At least, I hope so. It did make me laugh, though that’s no guarantee of anything right now:

I will tell you a philosophical joke. Once upon a time, a visiting scholar presented a lecture on the topic: ‘How many philosophical positions are there in principle?’ ‘In principle,’ he began, ‘there are exactly 12 philosophical positions.’ A voice called from the audience: ‘Thirteen.’ ‘There are,’ the lecturer repeated, ‘exactly 12 possible philosophical positions; not one less and not one more.’ ‘Thirteen,’ the voice from the audience called again. ‘Very well, then,’ said the lecturer, now perceptibly irked, ‘I shall proceed to enumerate the 12 possible philosophical positions. The first is sometimes called “naive realism”. It is the view according to which things are, by and large, very much the way that they seem to be.’ ‘Oh,’ said the voice from the audience. ‘Fourteen!’

From a review by Jerry Fodor in the London Review of Books, via The Philosophers’ Magazine Online, via the Chronicle quoting The Guardian. I was actually trying to find this quotation from Fodor:

Anybody who thinks that philosophers as such have access to large resources of practical wisdom hasn’t been going to faculty meetings.

The Guardian writer calls Fodor “the leading contemporary philosopher of mind.” Bingo, I say.

I still feel bad about missing UNESCO’s Fifth Annual World Philosophy Day, however.

Now I really must get back to the grading.

Gardner,

Thought you might find this 15 yr old young man’s music and mind amazing.

Mary-Kathryn at Surviving Winter emailed me the link to this story: “Driven to Music–A Prodigy at Age 15.” She was right about my response. Jay Greenberg is obviously an extraordinarily gifted young man.

There’s much to comment on here, but right now I have time for only a few passing observations.

The article says that Greenberg composes on computer. It gives no details, but I infer from what’s here that Greenberg not only writes the music on computer but plays the music back on the computer as well, just as I can write and read at the same time as I type these words on the screen. I’d be surprised if he didn’t, actually. Computers have made it possible for orchestral composers to realize their work, at least in a kind of rough sonic draft, with much greater ease than back in the day when all that they had was either a piano reduction or a hired orchestra, the latter at great expense and not at all conducive to any kind of editing or 50-bars-at-a-time spurts of inspiration of the kind Greenberg is prone to.

Later we learn that Greenberg can also write music on staff paper, so he’s obviously got his bases covered as far as technology is concerned.

I’m also struck by this bit:

Whose music does he like to hear? “In chronological order, Bach; Mozart; Beethoven; a little bit of Brahms, some of his later pieces, maybe; Prokofiev; Stravinsky; Bartok; some Copland; Ives. You can look at my iPod, there’s a lot of stuff in there.”

Yes: an iPod is a profile. That’s part of why it feels so intimate. Hey, mister, that’s me on that there iPod.

And amid all the other riches of this story, including a haunting photograph and a wonderful, uncanny self-awareness in which I detect depths it would be presumptuous to explore, I’ll close with a final highlight: the image of this young man shaking hands with the prodigy who played his violin concerto at Carnegie Hall: Joshua Bell, whose experiments in subway sublimity so captivated me and my Introduction to Literary Studies class last spring.

Listening to “Seven Stones” from Nursery Cryme as I write. Nearly undone. Don’t tell me beauty is only power in disguise.

May you be granted stamina, Jay.

In Acts of Meaning (1990), Jerome Bruner writes,

To be in a viable culture is to be bound in a set of connecting stories, connecting even though the stories may not represent a consensus.

When there is a breakdown in a culture (or even within a microculture like the family) it can usually be traced to one of several things. The first is a deep disagreement about what constitutes the ordinary and canonical in life and what the exceptional or divergent. And this we know in our time from what one might call the ‘battle of life-styles,’ exacerbated by intergenerational conflict. A second threat inheres in the rhetorical overspecialization of narrative, when stories become so ideologically or self-servingly motivated that distrust displaces interpretation, and ‘what happened’ is discounted as fabrication. On the large scale, this is what happenes under a totalitarian regime, and contemporary novelists of Central Eurpope have documented it with painful exquisiteness–Milan Kundera, Danila Kis, and many others. The same phenomenon expresses itself in modern bureaucracy, where all except the official story of what is happening is silenced or stonewalled. And finally, there is breakdown that results from sheer impoverishment of narrative resources–in the permanent underclass of the urban gthetto, in the second and third generation of the Palestinian refuges compound, in the hunger-preoccupied villages of semipermanently drought-stricken villages in sub-Saharan Africa. It is not that there is a total loss in putting story form to experience, but that the ‘worst scenario’ story comes so to dominate daily life that variation seems no longer to be possible.

These observations strike me as deeply insightful.

