Mid-Winter Break
This winter break is a glorious respite from the haggard overwork of grad. school life. Not that I don't enjoy school--I really do--but I was certainly on the cliff's dangerous edge for awhile peering over straight into the abyss. Of course, this doesn't mean that I won't return to that edge once break is over, but I'm hoping that I will be more prepared to handle the challenges it will present. Also, the paper that I'm supposed to write over the break has been haunting my mind for the last several days. I haven't written anything more on it, nor I have done any of the necessary reading for it to do a good job.
I have been to the beach on a mini-vacation for three days. Every trip to the beach is far too short. If you are able to spend a week or more at the coast during the off-season, I truly recommend it. Nothing compares to the stormy sea and the wind-tossed galleon-like clouds sailing above it.
I also have seen the third installment of The Lord of the Rings movie, and I must say that I really enjoyed it. In a way, it is a shame that the trilogy is over, but with the smashing monetary success this thing has had at the box-office, it won't take a genius to predict more sword and sorcery movies will be showing up in theatres in the coming year or two. Let's hope these new movies are more like The Lord of the Rings, and less like Legend or that Val Kilmer movie, Willow, entertaining as they are in their own way.
Life explorations of a middle-aged man searching through the meanings and expectations of what could have been and what still might be.
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Sunday, December 14, 2003
The Restaurant
Today, I was incredibly unproductive. Instead of grading exams like I should have done, or doing the laundry that has been persistently and silently building up in the hallway--a monument to soiled clothing--I spent most of the day watching television and surfing the internet. Most of what was on television wasn't any good, and when I think about the other things I could have done to waste time besides watching the tube--like read a good book, catch up on extra sleep, or even getting out of the house to watch a movie--I sink further into murky swamps of regret. Yet, there's still time to get all of the exams graded by tomorrow, so I'm not terribly worried.
I've been thinking about the last few weeks of grad. school. After the last day of one of my grad. school classes, a student whom I'll call Martha arranged a get-together at one of the local Italian restaurants--a small place with a nice atmosphere, but also obviously trying way too hard to be chic at the same time; it was a little overpriced for what it was. (You can dress a college kid up as a fancy French waiter and make him look like he has all the class in the world, but he is just a college kid after all, and in the presence of other college students like ourselves, he will easily slip into discussions about Spongebob Squarepants and college football.)
To digress for the moment, Martha is the other T.A. for the same ENG104 class that I T.A. for as well. We shared the T.A. workload over the course of the term. Although I envy Martha for her restless energy, it's an energy that she once revealed causes trouble for her. She's one of those women who are always doing three things at once, who always volunteers for too many projects, and cannot say no to people. Consequently, she suffers the physical result of such academic and social super-heroism in anxiety and unexplained night panics. She says that people often praise her for what is, essentially, her inability to relax and take it easy.
I was the first person to arrive at the restaurant, even though, by my watch, I was only five minutes early. I thought Martha would have already been there acting as host. Thus, I identify myself 'Nerd' for displaying typical nerd behavior--I showed up first. However, I apparently wasn't the only to arrive early. Only a minute after I walked through the door, someone else from the class arrived, let's say her name is Michelle. I suspect that Michelle was waiting in her car and must have seen me walk in, inwardly laughing at me for being the Nerd who didn't think to wait in the car like she did. Martha and her husband showed up just a few minutes later, and everyone else drifted in over the next twenty minutes and found their way to our table in a dim corner.
Overall, the dinner was nice and the conversation was okay. People mostly talked about their plans for the winter break; I am practically the only person not leaving the state to visit family. Yet, the part that has been bugging me ever since that night was the feeling like I did not fit in 100%. These students are a diverse group except in one regard--they all come from upper-middle-class backgrounds and have parents with advanced degrees. My background is consistently blue collar, and has been for several generations. Books learning was something to be suspicious of. (My grandfather likes to tell the story about how he quit the ninth grade because he did not want to do a book report. He never returned to school and joined the army instead.) Consequently, I did not have many ways to relate to my fellow students, except to ask if their papers were done, and how the weather was going to be where they were traveling. As you can see, we had scintillating conversation over over-priced spaghetti. (Please note the irony in the previous sentence.) It seemed most people were trying to vie for Martha's attention, or participate in the slightly bawdy conversation at the other end of the table. Whenever the woman directly across from me tried to engage me in conversation, I had the sense she was searching desperately for ways to force a topic of discussion. It seemed I wasn't an interesting enough person to talk to as much as I was a rather boring, slightly challenging, assignment.
