Seeking the space to critique structuralism, I succumb to its pitfalls.

I agree, to a reasonable extent anyway, with the notion of rules and structures, at least as far as societal function and cultural facility are concerned. I do not prescribe to the notion that we're inherently good beings that, when left to our own devices, will consistently act in the best interest of what's dubiously dubbed "the common good" or "a brotherhood of man" [overt patriarchal language maintained intentionally]. I generally believe human beings habitually conceive of and impose structures to, essentially, grease the wheels of the masses. We regularly agree to stop at red lights, pay our taxes on time, and abstain from public flatulence because it works. We subscribe, unflinchingly often, that these kinds of rules exist for everyone's best interest.

Now, there are times when I knowingly disregard the pull of the structural tide. For example, rather than teach the "rules" of writing (read "grammar"), I advocate reading. My rationale is simple. I've seen too many students recite--in prompted chorus--that Sentences must have a subject and a verb and convey a complete thought, only to watch them grip their pencils and write a sentence like Except for when he learns Victor is his creator. Therefore, I direct them to books because I want their brains to get so used to the rules of language that I don't have to ask for choral responses. Rote memorization of these rules, in my and many researchers' eyes, never produced good writing. Really, I'm sneakily advocating from a kind of subliminal approach to structuralism, one that still teaches, but keeps me from overtly doling out oppressive language rules from my podium on Mount Pious (a term often used by this guy to criticize holier-than-thous atop soapboxes).

I'm belaboring the point of this post, which is actually both meaningful and perplexing.

I've had a frustrating week at the keyboard. Since last Sunday, after I went on my usual romp around my favorite pages on the interwebs, I've been hacking away with a huge monkey on my back. The weight has plagued me through typing simple emails, quick literary response papers, and even delayed the otherwise attractive immediacy of my Facebook postings. Thanks to Farhad Manjoo's article decrying the widespread acceptance of two spaces after terminal punctuation of a sentence, I've been afraid the grammar police will bust through my door any minute. "Can I let you in on a secret?" Manjoo begins from his powerful chair of knowledge. "Typing two spaces after a period is totally, completely, utterly, and inarguably wrong."

Hold the phone. Not that it's impossible to fathom, but he's essentially accusing my middle school computer class, high school keyboarding instructor, undergraduate technology lab professor, and instructions from a digitized Mavis Beacon as being misinformed. Can this be?

If personified, Manjoo's article would don black sunglasses, cross its arms, and gesture authoritatively toward a badge. It reeks of know-it-all. While he has his reasons--even noting that the Modern Language Association clarifies this rule in its yearly publication of humanities typographical norms--it's an abrasive read. And while I must concede his point, I desperately wish that I, like the rest of us habitually double tapping the spacebar after every finished thought, could have been let in on the development. Not for our own benefit, but to make Manjoo hate us less. His offense is, well, actually offensive. He bemoans our ignorance, upset by the fact that "people who use two spaces are everywhere, their ugly error crossing every social boundary of class, education, and taste."

Geez, man. We had no idea.

So, this week I've been working on cutting that second, quick thumb slap at the end of my sentences. I started a couple of paragraphs ago, in case you wanted to know. And it's not easy; my endless revision a la deletion has forced me to realize how ingrained typing is in my day to day operations. It makes me want to go outside, really. Or write a letter. Or avoid Slate.com for awhile.

Realistically, the article strengthened my resolve as a teacher. While I have conceded to try and adopt this single-space structure, I remain adamant in my stance that there's a lot of damage posed by this kind of tone with these kinds of rules. In my eyes, they don't inform so much as belittle. Disenfranchising is something I strive to avoid in my adult life since, in retrospect, I spent far too much time mastering the art of ostracizing others as a teenager.

So now, in my professional life, the pages I read will still look relatively normal even if the writer uses two spaces. And Manjoo? He will still hate the world.

Why I Love the Romantics (or, Why I Hate the Romantics)

Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

The trumpet of prophecy! O wind,
If Winter comes, can spring be far behind?

And it's now, fair reader, that I venture into waters heretofore uncharted. I admit I may lose you with this next sentence alone, but it's true: I've been snookered by the beauty of "Ode to the West Wind," by Percy Bysshe Shelley's terza rima, by his five sonnet ode to the Zephyrian gusts, and by his burning desire to, well, get blown.

You blacked out until blown, right? I can't say I blame you.

Before this week, I preferred not to tango with Romantic poetry. I happily ignored all things Wordsworth and Coleridge and Blake as soon as I, then a senior in high school, closed the massive anthology and opened Huxley's Brave New World. It's fitting, really. That "brave new world" I sought wasn't to be found in gushing naivete of a Romantic mysticism; the world I wanted was hurdling through the future, spinning off into distopian catastrophes, and stoking the fires of prophetic failures in a false social "order."

But today, I capped off a week of Romantic poems with my seniors through an examination of Shelley's ode. After four days, I finally got them to focus on how the aforementioned poets regarded nature and their relationships with it. I washed the poetic intricacies with suds of superficiality. I accepted the dumbed-down responses. I broke them of the wont to label these poets hippies, escapists, or just plain loony. They finally recognized my urgings, eventually reciting for me--in sloppy handwriting all--how speakers "want to be in harmony with nature," how the rationalism sent them "on journeys to make nature mysterious again," and how social order in the cities "made monsters of good people."

Then, I casually sent them back into the ugly world they inhabit, oblivious to an existence without artificial sounds, artificial light, and empty hands. Before one group of students left, I reflected on an assignment I used to mandate. For homework, I told them, I used to ask my students to seek out a location in a natural setting. There could be no traffic, I recalled, no music, and no cell phones. When students arrived, I just asked that they sit for 30 minutes. After that time passed, I only requested they write about their reaction to the previous chunk of time. I didn't assign this today, mind you, just invoked it as a hollow threat.