Too often within the academy I see interpretation displaced by distrust, precisely because of what Bruner intriguingly names the “rhetorical overspecialization of narrative.” I have seen less of that displacement in the community of teaching and learning technology practitioners than I have in my disciplinary community. I suppose some part of me has always hoped that the groups could find not only synergy but healing in each other’s company, and that we could help each other become our best selves. I suppose I still have that hope.

Today’s Social Research Colloquium at Mary Washington featured Tom Fallace of our Education Department talking about his research on John Dewey. I know a mere thimble-full about Dewey and was keen to learn more, and Tom certainly delivered: it was a fascinating and lucid talk and sparked many ideas and questions in my mind. The discussion was lively. I felt lucky to be there.

Afterwards I collared Tom for some more conversation, part of it about my experience with E. D. Hirsch’s “Cultural Literacy” project (thereby hangs a long tale), and part of it about Dewey and Tom’s work on his thought and influence. Tom said that Dewey would have been aghast at the way we use information technologies with no idea of where these technologies came from. For Dewey, ontogeny recapitulated phylogeny, and one could not use a hammer effectively without understanding something of the origins of that tool, the history of its refinements, and the techniques of its use through time. Of course I found myself in vigorous agreement with Dewey. (Tom may be a little skeptical of Dewey in this regard–further conversation is indicated.) I tried to explain some of my own work on the digital imagination, in very general terms, and I suddenly had a flash of insight that I wanted to record here. I didn’t articulate that insight in Tom’s presence–it was one of those bolts-from-the-blue that I couldn’t work into the conversation very easily–but the conversation was deep and intense and I’m confident the insight’s power was a direct result of our talk, even though it might not seem directly related.

So the insight? I was telling Tom that there was only a little bit more I wanted my students to know about their iPods, just enough that they wouldn’t think it was a magic box on which music resided and simply issued forth at the press of a button. (It occurs to me that I had echoes in my mind of Arthur C. Clarke’s famous observation about sufficiently advanced technologies seeming like magic, an observation that I was reminded of recently in a podcast featuring Rodney Brooks. But yes, I digress.) I wanted my students to know that there was a spinning disc in there, and that someone had decided to make the menu this way instead of that way, and so forth. Clearly I was working on the same ideas I’d elaborated in my digital imagination talk at JMU, and that I’d talked over with Alice and she’d taken up in her blog post here.

Then the flash came. I realized that without that little bit of extra knowledge of what was inside the box, and how human decisions had made the box and its innards and the ways in and out, students would never have these devices available to them as metaphors or analogies. A little knowledge of the genealogy and anatomy of the tool, a little understanding of the origins of that tool, the history of its refinements, and the techniques of its use through time, make that tool, that device, available to the imagination as a metaphor, and thus not as an empty user-endpoint but as one more link in a large web of further understanding and exploration and connection.

This, this is the reason we must not treat our computers as toasters. To follow Eliot’s dictum to “amalgamate new wholes” out of apparently disconnected experiences (reading Spinoza, falling in love, smelling cooking in the next room, as Eliot imagines), it’s vital to have something more than operational experience with on-buttons, GUIs, and DVD burners. It’s great when things “just work,” but make that “just work” too transparent and we lose our access to the metaphor-possibilities these new information technologies afford.

Lose those metaphor-possibilities and the jig is truly up.

These tools are almost nothing but metaphors, metaphor-makers, lodgings-for-metaphors.

Computers have become a major part of many human days. No part of any human day should be unavailable as metaphor.

Photo from A Different Voice, a thoughtful blog I discovered while searching for this image.

Here’s a poem I’ve treasured for thirty years. I remember vividly my first encounter with Hopkins, at the end of a Victorian Poetry class with Dillon Johnston at Wake Forest University. We’d gone through Tennyson, Browning, and Arnold–Arnold who left poetry for the world of literary criticism, alas–and at the end of the term Dr. Johnston had brought us to the most radical and experimental poet of them all: Gerard Manley Hopkins. Hopkins’ ideas of “instress”–the vital, emphatic force that holds and moves all creation from within–and “inscape”–the irreducible uniqueness, the thisness of each created being–were deeply inspiring to a young man in whom a passion for poetry, some might say a passion for passion itself, was coming into its first full flowering. Dr. Johnston seemed to me to have a very deep, if somewhat guarded connection with Hopkins’ intensity. His explications of these poems were very influential for me. I subsequently did my M.A. thesis on Hopkins and music.

