Means of Expression closed for Swan and JT

[JayTee69gmx]

“His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.”

"That is your assignment for this week. Just now I sent an email to each of you with that quote. Its Joyce, Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man. Save you Googling. Study that. Think about it. Do your best to explain to me how reading that affected you. As usual email your work. I will post some to the blog. The ones I post, I would like comments by you. Nothing negative. If you did not like what the person said, keep it to yourself. The whole point of what I am trying to do here, as I have said before, is to encourage you to communcate, by giving you interesting things to think about, and by providing a place where you can say what you are thinking without fear of someone calling you an idiot."

Same as every other Monday afternoon for the past two months he had written at the side of the blackboard:

Professor Johnston
Rm 221
b.johnston@scdf.edu
communicatingcommunication.com

He scanned the class as they studied their smartphones. Usual seond year general arts with a few additions from the professional faculties, engineering, medicine, architecture. It was the latter ones that would gain the most from this. He hoped some of it might filter through.

Mixture of males and females, usual small group of 'popular' young women attempting to use their sexuality to advance their grades. None had the wit or imagination to attract him, notwithstanding their bodies.

"That is all. Next week we will discuss some of your submissions. I look forward to reading them. Always a pleasure."

 

[SwanLake]

Samira Nevrakis was a strange duck. Or at least that's what her parents said when they thought she was out of ear shot. Well, it was the kindest of the things she had overheard them saying about her but she didn't blame them. She knew she was weird and at this age she had already accepted it. Was it her fault that she saw the world differently? She didn't think so but the world as a whole didn't always agree. You see the world already had a pre-set standard of rules and in many instances they couldn't or wouldn't mold to the difference that was Samira.

That she was a second year trying again to pass an introductory English class was a good case and point.

Professor Johnston's "Creative Expressions" class was the last class that Samira wanted to be in but the alternative was a book thumping dictionary Nazi and truthfully Samira weighted the two and judged Professor Johnston's class to be the easier of the two. There were outside opinions that had swayed her favor, the school talked and when someone was a quite as Samira was no one noticed you and said more then should be shared.

Two months into the class had her reviewing her judgment. There wasn't a difficulty that had to be overcome but more of a challenge. He spoke in words that flowed like the crystal cold waters of a fresh glacier stream and they moved Samira but even with the emotional connection she had with his words and the quotes that he picked she couldn't portray that image in her head. Oh she could think in pictures that his words were like the crystal cold waters of a fresh glacier stream but for some reason saying them felt weightless paired to the painting in her mind. It was too bland and had her frantically grasping for bigger for complex words of description. A failure if she was forced to speak or write it.

“His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.”

The scene was set. In Samira's mind the room was dimmed with gentle candlelight. That soft light that played over someone's body like a caress, teasing and showing just enough to hypnotize and captivate. A woman danced before a stranger, moved by fate to draw his attention and only his. His eyes met her's and his heart raced and his breath stilled. She on the other hand burned like fire and her body moved like a song, calling out to him a promise that only the two of them shared. It was a moment pulled by fractions unknown, powerful and silent speaking only to the heart and the passion stirred.

Samira could see all that and more in her mind but her pencil was still over the paper. She willed it to move like the woman in her mind but it refused, insulting her in it's defiance. 'There is a man.' Samira hated her handwriting, so unsure and lacking the confidence that her drawing possessed. 'He sees a woman?' Frustrated Samira tore the paper out of her spiral notebook and crumpled it into a tight little ball, relishing in the destruction of her inabilities. But the moment was short lived as a fresh sheet of paper stared up at her with a challenge she knew she could never fully accept.

Twenty minutes later Samira called it quits with the paper reading a miserable; 'The. No, a man. The man? I'm going with 'The' because it feels like there is an importance to the word The. Wait let me start again. The man sees a woman. He knows her? I don't know how he knows her but he does. Well it's more then that. A power to knowing her. Not like a god but something.' A vicious amount of scribbles and blackout scratches follow the word 'something'. 'The woman sees him too and knows him as well. She gets his attention and they love each other?' There were too many questions and nothing about how it made her feel. 'I feel the attraction of the two people to each other.' Samira wanted to throw her hands in the air and scream out every annoying thought she had about this class as if it would cleanse her from the outside in but it would draw attention. Another thing she hated as much as her handwriting.

Looking around class she saw the other students busily typing on their mini laptops, touch screen things or phones. She hated all that electronic nonsense and had no problem lying about her religion to opt out of being forced to use those things. The truth was she was raised in a mixed religion family and neither religions regulated the use of electronics. The closest thing she had to a cell phone was a pager she had since grade school. Her parents had tried over and over again to get her to move with the times but she liked the simplicity of the pager and how it didn't create a dependence like phones did. She was sure it drove her Profs crazy that she turned in papers hand written or typed up on a typewriter but she wasn't going to change herself for the world if the world wouldn't even broaden it's horizons to include her.

When she thought Prof Johnston wasn't looking Samira traded out her spiral notebook for her loose leaf art book and started to sketch. What she could never translate into words her art always seemed to expose. Lately her drawings had started to focus on one particular face, the dark hair and piercing blue eyes. There were edges and lines to his face that enthralled the young artist and the depth of his eyes. Many of the girls in class threw their good looks and money at him but it was for all the wrong reasons. They were only seeing what was on the surface, the tall stature and the way he carried himself, the care that showed in the fit structure of his body but they didn't see all of him. Samira didn't see all of him either but every time she drew him she felt like she learned a little something more.