The gasps were overwhelming. The horror of disconnection, even for thirty minutes, seemed unfathomable to many of them. It forced me to wonder, If being a Romantic is no longer attainable for anyone who claims to have a soul, is merely understanding the Romantics, the circumstances that drove them to create, and the awareness of their appeal, also impossible?

When I got in my car and left, I received a partial answer:

"The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind./ The answer is blowing in the wind."

Race for Daylight.

Stephanie admitted possessing an unimaginable optimism at the prospect of running with the sun out. Such are the wants at the Zook/Petty house.

Before today, all we had to show was a whole lot of wanting. Since the marathon and the much-needed rest period that followed, we've been slowly getting back into a routine. I've joined the Fleet Feet racing team this year, and Stephanie has mapped out a semi-independent racing schedule of her own.  Preparing for racing and distance events again, for us at least, involves training in the dark. When given the chance to run friendlier times, we've been subjected to weekend runs marred by clouds, fog, and rain.

Initially, the weather didn't faze us. No longer training, we shared our excitement about not having to hit particular distances, not needing to complete tempo runs or adjust for pacing, and not even wear a watch if we felt so inclined (only I can cop to this, however). But with the increase in speed work, workouts involving splits and tempos, and overall mileage, we've struggled to absorb the added work alongside the relentless winter weather. Since Christmas, for example, I've felt compelled to add sleeves, gloves, and a hat to my ever-growing collection of gear. It helps the training, but the process of bundling up can force me to question the value of the time spent in the elements.

Today, despite the fact that fog swarmed the area around 9:45, we enjoyed an easy run on a parkway bathed in morning sunlight. We started from my new favorite location, the Bella Bru at Fair Oaks and Arden, and jogged to the trail entrance at William Pond. Steam rose from the river, cobwebs and tall grass glistened in splotchy orange shimmers, and my hands and head felt a necessary freedom outside their cold-weather protection.

The pace was smooth; I set out with other team members, conversing throughout at a pace around 8:15 per mile, while Stephanie held back and operated at a speed more conducive to her current workout schedule. I finished my 10 and returned to Bella Bru for a cup of coffee, paper marking, and a bran muffin. Stephanie returned not long after, having finished 12 miles of her own. We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast together amid a throng of gym goers, cyclists, and runners, and decided we'd definitely been missing out on the post-training culture that this part of east Sacramento has to offer.

It was a great way to spend a morning. By the time we left, the sun, much like our plans for exertion, had called it a day.

Resolution Revolution.

I love opening the paper on New Year's Day and seeing all the gibberish about resolutions.  People plan to quit things, moderate things, alter hobbies, and regiment their lives.  Many of the stories seem recycled or tired, and much of the skimming I do really only clears the cerebral grogginess lingering from the previous night's champagne.

It's always easy to spot some of these resolvers.  I see them when I'm out running errands, sloshing through the mud and rain and wind in their new cross-training jackets and sleek fit caps.   They're crawling on gym equipment like ants at a campground, and they're draped in new apparel, looking perplexed as they read the instructions on the lat pull.

I was never one to set resolutions.  I suppose it's because they've always seemed so pie-in-the-sky.  I have to applaud people for setting goals, but those kinds of decisions don't really seem feasible or attainable for me.  In the last two years, however, I've realized something about New Year's resolutions.  If the decision is measurable and incremental--if it's marked by weekly or monthly deadlines--it not only serves as a resolution for the new year, but can become a habit far those that follow.

My 2009 Resolution (met):
In an effort to bridge the important pieces of my college life with my post-college life, I resolved that Stephanie and I would meet up with Brittany and Sol at least once a month for a meal and a visit.  We kept a steady schedule for the better part of eight months, enduring a wedding, honeymoon, and the holidays.  Toward the end of the year, we had to double up in a later month in order to make up for problems arising near the holidays, but we remained diligent and steadfast, refusing to let the idea fade.  We celebrated our final date on the first night of (what has become the annual party to celebrate) Hanukkah.  

My 2010 Resolution (also met):
Only five months into our marriage (though many more into our relationship), I started feeling guilty about my penchant for providing a predictable and unaltered dinner menu.  With a slew of new utensils, appliances, and cookbooks, I resolved to cook one new dish each month.  Joining me on this adventure, Stephanie decided to explore the variety of baking options at her disposal.

This was a fantastic resolution, and it only felt like a chore once or twice.  We faced some strain as the days dwindled in those longer summer months, or as we negotiated ambitious travel and hectic work schedules.  Trying to hand crank homemade pasta at 9:30 was no picnic (in fact it led to a drink or two); but overall, this was enjoyably manageable, and it directly affected how we shopped for and utilized food products in the house.  In fact, we shared our ambition with a number of friends, whether in the form of African stew in July, Thanksgiving pies, or spicy meatballs just two weeks ago.

The Resolution for 2011 (status uncertain):
The key to my success is the variety offered in month-to-month installments.  This year, I hope to plant one new item in the garden every time I turn the calendar page.  Inspired by this handy Sacramento Bee article, a bevy of unopened gardening books, and a bold family of trendsetting farmers, I'm hoping to begin harvesting seasonal fruits and vegetables very soon.  If this resolution pans out like the previous two, I'll hopefully find myself reflecting on a newly adopted habit well into 2012. 

Happy New Year out there!  Whatever you do this year, do it well.