A Tale of Two Starbucks Tables…

Saturday Morning, Catch-up and Strategize ~ Starbucks, Bowen & Park Row ~ March 31, 2018


Monday Morning, Student Conferences and Prepping ~ Starbucks, Spaniolo Dr. and UTA Blvd. ~ April 2, 2018


My favorite thing about Bowen was the streaming sun (as you can see in the stripey shadows in the picture). Against the window it was warm and lazy and that early morning sun filled me with contentment as I caught up on journal entries and figured out the to-do list for the day. My favorite thing about the pic of the Spaniolo Starbucks that shows the UTA Bookstore beyond is the copies of Turtles All the Way Down in the distance, surely watching over my work with my students who were supposed to have read that book by class time later that day…I have a feeling having now lived that class time later that day that some of those students need to take a trip to the bookstore and snag one of those copies.



Carlisle Hall 402 ~ UTA ~ February 8, 2018

This week, I had my students do activities inspired by or taken directly from Keri Smith’s Wreck This Journal for their Daily Compositions in their Field Notes. I decided I wanted to get in on the fun too and did the first one (you can see a rough draft of their list–though it changed a bit–at the top of that right page). I dripped coffee on that right page, closed the journal, and was delighted to open it back up and find a rather whimsical little character angrily shaking its fists (or maybe flexing its might) at the world. I’m not entirely sure why he delighted me so (or why he’s a he), but every time I flip past him now I smile. A reminder, perhaps, to not take things so seriously. To thrill at the patterns the world throws our way. To love little things and details. To paint more with coffee. To turn more grocery lists into “art.” Anyway, I’m glad I got in on the fun.



Sitting here, outside the stage door, is like sampling the whole world at once—all the languages, all the potentials.

And in the distance the flashing of billboards and electric lit signs—the trash is out for the night, huge piles of black and white and blue bags stuffed and piled waist high down the curb on both sides.

And the song of car breaks and horns; the delivery truck idling across the street; suitcases rolling along the pavement.

And the car radios tune in an out of a million different stations that touch me—all—before flitting off again.

I could have been anyone who’s passed me by but I wasn’t. I’m not.