The picture was heavily shaded but the man was fully in the frame of the light. He lounged back in the wooden straight back chair and there seemed to be nothing tense about the man but for the arm draped over the chair nearest him, the way the hand tightened around upper frame of the chair and bulged the muscles in his arm slightly. But like all her works it was the man's eyes that spoke volumes, they were trained on the woman across the room. So far Samira only had her outline sketched but her body twisted in dance, dappled with the soft light of the many candles in the room. The look on the man's face, the way he saw deep into the soul of the woman was reflected back, the only amount of detail she had given the woman.

If anyone were to see the drawing it would be easy enough to tell that Prof Johnston was the model for the man and Samira the model for the woman and for that reason and more Samira kept her pictures private. Glimpses of her mind, her soul and her heart were her own and while her art Prof loved her work there was a large part of herself she kept from the world and it's horrible judgments.

"That is all. Next week we will discuss some of your submissions. I look forward to reading them. Always a pleasure."

Samira doubted that but of course it was because he was speaking to the rest of class and not her. If it had been directed at her she was sure the farewell message would have been a little different. And like every class for the last two month Samira hurried to stuff her art book back into her old canvas and leather shoulder bag. Followed by carefully tearing out the written assignment for class, wary of tearing on either side of the perforated line. The mantra of 'sneaky as a mouse' chanting through her head as she left her assignment on Prof Johnston's desk. She knew one of these day, and it was way overdue, he was going to call on her for one reason or another and she gave him so many that she couldn't believe that he hadn't already done it. It was one more thing that she hated about English class, the confrontation and failure as the Prof either dropped her or incompleted her out of their class. Samira was just counting down the days, long ago giving up that she would conquer this villain (English class).

 

[JayTee69gmx]

"Most of you gave quite interesting reactions to Joyce's words. I gave them to you to study, because Joyce carved new methods of communication. Some of his writing is quite difficult to fathom, Finnegan's Wake for instance. This quote is more straightforward, but you caught that his message was not obvious from the words. Many say that 90% of our communication is non-verbal. A man's glance downward, breaking contact with a woman's eyes could mean many different things depending on the context. And there lies the difficulty with that quote. You do not, unless you took the time to read the novel, know the context. And really my point was to show that context is but one of many non-verbal aspects to communication. But one you must all be aware of."

"I posted on the blog a few of the replies that illustrate this problem. Remember I asked how did it make you feel. Most of you approached that as what did it mean. But that was not what I asked. This was a failure on my part to communicate to you what I wanted to know. And so we see the difficulties we are all up against every day. For you, communication with your professors is a matter of passing or failing, learning, and so on. But there are many situations in life where communication is far more important. Choosing a life partner, or perhaps choosing not to have a life partner. Telling the user how to operate a device you designed, or invented, or are selling."

"Your skills will improve with practice. And if you are afraid you will be criticized, you may not practice. Thus the rule in my class, no criticism. Period."

Barry scanned the room. Most of the students were half listening, paying attention to their phones. He knew the vast majority just wanted a passing grade to add to the list of accomplishments that would finally result in a degree. How was he to stimulate them to actually learn something here? Always a problem. And one in which there was little, if any, professional agreement.

Well here is your next assignment. I have emailed you this short quote:

'The wood was silent, still and secret in the evening drizzle of rain, full of the mystery of eggs and half-open buds, half unsheathed flowers. In the dimness of it all trees glistened naked and dark as if they had unclothed themselves, and the green things on earth seemed to hum with greenness.'

D.H. Lawrence.

Take that, read it, try to feel what the author was trying for, and then write something similar describing what you might feel walking in the woods, or in the city, or in a park.

Now would the following students please stand up and identify themselves:

James Richards

Cynthia Jones

Samira Nevrakis

Anne Lyndiski

The first was a footballer player type, the second was a cheerleader type, one of those in the front row, and the last did not really fit into a type that he could bring to mind. Tall, long very dark hair, and slim. Attractive, but very subdued. He had noticed her before, and again she was at the back of the class, almost disconnected. No-one stood up to the last name.

"Thank you."

"You three, I would like to see you at 10 am tomorrow. Room 221. That is all."

The next day, when he arrived a bit before ten, all three were waiting outside his office. He asked Ms. Nevrakis to wait, and ushered Richards and Jones in, showing them to chairs. He sat with them, his large desk covered in papers and books and a couple of laptops.

"Now James, I guess you probably play football for the school, am I right?" James nodded.

"And Cynthia, you are a cheerleader?" She smiled, batting her eyelashes.

"I am not that clever, I read the school newspaper. However I have a special assignment for both of you. You can do it together, or you can do it separately. But I want a written discussion of the classical Greek concept of a strong mind and a strong body. And next week, the day after class I want to discuss your submissions here. Please do your best, sometimes students do not get passing grades in this course."

"Thank you for coming in. On your way out send in Ms. Nevrakis."

"Please, sit down."

'The. No, a man. The man? I'm going with 'The' because it feels like there is an importance to the word The. Wait let me start again. The man sees a woman. He knows her? I don't know how he knows her but he does. Well it's more then that. A power to knowing her. Not like a god but something. The woman sees him too and knows him as well. She gets his attention and they love each other? I feel the attraction of the two people to each other.'