Hopkins’ poems can be difficult to understand. His own friends, one of them a future poet laureate of England, found them difficult. Hopkins did his best to clarify these works without watering them down. And now, 150 years later, we’re attuned to certain kinds of poetic experimentation that the late Victorians were not. Still, it may take two or three readings or listenings to begin to get what he’s saying. The rush of words and stresses in Hopkins’ poetry performs a specific mimetic function. Hopkins is not being difficult just for the sake of being difficult or precious. He’s trying hard, as all great poets do, to transcribe and enact the parts of experience that seem especially meaningful, where the rich implications of any event reveal not only the human activity of meaning-making but the essential meaningfulness of being itself.

Some notes about the poem may be helpful. Hopkins added the tag “To Christ Our Lord” to make it clear that the Windhover is a symbol or allegory for Christ. Whatever one’s own beliefs, the urgent particularity of Hopkins’ observations here have a special beauty and power, I think. Also, in my commentary following the poem, I neglected to define chevalier. A chevalier is a knight.

My recitation is in response to a request from Chris Gill, Chief Information Officer at Gonzaga University. Chris was one of my classmates at the 2005 Frye Leadership Institute. I’m over two years late responding to Chris’s kind request, but reconnecting with him at EDUCAUSE 2007 reminded me that I owed this colleague and friend a small token of my thanks for his support and encouragement over these years, years that have brought changes and challenges to both of us. So here you go, Chris. I hope you enjoy the results.

EDIT: As Jonathan’s comment indicates, I am mistaken in my commentary. The kestrel is a falcon, not a hawk. I regret the error, and I’ll fix the commentary as soon as I can. Thanks to Jonathan for that correction.

SECOND EDIT: Seems these things go in two-year cycles for me. It took two years for me to record this podcast, and then two more years to fix the commentary in response to Jonathan’s comment. But fixed it is. My thanks once again to Jonathan for setting me straight, even if the course correction took two more trips around the sun.

The John Milton Cottage, where Milton wrote the final parts of “Paradise Lost.”

From time to time, I teach a course called British Literature to 1800, usually with another professor or two so we can distribute expertise, keep the sections smaller, and do some tag-team lecturing at the Big Lecture Moments during the course. I’ve taught with some really smart folks who are also good performers, so the lectures are anything but dry. There’s also been quite a high standard for me to live up to as I write my own stuff.

Over the years I’ve tried to use my introductory Milton lecture to articulate some of what I find so compelling about his work, and to encourage students to engage with his work in ways they’ve probably not imagined. I start with what I hope is a vivid biographical narrative, during which I ask students to close their eyes and join Milton in his blindness. I then move to an overview of what I call Milton’s “energizing principles,” those things that sparked his imagination and creativity with unusual intensity. Every time I do this lecture I revisit the first stirrings of my own passion for Milton’s work. I feel that getting in touch with those moments, and remembering myself at 22 coming to all of this splendor fresh, gives the lecture an animation and urgency that sets it apart in my own work.

It’s been a few years since I’ve given this lecture, but the opportunity came again just last week, and this time I recorded it. I offer the results here, for your judgment and I hope your enjoyment. My thanks to the many inspiring students who called this out of me; they bear no responsibility for the errors, of course. And my thanks to John Milton, a fascinating, flawed, extraordinary human being who wrote prose and especially verse that still maddens me with wonder after all these years of working with it. I have not lived up to his rigorous example of total commitment, but I hope that at least a few of the things I say here might at least bring a smile to his lips, as a latter-day Miltonist from southwest Virginia does his best to take the measure of some part of his astonishing gift.

Thank you, John Milton.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (20.4MB)

A great day, beginning with the speakers’ breakfast, extending into an intensely inspiring opening session with Doris Kearns Goodwin (I read her Team of Rivals this summer–can’t recommend this book too highly), a great meeting devoted to online learning, at least two wonderful conversations in the afternoon … such a feast.

But aside from Goodwin, whose talk was really sui generis, the two high points today were Brian Hawkins’ valedictory address, “How I Learned To Drive,” and my dinner with my Frye 2005 colleagues this evening. Brian’s talk deserves a post of its own, and it will get it, too. But before I go to sleep tonight I’m driven to try to say something about this evening’s dinner. I’m tired and I won’t get this exactly right, but I want to blog it in the moment to see if the “iron-fresh odor of discovery” will emerge despite my fatigue.

My account begins and ends with a comment left by a Frye colleague on a blog post dated Thursday, June 16, 2005. This simple act has touched my heart in ways I cannot begin to describe. In this moment the long tail, the remembrance of things past, and the knowledge of a community still vital and essential, all combine to help me find what I never lost.

I know these words will be cryptic to some of my readers, and I am sorry for that, though I think that the 2005 blog post gives enough context for most to understand at least something of what I’m saying. Or trying to say. What I mean is that I’d forgotten I wrote that post, largely because I had a hard time dealing with the way in which that moment of utter clarity I had over two years ago, a clarity I have felt only a few times in my life, seemed to have turned to murk.

