Exploring a collaborative nature of all things, an interconnectedness that compromises successful claiming of some ownership of anything in a meeting of Technology & The Humanities
because I couldn't remember learning to read. She said that Bob Books--now available for a limited time at Costco--did the teaching. Here is a montage of Bob Book's pages that I found on a defunked blog about one woman's childrearing experience.
I'm fascinated by your not remembering learning to read --now that I think about it, learning to read wasn't a particular moment for me, but a process, a system of increasing recognition of symbols, a process that is ongoing in how i learn to recognize what the environment is saying. I first learned to read feelings, long walks every Sunday with my father that began when I was a toddler. I always came home with a nonfiction book from the Golden Library of Knowledge. I think that the first was a geology book Rocks and How They Were formed--probably because I usually picked up a rock and brought it home (I still have some of those rocks). I also picked up insects (there's a Golden Book about insects too) that my father encouraged me to cup in my hands then release --cup in my hands as if to place it in a sanctuary in a cathedral
(a better church than the one I went to with my mother every Sunday morning before the walk with him meant in part to counteract what I learned in church about being a sinner possibly destined for hell, in part for father and daughter to bond, and in part for me to learn to be part of the world I was already part of, to share that world).
There is much that exists that could be read, noticed; much I can attempt to understand, to find meaningful, but I still need training to notice more of what is outside of my shifting habits of notice. To read implies an object of the action, and most potential objects are not read --so many scales of existence to read! --indeed, just trying to read myself on smaller and smaller scales, one atom of my hair or of my brain would take [a form of] forever.
I'm fascinated by your not remembering learning to read --now that I think about it, learning to read wasn't a particular moment for me, but a process, a system of increasing recognition of symbols, a process that is ongoing in how i learn to recognize what the environment is saying. I first learned to read feelings, long walks every Sunday with my father that began when I was a toddler. I always came home with a nonfiction book from the Golden Library of Knowledge. I think that the first was a geology book Rocks and How They Were formed--probably because I usually picked up a rock and brought it home (I still have some of those rocks). I also picked up insects (there's a Golden Book about insects too) that my father encouraged me to cup in my hands then release --cup in my hands as if to place it in a sanctuary in a cathedral
ReplyDelete(a better church than the one I went to with my mother every Sunday morning before the walk with him meant in part to counteract what I learned in church about being a sinner possibly destined for hell, in part for father and daughter to bond, and in part for me to learn to be part of the world I was already part of, to share that world).
There is much that exists that could be read, noticed; much I can attempt to understand, to find meaningful, but I still need training to notice more of what is outside of my shifting habits of notice. To read implies an object of the action, and most potential objects are not read --so many scales of existence to read! --indeed, just trying to read myself on smaller and smaller scales, one atom of my hair or of my brain would take [a form of] forever.