"You handed me this before you left class last week. I understand you do not like electronic communication. That is fine, much of my own education was well before internet and email and blogs. So. First thing, there is no need to complete an assignment while you sit in class. You may hand it in to my office, handwritten if you prefer."

"I am sorry, I am making you nervous and you should not be. You are here because, wittingly or not, your submission was far better than any other student, and I wanted to get to know you better. Clearly you know Joyce practically founded the 'stream of consciousness school of writing.' And your submission really does let me see into your mind, you really did tell me how you felt. I would like to see you here again next week, same time, after the cheerleader and the quarterback."

"Oh yes, I almost forgot. Read some of D. H. Lawrence and choose a passage that you feel shows unusually good communication. Normally I would say 'just Google D.H. Lawrence quotes,' but I suppose you will have to find some compendium of quotes in the library, or perhaps read some of his work. It is all good stuff, your time will not be wasted."

Looking at her, he felt a strange attraction. He could not think why, but he did.

"Well, thank you. Never mind the assignment I gave the rest of the class, just do this D. H. thing for me. I will not share it."

"Again, thank you for coming in, if you will excuse me I have some first year papers to read."

 

[SwanLake]

Samira had never read Joyce's works and truthfully didn't know much about him. A thing she worried about with growing fear as Prof Johnston went on about how he carved new methods of communication and how it related to non-verbal forms of communication.

"Your skills will improve with practice."

There was a slight shake of her head as she disagreed with what he had just said. The movement wasn't enough to draw attention but it was there. There was no amount of practice that would make Samira better at the written or spoken word.

'The wood was silent, still and secret in the evening drizzle of rain, full of the mystery of eggs and half-open buds, half unsheathed flowers. In the dimness of it all trees glistened naked and dark as if they had unclothed themselves, and the green things on earth seemed to hum with greenness.'

Again in her mind Samira could see the hauntingly quite woods. There the last touches of winter tried to hold strong, a lone icicle wilting under the coming spring. Dew reflected the silence within the tiny fractures of light that filtered through the canopy. It wasn't about the new birth of green buds on the tress or the half to fully created nests built in the safety of the tress but about the power in peace. Samira had witness it many times, how nature came to life in the absence of humanity, how things seemed to come alive with eerie stillness. And yet in her mind there was a set of footprints darkened on the forest floor, darkened by the disturbance of the collected dew drops and bent blades of grass. Her footprints as if placing herself in that natural part of the world where she too came alive and hummed with her own greenness made her more part of that world then the one she lived in.

Samira didn't even know how she would try to explain that one. Could she just write that she was a tree and understood? Would that even make sense? And what did that say about how the quote made her feel? She didn't know how she was going to get through this class and started blankly at the notebook until the sound of her name brought her mind to focus. Following the example of the other students Samira stood up and tried to ignore the stares of the students, the blush on her cheeks proof that she wasn't doing a good job at ignoring the brief glances her way.

"You three, I would like to see you at 10 am tomorrow. Room 221. That is all."

This was it. Samira didn't know what the other three names or rather the other two students had done to be called upon but the list of her offences trained behind her like an elegant bridal dress. Too bad her dress was in ruins and stained with her past failures. Knots were already twisting Samira's stomach by the time she took her seat again. As much as she loved to listen to the passionate voice of Prof Johnston she couldn't concentrate on his words. Even when she turned to drawing, his words fading to a normally calming drone, there was a hitch in her lines. There was an unbalanced look in Prof Johnston's eyes that she was sure reflected her own. She had seen this coming for weeks and now that it was here she felt so...

Samira placed her pencil on the table and looked down at the face that commanded the paper surface. When the realization hit her the class had ended and she was the last one still sitting there. "I would miss this class." She whispered to herself as she collected her belongings and hurried from class. As much trouble as it gave her, as much as she didn't look forward to being in it, the class itself was in an odd way enjoyable for her. But was it really the class or was it the man teaching the class? Samira had to give Prof Johnston credit where credit was due, his love for the written and spoken word translated to his class or at least it did to Samira. It was the same way she few about art and she could feel his love with what he shared with the class and it effected Samira more then she had thought prior to learning she was getting kicked out of the class.

That night Samira painted and as the colors of the painted mixed together her mind started to quite, there was a tranquility to art that nothing in life gave her. It was the only opportunity she had to let down all the walls she kept up, the persona she felt she had to be when interacting with people. In rare moments like this Samira could close her eyes and pour her whole self onto the canvas and know that she would be accepted as she was. And as night turned over to morning Samira finally stepped back and view her life as she felt it. It was a fairly simple picture but the depth of the lighting, the emphasis on the bold lines and coloring produced an image that she could only wish to be true.

A desk divided the young woman from the man. He leaned over the desk, elbows braced on the dark solid wood peering into the eyes of the real woman across from him but to the side. He could have gazed at the mirrored creation of the same woman directly across from him but instead he saw past the image and saw the woman behind the mirror. There was fear and sadness in the eye of the woman hidden behind the fake, fear that she was truly being seen and sadness that she would one day let him down. The fake smiled and reflected back to the world what it wanted to see but the man only saw her. The real her and he reached out to her, his hand strong and gentle. He was offering her a way out from behind the creation she wanted everyone to see, giving her the bravery that she need all while his eyes promised protection and care.

