Jim “Bava Tuesdays” Groom must have his police scanner on, for he spotted my upgrade to WordPress 2.1 mere minutes after I’d finished. Uncanny fellow.

All looks fine so far. Whatever they did with the SQL back end worked like a charm: everything is much faster and more responsive now. I did have some trouble getting the tabbed editor to show up. I went to the WP forum and found several threads detailing this problem, with plenty of suggestions to try. In my case, it turns out that the Plain Text Paste plug-in (another gift from J. Groom) broke the new feature. Thankfully, the PTP author has already upgraded the plug-in to be compatible with WP 2.1. Open source responsiveness at its finest.

Always a happy day when a WP upgrade goes well. Kudos to the entire WordPress team for the extraordinary work they continue to do.

Welcome new functionality for the virtual camera in Second Life: ALT-CTL now allows the camera to crane-up/tilt-down and crane-down/tilt-up. Much more interesting angles are now possible.

Sometimes I wonder: what would it be like if I blogged almost everything?

Today, then, I’d blog about a Milton seminar class in which I did most of the talking and ended rather dispirited, only to find via the class syllabus wiki that one very attentive student had not only taken it all in but transformed it into a leap forward in her own thinking by making a sharp, essential connection with another class she’s taking. (Some say that can’t happen when a teacher did most of the talking–but I’m not sure I believe that anymore, myself.) I’d blog about the Introduction to Literary Studies class that considered Judith Butler’s arguments in “Gender Trouble” about gender and sex as a Saussurean play of signs, and how they agreed and protested and fumed and laughed and gritted their teeth, and began talking to each other very intensely about how the very idea of meaning becomes tenuous in all sorts of ways. I’d blog about the Larissa Macfarquar (sp?) piece in the New Yorker about the couple who have tried to unite philosophy and neuroscience, and how I want to share that article with those students to keep ’em thinking. I’d blog about the detailed conversation I had this afternoon with a colleague who wanted to know what I knew about Hopkins and sprung rhythm, and to talk about her research on a contemporary poet who may have been working the same vein. I’d blog about fifteen other things rattling around in my head in addition to the music I hear almost constantly in there as well. I’d leave out many things, but I’d at least capture all the interesting stuff (interesting to me) in all its variety; I’d capture my “input” fascinations that ramp up so powerfully at times, especially if the times are propitious….

What would it be like to pour it all forth and hold back nothing? Not to lay bare one’s private life–I’m not terribly interested in that–but to lay bare one’s internal del.icio.us, to serve up one’s own cognitive gumbo in all its stew and savor.

I wonder.

Here’s a reading I did a couple of weeks ago for UMW’s “Thursday Poems” series. The lyrics are by Robert Herrick. You may recognize some of them. I felt rusty and not quite all the way on my game, but there may be some moments to enjoy here. I hope so.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (13.7MB)

My son Ian just emailed me a link to an astounding video: a young man performing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” on a ukelele. The informal video is set in New York’s Central Park, right next to Strawberry Fields. George loved ukeleles, and he also loved John, so everything about this performance feels very aligned and unusually resonant. (That sounds so trite, yet I don’t know how else to describe it.)

As I prepare for a talk on mobile learning I’m delivering at Longwood University on Thursday, weather permitting, I’m struck by how mobility enables something soul deep about this video. The mobile camera, the mobile instrument, the mobile person, and the song that has traveled through time and space to that performance, and then again to my computer today: all so I could hear birdsong combine with plaintive, bell-like tones from an instrument played with love, commitment, and real virtuosity. And my son shared this thing with me.

Astonishing.

At moments like this, I don’t fear that I’m addicted to the Internet. I fear I am addicted to the world, and to those fellow travelers who look straight into a machine of glass, plastic, and metal and, whether or not we ever meet, see me on the other side.

Martha Burtis at The Fish Wrapper via Ken Smith points to the Mojiti version of Michael Wesch’s two-week-old-already-famous video on Web 2.0. Mojiti was new to me. Like Martha, I find the Mojiti version very stirring. And I’m already scheming how to use this new site in my teaching.

But before I get to that, I need to say something about the spot sets at Mojiti. It’s extremely cool (I disagree with Ken that “cool” marks disengagement) to have the VH-1 popups all over the place. Those “popups” are what Mojiti calls “spot sets.” They’re the video equivalent of Flickr annotations on the image itself, but with the effect heightened because of the temporal dimension, and because the comment elements themselves can move. The comments truly become part of the video. But it’s even cooler that one can have both collective spot sets and individual spot sets. Ken discusses that dynamic here. Interestingly, the pull of individual authorship overtook Ken shortly after he posted, when he (I’m pretty certain it’s Ken) created his own spot set to illustrate his idea about online life and embodiment.

