Although there are many anecdotal stories of breakthroughs resulting from daydreams - Einstein, for instance, was notorious for his wandering mind - daydreaming itself is usually cast in a negative light. Children in school are encouraged to stop daydreaming and “focus,” and wandering minds are often cited as a leading cause of traffic accidents. In a culture obsessed with efficiency, daydreaming is derided as a lazy habit or a lack of discipline, the kind of thinking we rely on when we don’t really want to think. It’s a sign of procrastination, not productivity, something to be put away with your flip-flops and hammock as summer draws to a close.

In recent years, however, scientists have begun to see the act of daydreaming very differently. They’ve demonstrated that daydreaming is a fundamental feature of the human mind - so fundamental, in fact, that it’s often referred to as our “default” mode of thought. Many scientists argue that daydreaming is a crucial tool for creativity, a thought process that allows the brain to make new associations and connections.

“Important Work can be Done while Daydreaming in The Boston Globe.

What a lovely book.  I became a Polly Horvath fan years ago with The Trolls and Everything on a Waffle. This new book has a similar Horvathian episodic style, exquisite prose, and her unique dry understated wit. Set in a Massachusetts coastal town,  12 year-old Jane lives with her poet mother and younger siblings on the beach.  In true Horvath fashion, eccentric characters populate the novel as do eccentric experiences — delivering Bibles by balloon, babysitting issues, and other intimate adventures.  There are a number of connecting threads (family, fathers, friendship, and more) moving through the story,  all nicely and satisfyingly resolved for our heroine Jane by the end.

Horvath always has a dry, deadpan humorous style that I’ve always loved.  For example,  in this book, Jane’s poet-mother is evidently doing what she can to find and put food on the table and there is mention of a large bag of rice.  Toward the end of the book Jane, her mother, and a friend are mourning the death of another character:

We don’t feel much like having a barbecue now.  We sit around and eat a little rice.

(And again a few paragraphs later when someone stops by to discuss the funeral.)

“Of course we will be there.  We will all be there,” says my mother and then offers Mrs. Merriweather a little rice, but she cannot stay.  She has other arrangements to make.

A book that lingers long after you are done with it.  Completely charming.

I was a big Noel Streatfeild fan when young and still have my British Puffin editions, picked up in Foyle’s when I lived in Europe (and visited London during holidays).  I remember reading about the BBC production of Ballet Shoes that was broadcast last Christmas and am glad to know it is soon to be available here on DVD.  Roslyn Sulcas in today’s New York Times has an interesting piece about the book and film, “Lessons in Dance and Life on Paper and on Screen.” And here’s the trailer for the film:

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At the invitation of the British bookstore Waterstone’s, Philip Pullman has put together a list of “essential books.”  You can view the list here and read about how he made his selections here.  There are some titles I’m looking forward to exploring some day and others that I was just glad to see.

The third anniversary of Katrina is prompting some reflections and reminders. Last November New Orleans’ resident, April Bedford, presented her husband’s story (as he was at their home for days) to my class and our 3rd grade buddies. The latter have an ongoing relationship with a school in New Orleans and later last school year they crafted blog posts about these connections.

I attended the ALA convention in New Orleans in June 2006 and wrote the following child_lit post after I got back.

I got back early this AM and I cannot write about the convention
without first writing about New Orleans, a city I’d know before as a
tourist and convention-attendee. A place I know now as so sad, so
harrowing, so disturbing, and so full of the most remarkable and
courageous people I’ve ever met.

People like Pat Austin of the University of New Orleans who spent
three days after Katrina in a Baton Rouge motel parking lot in a tiny
Toyota with her sister and eleven cats. Pat who lost her house to a
levee breach, but who is totally and utterly and passionately
committed to her home — New Orleans. Pat, who wanting me to bear
witness, spend most of yesterday touring me in that same Toyota
through her beloved city. 9/11 made a New Yorker out of me just as
Katrina has made Pat more devoted to her hometown than ever.

Pat had shown me photos when I saw her at NCTE in November and again
when she stayed with me in March, but I have to say they and news
coverage had not prepare me for the magnitude of what I saw yesterday.
I think it is not possible to appreciate it unless one is in it. The
unsettled feeling I had around the convention center and the Quarter
(with so many places still closed and boarded up) was nothing compared
to the feeling I had yesterday on my tour with Pat.

She began by pointing out to me the miles and miles of destroyed cars
under the highway we drove along. They were being brought there from
all over, a dreadful Katrina automobile graveyard. I’d probably seen
them on my way in from the airport, but hadn’t known what I was
looking at.