It was a dream and Samira wondered if maybe she wasn't as shallow as the girls in the front of class. If she didn't just see in Prof Johnston what she needed. It was a cold reality and before the paint was even finished drying Samira turned the painting away no longer wanting to see the truth in her painting.

Waking up that next morning was a struggle. She didn't wake with the sun and covered her face to the new day and her alarm. "Can the word just give me this one day to hide?!" Samira cursed and foul mood darkening the out look of the day. But her sanctuary didn't provide the sound barrier that Samira desired and when she could no longer take the sound of her alarm she crawled from the cocoon of sheets and blankets and met the day.

As hard as Samira tried the cloud followed her and then grew when Prof Johnston asked her to wait outside as he talked with the other two students first. She didn't know what was said on the other side of the door though she guess that is she pressed her ear to the door she would be able to hear what was going on. It was a temptation she almost gave into but before she fell to that weakness the other two students walked out and told her that Prof Johnston was waiting for her.

"Professor Johnston." Samira greeted as he offered her a seat which she quickly took, clutching her shoulder bag to her chest, nervous to what she knew was coming. The sickness inside only grew when he shared with her the latest assignment.

"You handed me this before you left class last week. I understand you do not like electronic communication. That is fine, much of my own education was well before internet and email and blogs. So. First thing, there is no need to complete an assignment while you sit in class. You may hand it in to my office, handwritten if you prefer."

Samira nodded mouth dry. "I just-" She cleared her throat and licked her lips before continuing. "It's just there was nothing else to write. I mean, I had nothing else to write." Samira confessed wanting to looking away but feeling that as a teacher, a good teacher, Prof Johnston had earned the respect of her attention. That he had spoken of future occasions of turning things in was lost on Samira who was only sitting there waiting to hear those fated words of dismissal.

"I am sorry, I am making you nervous and you should not be. You are here because, wittingly or not, your submission was far better than any other student, and I wanted to get to know you better. Clearly you know Joyce practically founded the 'stream of consciousness school of writing.' And your submission really does let me see into your mind, you really did tell me how you felt. I would like to see you here again next week, same time, after the cheerleader and the quarterback."

"What?" The shock of his words raised the volume of Samira's voice and she clapped her hand over her mouth blushing with embarrassment. "But, what I wrote..." Samira fumbled trying to understand the turnabout of this conversation. Clearly she knew that Joyce practically founded the 'stream of consciousness school of writing. Samira looked around the room to make sure that Prof Johnston was having this conversation with her and not someone else. "I- Next week?" The confusion showed on Samira's face, her brow knitted together creating deep furrows along her forehead and around her frowning lips.

That he so casually handed her a different assignment from the other student only further threw Samira off course.

"Again, thank you for coming in, if you will excuse me I have some first year papers to read."

"Wait!" Samira boldly stood up and held her hand out stopping her Professor's dismissal. "You didn't call me in today to drop me from your class? Or to just grade me as an incomplete?" That had to be the reason she was here, what had just happened was an enchantment of little sleep and a restless mind. It couldn't have been real, she was never good at English and if this had really happened was the first nice thing a teacher had said to her since grade school.

 

[JayTee69gmx]

He stood up also, uncomfortable sitting if she was standing. He was taller than her, but not by a lot. She was quite tall, and striking, yes that was the word he had been searching for. Striking. Her features were not photo model pretty, yet she could model, with that height and slimness and somewhat standoffish demeanor. Which in her case was probably shyness. Looked at her curiously, then held his chin for a moment while he thought.

"Please, sit down Ms. Nevrakis. Join me in a cup of Red Bush tea, Rooibos the Africans call it."

He turned away and took an electric kettle over to the water cooler, filled it and plugged it in on a small table. From a cupboard he got out two tea bags, and dropped one in to each of the two plain white china cups he inverted from the table. From time to time he looked at her silently, a quizzical expression on his face.

Brewing the tea gave him time to think. He considered giving her part of Molly Bloom's soliloquy, perhaps:

I suppose its because they were so plump and tempting in my short petticoat he couldnt resist they excite myself sometimes its well for men all the amount of pleasure they get off a womans body were so round and white for them always I wished I was one myself for a change just to try with that thing they have swelling up on you so hard and at the same time so soft when you touch

And watch his chances of tenure fly out the window when she reported him. But it did illustrate so well the point he was trying to make. No, he needed a different approach.

He gave her a cup of the brewed red tea saying,

"No caffeine, organic which I suppose means any genetic modifications to the plant probably occurred before humans evolved."

"Now let me see if I can repeat what you just said to me:

'You didn't call me in today to drop me from your class? Or to just grade me as an incomplete?'

is that close? I think so."

"That was succinct, well phrased and well expressed. I believe I know quite well what you were thinking at that moment. Of course your pose, standing up and so on all added to the impression. But my point is you communicated to me very very well. And our task in this course is to find a way so you can bring that ability under your control. So when writing a letter of application you can call on your writing skills to express yourself."

"But to answer your question, I am not dismissing you from class, I am not grading you as incomplete. I can do one thing to make the class a bit easier for you. I will not share any of your writing with the rest of the class until you ask me to."

"So your assignment is to read some D. H. Lawrence and choose a passage that you feel shows unusually good communication, and tell me why. In writing, on paper, and just hand it in before the next class."

He relaxed a bit then, and sipped his tea.