I have a lot of thoughts running through my mind about these spot sets. The concept is pretty simple. The complexity comes from the way the Mojiti creators have imagined the sharing. One can hide spot sets, for example, but still share the permalink (pointing not only to the video but to the video-plus-spot-set-commentary), which means that if one needed to restrict access to certain spot sets, one could–and that means that some teachers who are (understandably) reluctant to have all their classes’ work exposed to the whole world can nevertheless benefit from these tools. And for that matter, it’s great that spot sets have their own permalinks, allowing for precise location and citation.

Something about the flow of all this commentary fascinates me deeply. But there’s more. Something about the way these comments layer themselves into the original experience without erasing it (and after all, they can be turned off), and the way they can exist both collectively and individually, seems to me to reveal something hidden in plain sight. We write together because we are not each other, and because we are together. I don’t think any of this activity complicates our ideas of authorship. I think it does complicate some of the postmodernist assumptions about authorship by showing that the liminal states, and the way definitions get tricky near the borders, are not the only objects of interest. They may not even be the most interesting objects, given the energy and creativity released by both collective and individual commenting, especially when those distinctions are not only preserved but heightened in an environment that at every opportunity points to both as important and valuable.

CODA:

I’m very frustrated at this point, because I want to cite a passage from Amadeus. Unfortunately, two moves within six months have put many of my books in boxes, so a quick scan of the shelves in my temporary office has only confirmed my suspicion that I don’t have the play to hand. Because I live so much of my life online, “in the cloud,” I feel an irrational surge of annoyance that the text of Schaffer’s play is not available to me now, for immediate perusal and quotation, in an e-form I can get to right away. This is why I want a digital library. Not to replace the book, but to make these voices, these things I read and remember, instantly available for my orchestration and repurposing. But since Schaffer’s text is not available, this moment will pass, and a seed–for you, perhaps, or perhaps for me–will not be sown. To be surrounded by sense is the goal, and that surrounding must have its building materials ready to hand when the Muse reveals a blurred but compelling blueprint.

And what was the passage I wanted? The one in which Mozart talks about hearing voices sing together in opera, and how that uni-versity preserved each voice and each separate line, even as it enabled a synergy which no single voice could find on its own. If someone out there has the passage, I’d appreciate a bit of assistance. If not, I know: that’s what libraries are for. And thank goodness for them.

A jewel-like introduction to teaching and learning technologies, equal parts concept and example, and thus both thoughtful and useful (and immediate): that’s Bryan Alexander’s new piece for the Association of College and Research Libraries. Next time someone asks the “why” or “so what” question and you suspect they need a quick and powerful answer, look no farther.

“Rewire the Web.”

“Pipes is an interactive feed aggregator and manipulator. Using Pipes, you can create feeds that are more powerful, useful and relevant.”

http://pipes.yahoo.com

Some very interesting possibilities here. Apparently the buzz brought the site down the same day it was launched, as reported here. The site is back up this morning. I’m mightily intrigued, even after a brief glance. Services like these are not only cool for their functionality; they’re also effective at breaking down conceptual barriers. And it wouldn’t take too much to reconceptualize Pipes itself as a kind of information “game.”

The site’s already playful. There’s a section called “Hot Pipes,” for example, that features user-created content that others have “cloned” for themselves–i.e., pipes they’ve adopted. Here’s one example:

This Pipe takes the New York Times homepage, passes it thru Content Analysis and uses the keywords to find Photos at Flickr.

Daniel Raffel made the pipe. The description page allows you to run the pipe or clone the pipe. You can subscribe to the pipe. In a nifty little widget on the side, you can also view how the pipe was made. Pipes’ front page tells us that Daniel’s pipe has been run 5514 times and cloned 375 times. (Stats and thermometers make everyone happy.)

More from the site:

02.07.07: What Is Pipes?

Pipes is a hosted service that lets you remix feeds and create new data mashups in a visual programming environment. The name of the service pays tribute to Unix pipes, which let programmers do astonishingly clever things by making it easy to chain simple utilities together on the command line.

Philosophy Behind the Project

There is a rapidly-growing body of well-structured data available online in the form of XML feeds. These feeds range from simple lists of blog entries and news stories to more structured, machine-generated data sources like the Yahoo! Maps Traffic RSS feed. Because of the dearth of tools for manipulating these data sources in meaningful ways, their use has so far largely been limited to feed readers. Read more

Play, share, store, explore, create. A good lesson plan for any day’s class meeting, I’d say.

Update: in the time it took me to write this blog post, a new feature appeared (or re-appeared): “pipe preview.” Impressive. I also took a peek at the “view pipe” function. Could this be an introduction to programming for non-programmers?

I just noticed this intriguing bit at the bottom of a NY Times article online (via the Web, not the Reader, and you’ll probably have to register):

Tips

To find reference information about the words used in this article, hold down the ALT key and click on any word, phrase or name. A new window will open with a dictionary definition or encyclopedia entry.

I tried it on “virtual” and found the results delightful.

This help will be great for native speakers and indispensable for non-native speakers. There’s audio for the pronunciation, several definitions, a mini-etymology (hurrah!), and a graceful, informative, genuinely interesting usage note for “virtuality.” In sum, an example of elegant and unobtrusive instructional technology. My only quibble is that the “tip” is easy to overlook (at least for me).