She next took me through the Ninth Ward and the adjoining
neighborhoods. Pat had taught there years ago and had been there many
times since Katrina and so was able to point out specific landmarks
to me. We drove around there for hours. The only analogy I could come
up with was being at Nazi concentration camps — that is, how the
vastness of the devastation really hits home when you are physically
seeing it rather than experiencing it in photos or film or in words.
And seeing, so many months later, lace curtains in a window of a
collapsed home, a tricycle atop of pile of destroyed home stuff, the
official markings (which Pat translate for me) indicating the death of
people and pets, the ironic communications (”Baghdad”) and the
heartrending pleading ones (”donations needed for rebuilding”), the
signs (for lawyers doing claims, for people needing evidence, for
businesses specializing in demolition and rebuilding), the workers
(say a group having a lunch break in a playground), empty businesses
with signs as if they were open (strips of fast food places and other
familiar businesses) — all destroyed.

Worst of all was the horrible eeriness of emptiness. The sense of the
thousands who lived there, the ghosts of a vibrant and busy community,
of people who had worked to buy these homes, now uninhabitable. Mile
after mile after mile after desolate mile.

We then went to Pat’s neighborhood, to her house. She’d shown me the
photos back in November, but again there is no comparison to the
experience of being there. Of standing in her living room and seeing
the remains of her library stuck on the floor. Seeing the beautiful
chandelier which feels like the only thing the water missed as it
stopped a foot or so short of the ceiling. The sodden scratching
post. The waterlogged copy of Pat’s own children’s book (THE CAT WHO
LOVED MOZART) placed by her in the newspaper holder in front to remind
those who came of those who lived there.

After that inexpressibly sad experience Pat took me to her new home.
What a joy to see that she has a lovely new place that she is making
beautiful with new and old. (For example, she showed me a photo of a
plush toy Babar in the midst of her old home’s destruction and then
showed me a washed Babar on the new bookshelf next to his book.)

But I’m not done for then she took me to the wealthy areas near the
lake that were as destroyed as those in the poorer communities we’d
already been to. She took me by the infamous levee break, by the
university run out of trailers, by homes being raised on pilings as
now required by the local government, by churches being restored, by
well tended gardens in front of gutted houses, by a remarkable
Vietnamese temple all bright and restored among desolation, by FEMA
trailers and storage units in front of elegantly expensive homes, and
by more and more and more. She explained, she pointed things out, she
kept apologizing for overwhelming me. Yes, I was overwhelmed, but it
was important that I saw. I still feel that I don’t have the right
words to express all of what I saw.

As for the convention itself, it was sad too. As much as everyone
wanted it to be normal, it wasn’t. The exhibitions were quiet, much
more than other times. Maybe it was just me, but there was a subdued
quality to many of the events and receptions. Remembering New Orleans
before, it was hard for me not to notice the difference and so walking
from place to place, to event or reception, it was difficult to forget
what had happened there only months before.

Yes, there were happy moments, of course. Watching Shannon Hale in a
red dress dance in bare feet up to the dais to receive her Newbery
Honor was joyous as was Chris Raschka’s homage to Karen Breen as was
Lynne Rae Perkins beaming face. Oh, and Chris’s duet with Norton
Juster was great fun too. I (usually a curmudgeon about this sort of
thing) proudly wore my “I LIKE MIMI” button (done in the style of the
old “I LIKE IKE” button) to honor Mimi Kayden who received a life-time
achievement award. Bill Joyce had to rescind his invitation to enjoy
absinthe (evidently the W Hotel wasn’t willing to host something still
illegal), but the mint juleps weren’t bad.

But what I’m coming home with and still processing clearly is not the
ALA convention, but New Orleans. I sure hope they can come back; I
really really really really do.

Go take Roxanne’s and my CLAT Level III: Children’s Literature Application Test (from the September/October Horn Book). Then come back and let us know how you did.

What do the books Fifty-Three More Things to Do in Zero Gravity, Dust Thou Art, A Moral Dustbin, and Unburnt Boats have in common?  They only exist in other books.  To see more titles (and add more), go to The Invisible Library.   (Thanks so much to John Crowley for this intriguing site.)

One way to navigate this new era of “giving” is by asking a simple question: Would these folks [Gates and other educational philanthropists] send their own children or grandchildren to their “reinvented” schools? Is a steady diet of memorization, work sheets, and testing the sort of education the children they love receive? Of course not. If affluent children enjoy beautiful campuses, arts programs, interesting literature, modern technology, field trips, carefree recess, and teachers who know them, I suggest that we create such schools for all children. What’s good for the sons and daughters of the billionaires should be good enough the rest of the children, too.

Another worthy article from GOOD Magazine: “School Wars” by Gary Stager (whom I know many, many, many years ago when doing a degree in computers and education at Columbia University).

Anne Trubek, in GOOD Magazine, on Why We Shouldn’t Still Be Learning Catcher in the Rye.