 

[SwanLake]

Tea? Samira didn't get this man. He was an English teacher and all English teachers hated her and yet here he was offering her tea. Without notice she sat as he directed and just watched him unsure of the waters she was swimming in. If he was a cruel man he could be toying with her but she didn't think that was the case and curiosity had her waiting and listening where normally she would have ran.

"No caffeine, organic which I suppose means any genetic modifications to the plant probably occurred before humans evolved."

Samira started down at the cup of tea not knowing what to say. "Umm, okay?" She curled her hands around the teacup but didn't move them, taking comfort in the warmth of the tea itself and the fragrant steam. She didn't want to tell him that she didn't like tea or that even if she did trying something new wasn't her cup of tea. Just thinking it made Samira smile and she hid the reaction by turning her head down and away from Prof Johnston.

As Samira hid her smile the Prof repeated her words back to her as if there had been something confusing from her end. As if it were her that had thrown the curve ball when she expected a quick fastball out of his class. He spoke of her means of expression just now and Samira's smile faded quickly. He had said something about calling on her writing skill but since she knew she had none had no idea as to what he was talking about.

After that confusing moment Prof Johnston clarified her original point about failure and/or dismissal. He wasn't going to kick her out of his class and he even promised not to share any of her work, not that it had ever been an issue. Only people who did good were ever shared and in English class that was never something she had to worry about.

"So your assignment is to read some D. H. Lawrence and choose a passage that you feel shows unusually good communication, and tell me why. In writing, on paper, and just hand it in before the next class."

Prof Johnston relaxed and sipped his tea and for good measure Samira waited for a hook set deeper then reading some D.H. Lawrence. "Is..." Samira released the teacup and rested her hands on the old faded blue jeans that she had one. "Is that all?" It was too good to be true. Nothing was ever this simple, there had to be a trap laid in hiding somewhere and suddenly Samira didn't want to know. Wished that she hadn't asked the question. She didn't want to know and before her Prof could answer the question Samira stood up and hurried out of the room throwing a quick "Thank you, bye." Over her shoulder as the door slammed behind her.

And the moment that Samira cleared Prof Johnston's office the world came to a screeching stop. "I'm still in my English class?" She looked over her shoulder to make sure that she wasn't being followed as she asked that question out loud for the world to answer. "How-" But that question was too much like the other that she didn't want to the answer to and stopped herself before she finished asking it. Forcing her feet to move should her Prog change his mind and come after her, Samira found herself automatically heading for the library.

With as much time as Samira spent in the library when she got there it only took her a matter of moments to find the poetry section and a book on some of D.H. Lawrence's works. Finding an empty cubical Samira dropped the collection of books she had found and started sorting through them looking for something that spoke to her.

In the first ten minutes Samira had a whole page filled with quotes that she like. Maybe they weren't the best example of communication but she had written them down nevertheless.

“Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot.” It was the first thing she had found when she opened the first book to a random page. The passage wasn't so much as moving as an inspiration to what she wish she could do with the written word. To be able to voice her passions out loud.

“It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she feared it still, lest if she adored him too much, then she would lose herself, become effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it.” Samira thought back to any one of her drawing, paintings or scribbles and wondered if that wasn't what she did with her art. If she just didn't fear the world and hide behind things that would keep her in a false feeling of security.

Reading D.H. Lawrence works was emotionally draining. Everything was so well said, could be read so many different ways and evoked so many thoughts and feelings that it was leaving Samira drained. What quotes she found that she like she compared to her life and analyzed it for flaws or truths. So much of what she was reading made her question, made her wonder. It came to a point that she forgot about her assignment and was just reading to read. His quotes were like stepping stones into things she didn't want to recognize but maybe started to.

Hours had passed and Samira hadn't drawn a single thing and it hadn't even dawned on her. “I should feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of having only to look at them. I'm sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual - we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. I'm sure that is entirely wrong.” It was the only quote she had spoken aloud. It was the first quote that she wanted to argue against. She didn't know if this had been what Prof Johnston had been looking for but she was going to write about this and why it was wrong.

'I should feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of having only to look at them. I'm sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual - we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. I'm sure that is entirely wrong.' Samira wrote at the top of the paper. Skipping a line she paused over the blank line before her pencil trying to put to words her feelings. Unlike any of the quotes or poems from class there was no movie like playout in her mind to guide her words, just feeling of how she felt this was wrong. 'You can feel what is seen.' She started with shaky handwriting. 'Pictures are felt if did right.' But that wasn't true either. Art could be felt even when done wrong and sometimes that was the point. 'Even when it's wrong visuals speak, can made you feel.' Samira curled her hands into fists and waved them over the paper hating the way her words were strung together like a child's. 'Art is vulnerability, the chance to feel the person who made it. It make you understand with feelings that it creates in the person who looks at it.' It still felt childish but Samira continued needing to explain how she felt. 'What is wrong with the world who feels a person it doesn't know?' Nerves started to take over and Samira's palms started to sweat. 'Ears are not the only thing that can hear. Well it is but you can hear with your heart.' Gosh that sounded stupid but it was how she felt and for as long as it was taking Samira to write this she wasn't going to start over, she had thirty minutes dedicated to what little she had before her and she knew deep down this was as good as it was likely to get. 'My point is you can feel with more then touch, sound can make you feel, art can make you feel, smells can make you feel. Many things can make you feel. Seeing is some times the best way to see or feel.'