The NY Times is doing some interesting things these days with their online presence. I’ve been meaning for some time to blog about the NY Times Reader, which for me does a wonderful job of preserving a certain newspaper look-and-feel while taking advantage of e-capabilities that paper cannot match: easy emailing, annotation, font size adjustment on the fly, quick and inspiring navigational capabilities, etc. And I find the newspaper look-and-feel (aided by a graphics layer that can be added into XP and is native to Vista) preserves not only a comfort zone but also a kind of informational presentation that actually fits the purpose of newspapers. It’s something like a purpose-built browser (one must download a client) that crosses a bloggy newsreader with a virtual newspaper page. Very easy on the eyes, too. If you’re interested, here’s the page with the download instructions.

Perhaps we will begin to see some interesting, truly useful IT consolidations on the way that combine best practices and bold imagination along these lines.

UPDATE: Blogging reports on curiosity and feeds it as well (a lesson I’m beginning to remember again). So here we go: there’s a “First Look Blog” in which the chief developer of the NY Times Reader reports on his work-in-progress and invites comments. This model is so much more welcoming and informative than the usual take-it-or-leave-it “version notes” than I’m left wondering how long the old-style corporate communications can possibly survive. Think of it: one of the world’s great newspapers develops an e-presence that could mean fundamental and positive changes in the way we experience this medium, and we’re all invited to be part of the quest (even as we provide the developers with tremendously useful feedback during their process). We’ve seen this happen before, of course, but there’s something about watching the Times do it that makes me very hopeful indeed, especially given the dazzling results they’re pushing toward.

Second update: I’ve been curious about how to do annotations. Got it. This capability alone is worth the price of admission. Great stuff. Imagine a textbook that worked this way. It reminds me of the killer app for tablet PCs: OneNote.

Steve over at Pedablogy has been blogging for some time, to tremendous effect (certainly on me, though I’ve been hobbling along in my blog reading), on his own experiments with Web 2.0 in his classes. One of his students in last semester’s freshman seminar has continued to blog. Steve has continued to blog on the continued blogging. Now comes James Fadden, obviously struck by the way the spark has become a flame that shows signs of persisting, with a very trenchant analysis of Steve’s experiment and this result, ending with two very important questions James has logged as comments on his own post (I confess I like this autocommenting: it reminds me of Browne’s delightfully recursive prose and Oliver Sacks’ delightfully copious footnotes).

Steve pinged me about the Fadden trackback, and that’s jogged loose a little bit from me:

Extremely cool. James F. is all over these questions and you’ve obviously stimulated his thinking in a major way.

I think his subsequent questions are right on the money. I’ve been thinking (but not blogging, alas) a lot lately about greatness of mind in teachers as manifested in their ability to continue to prompt (or respond/prod/challenge) students in just this way. One outcome would be the continuous elaboration, throughout one’s life, of what Illich calls a “learning web,” by which he means a network of inspired and trusted minds, as I once put it a long time ago. A portfolio of intellectual companions who can be pressed or conjured into service as teachers as the need or desire arose.

The end (i.e., purpose) of teaching includes the delicious sensation of continuing to teach students who become empowered as trusted and inspiring minds who can teach in return. Not just in momentary flashes of insight–that’s delicious too and can happen at any time in any course of study, one of the reasons teaching is addictive–but in deep, rigorous, mature ways that can fully rock one’s world.

(I see that “rock one’s world” appears imprecise, but at this moment it feels accurate in part because of the register, not in spite of it.)

An experience I cherish, and a metaphor for something I love about teaching.

When I was growing up and music was the glue of youth culture, I always looked forward to marathon sessions of music sharing. My friend (it was usually one-on-one) would bring over a stack of records, and I’d have my latest acquisitions, and for several golden hours we’d play songs for each other. By the end, I’d have had a full run of sharing and learning in about equal proportions, and with about equal intensity, so much so that sharing and learning became two versions of the same thing.

At times, teaching is like playing records, even though (or perhaps because?) I’m now the one with the huge “collection,” much of it unfamiliar to students, and most of it something they’re paying to find out about. I have a good deal to share, but I still like to be shared with as well, and I’m always thrilled when a student responds to something I’ve said with “hey, that’s interesting; have you read (or seen, or heard) this other thing too?” I’m especially taken when the exchange happens in a surprising context. Some of that serendipity factor: not random, but not predictable either.

So today as I’m leading a consideration of Leo Braudy’s essay on “Genre: The Conventions of Connection” (in our Film Theory and Criticism reader), and suddenly a student asks if I’ve read a book by Chuck Klosterman called Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs and proceeds to summarize the book’s initial arguments regarding conventions, genre films, and their role in shaping our internal narratives as we try to find meaning in experience. She was kind enough to go get her book and loan it to me to read. And now a whole new set of connections awaits me.

And now I share the sharing with you.

“Free as solitude, yet neither is alone.”