Why is The Catcher in the Rye still a rite of high school English? Sure, J.D. Salinger’s novel was edgy and controversial when teachers first put it on their syllabi. But that was 50 years ago. Today, Salinger’s novel lacks the currency or shock value it once had, and has lost some of its critical cachet. But it is still ubiquitously taught even though many newer novels of adolescence are available.

Now I’m a big fan of classics, but I think she has a point.  There are many, many, many wonderful books that could be used in schools in place of this particular teen-angst book.  Don’t get me wrong; I was a huge Salinger fan in my teen years. But that was decades ago. There are so many truly terrific books that would probably resonate with larger numbers of kids than Holden’s story now does.  Trubek, at the end of her piece, recommends several worthy candidates and I can think of quite a few more.

Via bookslut.

So I zipped back to Lima and then flew off (or perhaps more accurately UP) to Cuzco. (And at a much more reasonable hour than the Iquitos flight, I have to say.) It was a clear day and we had snow-covered Andes all around us. Now Cuzco is at 12,000 feet and we were all anxious about altitude sickness. I was taking prescription medication (Acetazolamide) on the recommendation of my doctor, but others were reluctant because of potential side effects. (I did experience some tingling in my fingers, but on the other hand, next to no problems with the altitude unlike others in my group.) So as soon as we got out of the airport we stocked up on coca candies (I sucked them dilgently, but couldn’t stand the taste — sugar and straw to my mind) and drank the tea provided at all the hotels. But most importantly we left Cuzco immediately and headed for the Sacred Valley, “only” 8,000 feet or so, to acclimate.

What a contrast to the Amazon! Cool, crisp, and dry. I loved it. Our guide, Juan, was fantastic. The experiences were just great. So many, it is hard to even list them all. Let’s see:

August 16th: Flew in from Lima and visited the ancient city of Pisac. Gave us a taste of walking in altitude. Unfortunately I was getting sicker and sicker stomach wise (no doubt a residual effect of the Amazon) and trying to soldier my way through it and so am a little blurry on details of the day. Fortunately, I was fine the next. Our hotel was lovely, lovely, lovely. Perhaps my favorite of the trip, an old hacienda where Simon Bolivar stayed.

August 17th: This was one overstuffed day. We first went to the lovely town of Ollantaytambo. We visited a home there (with lots of guinea pigs running about — more on them later) and peeked down lanes that were still as the Incas had designed them. Then we climbed up the glorious Ollantaytambo ruins. Spectacular! Then we went rafting in the Urubamba River. So, so, so cool. No pictures because I had never rafted before and purposely left my camera behind. And then we went to a market (I think at Pisac) where we also saw a funeral. And then we went to a bar and played a fun game and drank chicha (local beer brewed since the time of the Incas — really). And then we went to a dinner at a local family where we had guinea pig. (See, told you they’d come back.) I only took a teeny taste to be polite, but the others loved it and said it tasted like, what else, chicken. (There’s a glorious painting of the Last Supper in the Cuzco Cathedral where guinea pig is being served.) And then we collapsed into bed.

August 18th. We visited a local school where the tour organization had donated money to build several classrooms. Very moving experience. Then we took the train to Aguas Calientes where we stayed at a hotel literally on the train tracks. From there we took the bus to Machu Picchu and stayed till 6.

August 19th. Early morning back to Machu Picchu so we could hike a tiny bit of the Inca Trail to the Sun Gate. Gorgeous. (Back in NYC I’m amazed how fluid my running is. Nothing like hiking at 8 or 9 000 feet to make NYC seem easy.)

August 20 -23. Cuzco. What a beautiful city. Amazing ruins, wonderful colonial houses, fascinating. In particular, seeing the glorious Inca walls with their amazing way of putting together stones. One was twelve sided.

Here are a few photos, but go find professional ones if you want to really get a taste of things. Or better yet, go in person. Machu Picchu really is one of those places like Petra or the Grand Canyon that is best experienced first hand.

The requisite animal photo, this time me feeding llamas.

Little girl in market doing her math homework.

The ubiquitous coca leaves.

With my trusty locally-procured walking stick. (Felt like Gandalf striding up those Inca steps.)

The view out my hotel window. Two little girls flying kites while a little boy lay on his back in the grass playing an Andean flute.

Fourth grader Monica at the school we visited. She showed me every page in every notebook!

Machu Picchu from the Sun Gate. I now understand what a cloud forest is.

This is the point where those who have done the four-day Inca Trail trek first see Machu Picchu. So we took a few shots pretending to have done so too. Mine is pretty tame; others in my group are crawling up the stairs.

On the road to Cuzco. Beautiful or what?

Can you find the twelve-sided stone?

Our terrific guide Juan holding a typical Cuzco bread (with a heart on it).

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