Samira let out a huge breath, a sigh of relief that she had been half way holding since she started writing. As stupid as she felt smiling at this pathetic mosh or words she was proud of herself. This was the soundest strung together mess she had ever made and hope fluttered in her heart that maybe this was just the beginning.

 

[JayTee69gmx]

"Anne Lyndiski? Anne Lyndiski?"

There was no reply. Johnston scanned the lecture hall, but only the usual suspects. Ms. Nevrakis up at the back, as usual eyes down, pencil moving. But it never looked like she was taking notes. In any case he had not said anything yet that would warrant a note.

"Mr. Richards, Ms. Jones, see me after class. It will only take a moment."

"The wood was silent, still and secret in the evening drizzle of rain, full of the mystery of eggs and half-open buds, half unsheathed flowers. In the dimness of it all trees glistened naked and dark as if they had unclothed themselves, and the green things on earth seemed to hum with greenness."

"A few of you were already aware of the source for this, or you Googled it, and you mentioned 'sexual tension' as part of how you felt. Those who were not aware of the source never mentioned sexual tension. Interesting, because indeed the quote is part of a passage full of sexual tension. In fact when first published the book was banned, because of the sexual content. Many now think that it was the fact that the sex was inter class that caused the real problem. In any event this well illustrates that mere words, out of context, convey different meanings. Always think of this when you are evaluating any report that a person said or wrote this or that. Remember context is important, few words are strong enough to stand on their own."

"Now here is an assignment for all of you." He emphasized the 'all' looking directly at Samira. Pressing a button, this image appeared on the screen beside him.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/23/Gear_pump_exploded.png

"It is said a picture is worth a thousand words. Those of you studying engineering will find it easy conceptually, but perhaps more difficult to express in writing, Those of you in fine arts will find it more difficult conceptually, but we live in a world of engineered artifacts, bridges to smart phones, and it will exercise your mind to think of the difficullties the engineers have."

"So that is an exploded view of a gear pump. It tells us much about the pump, visually. Your task is to tell us what it does not tell us about the pump, what can not be told visually about the pump. Think what additional information do you need to use this pump. And express that information, in writing. Just invent the specifications as you need."

"Dismissed. Richards, Jones, I want to see you now. And, oh yes Ms. Nevrakis a moment please." As she approached, he walked up to her and said something quietly in her ear. "Please come to my office, 10 am tomorrow, like last week."

After she and the others had left he turned to Richards and Jones. He placed printouts of their submissions on the desk.

"Please take those and destroy them. They were plagarized. Plagarism is grounds for immediate explusion from the university. I checked your records, there are no warnings on file. So I will be lenient, you have until 5 pm this evening to provide me with original work. I do not care if you are stumbling and idiotic. I only care that the work be yours. If you comply, I will erase your emails from my server. And post warning of suspected plagarism on your records. If not, I will start senate proceedings to have you expelled."

Thier faces were ashen. Then a glimmer appeared and Cynthia said "But professor, isn't there anything I could do to uh . . fix this?" She glanced at James. "For both of us?" The she looked straight at Johnston's crotch.

"Of course there is," Johnston smiled softly, "Do original work, on your own, use your mind Ms. Jones. It needs exercise."

The next morning, Samira appeared as bidden. He ushered her into his office. "I take it you do not drink tea. I like a cup this hour of the day, I have milk, and soft drinks, and water in the fridge, help your self."

He poured a fresh steaming cup of black tea for himself.

"Now, 'I should feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of having only to look at them. I'm sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual - we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. I'm sure that is entirely wrong.'

'You can feel what is seen. Pictures are felt if did right. Even when it's wrong visuals speak, can made you feel. Art is vulnerability, the chance to feel the person who made it. It make you understand with feelings that it creates in the person who looks at it. What is wrong with the world who feels a person it doesn't know? Ears are not the only thing that can hear. Well it is but you can hear with your heart. My point is you can feel with more then touch, sound can make you feel, art can make you feel, smells can make you feel. Many things can make you feel. Seeing is some times the best way to see or feel.'

"Amazing. I am sure you can see the difference between your first submission and this one. It is like watching a baby take its first steps. One of the joys of teaching. It was after reading your latest submission that I decided to insert the assignment I gave the class yesterday. And it is the same assignment for you. Essentiallu exploring the practical aspects of visual and verbal communication. Written words are really just another form of verbal, in my view at least."

"I would like to have you here each week at this time, to, well, to tutor you for a while. Won't take long, and it will make a pleasant break for me."

Truth was he enjoyed her company. Such a change from the usual students. The two he had seen after class were so typical, so discouraging. But she was a fresh breeze. Not conventionally pretty, but attractive. Some of that was simply her youth, and the shyness too. He had a sense that there was much in her mind if it could be unlocked.

"But I have a question, during class I noticed your eyes are down and your pencil is moving. Even when I have not said anything that would need to be noted. I would like it if you told me what you were doing. I assure you any converstation with me is confidential. I do not discuss my students with anyone, beyond professional reports."

"So, Ms. Nevrakis, what were you doing?"

 

[SwanLake]

"I don't mind tea." Samira replied honestly taking the seat across from him. "I just think it's rude to take something without offering something in return. That and..." Her words grew silent as her confession of not being one to try new things almost came out. Thinking it in the safely of her mind was okay, saying it out loud made her feel like a coward. For what is life without new experiences? Samira wasn't too sure why she had just thought of something she in truth sought to avoid.

