good with crowd involvement because, in truth, many of the little kids were running up on stage and trying to interact with the dancers. I loved the fact that they tried to encourage them. At one moment I was struck by the fact that one of the dancers finished her dance and seemed to salute each of the drums. The instrument, that is, and not so much the player. I found that very curious.

And soon it was time to leave. As I was driving home on the 91 freeway I couldn't help notice a final element of excitement. There was a huge plume of smoke, and I was afraid there had been an accident up ahead. There was, but it was on an intersecting highway. All I could see was a fire by the side of the road. I hope there were no injuries.

And that was it. I'm so tired I feel as if I can't write anything cogent. I'll correct and expand this entry tomorrow.