Welcome to the desert of the real.

First quarter has ended. The verdict:

One F. No Ds. Two Cs. Ten Bs. Twenty-eight As.

I swear to Kali, I'm not being a pansy here. I can wear the skull necklace, oh yes I can, no matter how well-heeled the temperamental boots of these Wine Country parents may be. It's just the truth. Two-thirds of my students deserve an A for their work, and I've never seen the like.

So now begins Chapter Two, and I'm exhausted from grading and rain and baby and beer and all, and I have only a glimmer of a clue about what I'm going to do next, but it's OK. I think I'm going to make them interview each other and write biographies, and read LeGuin's A Wizard of Earthsea, and explore the Hero's Journey, and and bloody and.

Tomorrow I'll show them a clip from Lawrence of Arabia, the bit where, after crossing the uncrossable desert, Lawrence discovers that a man has been left behind. And he decides to go back to get him. And Mr. Arab Guy says something like "You fool, he's already dead, it is written." But Larry goes back anyway, and gets him, and brings him back alive, and staggers off his camel, and says: "Nothing is written."

Nothing is written.

And now, children, consider the desert. An endless plane of blinding white. Very clean, and much larger than you are. And here you are at this tiny oasis, which is your mind, your experience. And it is time to take a journey. Nothing is written. Yet. There is no beating infinity, of course not, but defeat is similarly impossible. You have only two choices: to stay where you are, safely in your oasis, doing nothing, and die someday, probably of boredom. Or: to venture out across this vast paper dancefloor, and make all the mistakes you have the guts to risk -- don't worry, there's plenty of room -- and flounder occasionally into a moment of grace.

Because? Because because because because because. Because of the wonderful things.