Samira wanted to argue. She couldn't see the difference, other then one made her angry. Plus it didn't fulfill the given assignment. And what did he mean that her writing was like watching a baby take it's first steps. She didn't know what he was trying to tell her but what she was hearing wasn't making her feel good. Is that how he sees me? She looked at the man who had stolen all the faces of her drawings and felt the need to hid. A baby? Prof Johnston sat there was something akin to pride in his eyes but it was lost to Samira. She had done nothing worth the look, a baby's first steps is nothing but nature destined to happen no matter what.

"About that assignment..." Now that he had mentioned it she had some questions. "I don't get it." All she saw when she looked at the picture was what it was. It was too logical to see anymore then what it was. Which in Samira's eyes was nothing but a gear pump. It sparked no inspiration, created no story in her mind's eye and without either of those two Samira could only see what it was. The what it could be didn't move her and if she didn't care how was she going to write about it. "It is what it is." She simply shrugged.

Samira nodded unsure of how she felt about having to meet him every week. The first meeting had been, well odd for Samira and the second just as odd so the thought of doing it over and over again seemed for a lack of creative or descriptive words, odd. Maybe a bit annoying, hopeless and worrisome as well but mostly odd. She didn't feel like she was worth the time every week to be tutored because she was never going to get better at writing and it was something she had accepted a long time ago.

Yet Samira was agreeing, confirming the appointments with a questioned statement. "10 am each week." In her mind Samira had every intention of passing up the offered tutoring meetings, he had better things to do and Samira wasn't sure what kind of trouble it would get her into. With all this time spent together he would come to see her skill through her eyes and then that would be the end of her last chance of passing intro English. Plus the mornings was when she walked through the gardens or biked to the near by park to draw and get away from the noise of some many people.

The question caught Samira off guard and for a moment there was just silence. Slowly her face lit up and a shy and mysterious smile formed on her lips. There was no way she was going to ever tell him what she was doing, it was too personal and it would lead to more questions or demands to see. It was just too much for him to know and too soon for her to say and regardless of what else he had planed for this meeting Samira was done. Standing she headed for the door but paused when her hand landed on the doorknob, "A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know.” And with one final sly smile Samira left the room.

 

[JayTee69gmx]

The next time in class, Johnston started off discussing the last assignment.

"This course is about communication, and for there to be communication there must be at least one person disseminating information and one person receiving information. And both must consider the other."

"Now all of you recognized the simple gear pump. And a picture is worth a 1000 words, indeed it would probably take more than 1000 words to transmit the information in that picture, sketch really. But what was missing? What I hoped you would find is that even with a picture, some words are needed to complete the communication. IF you are expected to manufacture it, materials and processes, if you are selling it, performance, if you are learning how to design them, performance requirements - and so on."

"One of you gave me an outstanding answer:

A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know.

and that showed me how much I can learn from you. No, I have no intention of telling anyone who it was. That is irrelevant."

"Well back to writing, and expression.

'so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache' - Neruda

I would like you to look at that, think about that, and then try to express that feeling in your own words. A few or many does not matter. Just try to express that feeling."

"Dismissed. Richards, Jones, I want to see you now."

The class scattered, Nevrakis near the end of them, glancing at him.

"Richards, Jones, thank you for your efforts. You have nothing to be hesitant about in my class. I want you to write for me. As you. I do not care a whit how erudite you are, how clever you are, or how verbose you are. I only care that is is honestly you. Your own work. The material you handed in is fine. I judge people on how closely they work to their potential. not how they compare to a presidential speech writer. Good work. Keep it up."

The next morning Samira Nevrakis appeared at his office. "I insist you join me in tea. I know you feel obligated if you accept something with out return. Well, next time bring cookies for us. Or, understand that when you said 'A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know.' you gave me exactly the kind of gift every teacher hopes for. That there will be a student who inspires thought in the very subject one thought one knew."

As he poured the tea. he thought how interesting she was, how unlike the usual students in his class. She was terse, yet somehow the few words she said, or wrote, held more meaning than a 20 page essay. He really wanted to get to know her better.

"One way to produce written communication easily is to simply talk, then write down what you say. Your parting comment last time is an excellent example. If you had written that and expanded and explained it, you would already have achieved more than I hope to teach in my class."

"There is no need for our meetings to be so formal. Do you like to walk? Or visit coffee shops? I think we would progress easier away from the stuffy environment of a professor's office, and student's chair."

"You know I watch you from time to time during class. And I still wonder what that pencil is doing."

 

[SwanLake]

Samira walked into class worried at what might happen to her. She hadn't turned in anything for the gear pump assignment and she wasn't too sure where that put her in the class. Prof Johnston might find her case to be interesting for the moment but how long would that last and had she just ruined it by not doing the last assignment? The unknown griped Samira tight as as she took her claimed seat in the back. As Samira readied her desk with her notebook, pencil and soft eraser her mind drifted away from class to her morning meetings. She still wasn't sure what to make of them or how long they would last but Samira would bare with it as long as it meant not being kicked out of class.

"One of you gave me an outstanding answer: 'A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know.' and that showed me how much I can learn from you. No, I have no intention of telling anyone who it was. That is irrelevant."