But of course it had not. Now I see that my own merciful former self wanted to tell me something tonight. Writing in that moment two years ago, that self committed its moment of clarity to me. And I could honor that commitment only when a colleague, a fellow time-traveler with the marvelous gift of encouragement, wrote a comment recalling this moment and looking out to the next ones.

The imperative was never clearer. Remember this. But to hear myself speak, I needed my gifted colleague.

One comment, one moment, one timely memorial. Thank you, Helen.

My fifth EDUCAUSE conference. Hard to believe. Anaheim, Denver, Orlando, Dallas, and now Seattle. Each year I’ve met extraordinary people and learned a ton.

This year is particularly poignant for me.

I’m on the program committee, which has given me the opportunity to see the event emerge from the ground up, and to work with creative, devoted colleagues to help make that happen. As this year’s EDUCAUSE unfolds, I have an even greater appreciation for all the work that goes into this event, especially all the ingenuity and dedication represented by the folks who are presenting.

I’ll be reconnecting with many of those extraordinary people I mentioned above, and renewing my own excitement and commitment to what I believe is our best hope for genuine educational transformation.

I’ll have dinner with many of my friends from Frye 2005, and draw encouragment, strength, and inspiration from that most marvelous cohort.

At the ELI Advisory Board meeting, I’ll have the chance to review this year’s accomplishments and contribute to the direction of this wonderful group as we move forward into our next phase (see below).

And I’ll have the chance to discuss the topic of “Millenial Faculty” with a small group of conference participants. Since 1990, when I first starting using these technologies as a college instructor, I’ve been hearing about how a generational change will bring the professoriate out of techno-reluctance into techno-fluency, and usher in a new age of IT integration into teaching and learning. Well, the “Space Invaders” generation has their Ph.D.’s and they’re applying for jobs. Has that shift occurred? If so, what are the ramifications of this change?

But the most poignant element of EDUCAUSE 2007, for me, will be a changing of the guard. Brian Hawkins is stepping down as President of EDUCAUSE after ten years of outstanding leadership. And Diana Oblinger, who has brought ELI through three amazing years of growth and innovation, is here for the last time as Vice-President, for she will become the new President of EDUCAUSE on January 1, 2008. Both Brian and Diana are extraordinary leaders. They are also exceptional mentors. It’s difficult for me to express my gratitude to both of them without leaking all over my keyboard and shorting something out. Suffice it to say that I try to channel them in everything I do as a leader and community-builder. I will always be their student.

I’ve been in many learning communities over the course of my career. The dream of a university, a place in which diversity and unity find a common purpose and, even more importantly, a common joy, has come true for me in a variety of ways, from those magic days in which a class meeting takes off for the stratosphere to those days when a conference presentation or even a chance conversation with a colleague propels my own learning into a higher orbit. To my great astonishment, however, it was not until 2003 that I began to see how all these many processes in higher education might be aligned, might realize the synergies that our civilization so desperately needs if we are to address our challenges successfully. If any proof is needed that information technologies are really civilization technologies, as fundamental and as exciting as reading and writing themselves, that proof is here at EDUCAUSE, in abundance.

I wish I’d found this community ten years ago. I’m very grateful and honored to be part of it now.

Just back from a driving marathon to take our son to Hampshire College for a College Day visit. Aside from a 2.5 hour wait to cross the Geo. Wash. Bridge northbound on Sunday, one brief lost moment in the Bronx (missed the southbound turn to the Geo. Wash. Bridge), and a lovely rear-ender when a small truck piled into us as we were trying to leave Hadley (no one was hurt, thank goodness), it was uneventful.

Both Ian and I were impressed by Hampshire, for a number of reasons I would like to explore here at some point. We also both had some concerns, I more than he. Worth exploring those too, particularly because, so far as I can tell, Hampshire was founded on a very brave, far-seeing attempt at real school. The attempt continues, forty years later, and it was interesting to see some of the history of that attempt firsthand.

Then we got home, and a brochure had come from Deep Springs College–another of the brave real school attempts I’ve thought about over the years. I remember getting a version of that brochure when I was a senior. I had tried out for the Telluride Program and failed. (I was a semi-finalist and got an interview with Robert Davidoff, a young asst. prof. of history at UVA; it was the first time I’d talked at length to a college professor–and thereby hangs another tale.) Still, Deep Springs was fascinating to me, for reasons I have trouble explaining, even to myself. The current brochure is even more interesting than the one I received thirty-three years ago.

All of which brings me to today’s punch line, which has something to do with the pleasures and perils of growing up as a faculty kid. At least waggish Ian, who wrote and posted this note on a door in our house, has still managed to get to the comic side of all these questions.