Icy water stilled the blood in Samira's veins as her head snapped up and her eyes frantically looked around the class. She expected everyone to know it was her words and to be staring at her but not a single soul looked at her, well all but one Prof Johnston. Samira caught his gaze and held it for a moment lost to the understanding of it's look. Those were her words, well someone else's words but she had said them not in answer to the gear pump but to what she did in the back of class. Was he just being nice to her, did he feel bad for her and was throwing her a lifeline? Samira didn't know and a shy blush colored her cheeks and she broke eye contact with her Prof and stared at the blank sheet of lined paper before her.

'So I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache'

The tone of his voice raised chills on Samira's skin. His spoken words that belonged to another pulled at things in Samira's heart. Although this was not the first time she had come across Pablo's works this was the first time that she felt them. She had always liked the one of love someone between shadows and the soul. She couldn't remember how it went exactly and was somewhat shamed by the fact that it was all she knew of Neruda.

But the words presented to her were different. She felt heartache, longing and loneliness. Pictures flooded Samira's mind but she wanted to do more then draw for once, she wanted to write and be understood. Taking a deep breath Samira picked up her pen, ignoring the pencil at it's side and exhaled.

Was it a man or a woman? Did it matter? She didn't think it did but as she thought about the question her hand wrote out in shaky penmanship a question. 'Does it matter if it is a man or a woman?' Samira looked up at the front of the room where he was helping another student and saw herself in the words. 'I think it's a she. A woman.' She wrote in the same unsure handwriting. 'She loves. But does he?' The tip of the pen traced out outline of her lips as she thought about that question. 'No.' There was a large space between the question and her answered no. 'Maybe?' Samira shook her head and striked out the word maybe. 'Not yet.' For all the sadness she felt in this simple quote Samira wanted to give the woman hope. 'Without him she is empty?' Why was it a question? Was she so lost without him? In a way maybe... Her eyes darted back up to the room searching for him. 'Lost because she is unseen.' Without realizing it she was nodding along with what she was writing, agreeing with it. 'So her heart aches, as fragile as glass?' Another question and another pause. Yes because his word could make or break her heart. An ending either way but one that would be filled with pain, the other with happiness. 'Yes. As fragile as glass and just a word away from shattering.'

Samira sat back and read her words with a smile on her face. She didn't know if it was as well written as her argument but she was happy with it. Still on the side of simple without that flair for words but she did try. Her fingers caressed the paper and her words a feeling of dread overwhelming her. This once again failed to express how the quote made her feel. Would it be better to just list words that came to mind when she read or heard the quote? What was the wiser choice? Anger at not knowing the right answer Samira tore the paper out of the note book and crumpled it into a ball. It surprisingly hurt but Samira pushed aside the feeling and quickly jotted down a list of words.

'Heartache. Longing. Loneliness.' The words looked stale and bland next to what she had balled on her desk. For a long while Samira just stared at the three words weighing their worth. It was what she felt. It stated what she felt but not expressed it. Or was simply saying how she felt the expression itself? Back and forth her eyes went between what she had and the paper ball.

Near the end of class Samira uncrumpled the paper ball and rubbed it flat if not smooth. Side by side they both lacked the length that she wanted, even together they didn't total half of what she wished she could write. The bell rang and Samira rushed to put her things back into her bag leaving the notebook and the once ball last. She had to turn in one as she made her way to Prof Johnston's desk she was about to lay down the first once when her mind flashed on just what it was she was turning in.

'This isn't about the quote.' Her mind screamed in alarm. 'It's you and him! How you feel!'

The truth of it stunned her and Samira quickly shoved the paper into her pocket and tore the word list out and placed it on Prof Johnston's desk. As she left the classroom Samira looked back and caught Prof Johnston watching. The harmless glance force Samira into a mad dash as she bolted the last few steps out of the classroom.

- - -- --- ----- -------- -------------

The next morning Samira was running behind and arrived at Prof Johnston's door a few minutes late. He didn't seem to notice or he just didn't care and instead insisted that she join him in a cup of tea. "Cookies?" She accepted the cup of tea and tilted her head in confusion. "What kind of cookies do you like?" He went on talking but she was stumped on the cookies part and was slow to catch up. "Wait, what?" Did he just say that she inspires him? "Me?" She sank into the nearest chair with a dazed look on her face. "But it had nothing to do with the gear pump." She said quietly hiding her doubled confusion behind taking a sip of tea.

Tea that was very hot. So hot that when it touched her lips Samira jerked and managed to spill the contents all over her lap and the varnish and paint stained pants she was wearing. "OH!" Samira leaped up from the chair and right into Prof Johnston. "I'm sorry!" There was tea on the chair and Samira ignored the burning she felt to search for something to clean up her mess. "I spilled ten on your chair." Samira was wearing most of the tea but she was more concerned with the little drops soaking into the chair.

And just as he had invited her out of his office. Samira was beyond herself, he was never going to want to be seen with her now. She tried not to look down at herself but could only imagine what a mess she looked in his eyes. It was just her luck that she was as clumsy as she was. Seeing nothing that she could clean the chair with she dropped to her knees and pulled at her shirt using it's oversize bottom edge to mop up the few remaining drops of tea. "I'm so sorry." She apologized again, looking up at Prof Johnston with sincere eyes and pouty lips.

She wanted to tell him how much she loved walks or the smell of coffee shops but she was too embarrassed to do anything but try to clean up her mess. The last thing she wanted was to have Prof Johnston mad at her.