I'm not sure why all of this has been pressing in my mind lately, except that I know it has something to do with my feelings toward grad. school. Everything is all jumbled together and I don't know what the connection is. Of course, I also don't want to overthink it either. Without delving too deep, I suspect that it has a bit to with competition. Directly confronted with fellow students having a good time at dinner, who have all the assignments completed, and who, while claiming to have had serious trouble with their assignments during different parts of the term, seem to have it together--the same way sports teams talk about a minor slip-up in the championship game they've won by a landslide.
This may be my last post for a week or more. I'm going on my winter vacation to the coast, where I hope to relax and prepare for the upcoming term. Even though it is cliche to say so, I'll be a little wiser and will have a better idea about what is involved to do well. God willing, it will be a great new start.
Today, I was incredibly unproductive. Instead of grading exams like I should have done, or doing the laundry that has been persistently and silently building up in the hallway--a monument to soiled clothing--I spent most of the day watching television and surfing the internet. Most of what was on television wasn't any good, and when I think about the other things I could have done to waste time besides watching the tube--like read a good book, catch up on extra sleep, or even getting out of the house to watch a movie--I sink further into murky swamps of regret. Yet, there's still time to get all of the exams graded by tomorrow, so I'm not terribly worried.
I've been thinking about the last few weeks of grad. school. After the last day of one of my grad. school classes, a student whom I'll call Martha arranged a get-together at one of the local Italian restaurants--a small place with a nice atmosphere, but also obviously trying way too hard to be chic at the same time; it was a little overpriced for what it was. (You can dress a college kid up as a fancy French waiter and make him look like he has all the class in the world, but he is just a college kid after all, and in the presence of other college students like ourselves, he will easily slip into discussions about Spongebob Squarepants and college football.)
To digress for the moment, Martha is the other T.A. for the same ENG104 class that I T.A. for as well. We shared the T.A. workload over the course of the term. Although I envy Martha for her restless energy, it's an energy that she once revealed causes trouble for her. She's one of those women who are always doing three things at once, who always volunteers for too many projects, and cannot say no to people. Consequently, she suffers the physical result of such academic and social super-heroism in anxiety and unexplained night panics. She says that people often praise her for what is, essentially, her inability to relax and take it easy.
I was the first person to arrive at the restaurant, even though, by my watch, I was only five minutes early. I thought Martha would have already been there acting as host. Thus, I identify myself 'Nerd' for displaying typical nerd behavior--I showed up first. However, I apparently wasn't the only to arrive early. Only a minute after I walked through the door, someone else from the class arrived, let's say her name is Michelle. I suspect that Michelle was waiting in her car and must have seen me walk in, inwardly laughing at me for being the Nerd who didn't think to wait in the car like she did. Martha and her husband showed up just a few minutes later, and everyone else drifted in over the next twenty minutes and found their way to our table in a dim corner.
Overall, the dinner was nice and the conversation was okay. People mostly talked about their plans for the winter break; I am practically the only person not leaving the state to visit family. Yet, the part that has been bugging me ever since that night was the feeling like I did not fit in 100%. These students are a diverse group except in one regard--they all come from upper-middle-class backgrounds and have parents with advanced degrees. My background is consistently blue collar, and has been for several generations. Books learning was something to be suspicious of. (My grandfather likes to tell the story about how he quit the ninth grade because he did not want to do a book report. He never returned to school and joined the army instead.) Consequently, I did not have many ways to relate to my fellow students, except to ask if their papers were done, and how the weather was going to be where they were traveling. As you can see, we had scintillating conversation over over-priced spaghetti. (Please note the irony in the previous sentence.) It seemed most people were trying to vie for Martha's attention, or participate in the slightly bawdy conversation at the other end of the table. Whenever the woman directly across from me tried to engage me in conversation, I had the sense she was searching desperately for ways to force a topic of discussion. It seemed I wasn't an interesting enough person to talk to as much as I was a rather boring, slightly challenging, assignment.
I'm not sure why all of this has been pressing in my mind lately, except that I know it has something to do with my feelings toward grad. school. Everything is all jumbled together and I don't know what the connection is. Of course, I also don't want to overthink it either. Without delving too deep, I suspect that it has a bit to with competition. Directly confronted with fellow students having a good time at dinner, who have all the assignments completed, and who, while claiming to have had serious trouble with their assignments during different parts of the term, seem to have it together--the same way sports teams talk about a minor slip-up in the championship game they've won by a landslide.
This may be my last post for a week or more. I'm going on my winter vacation to the coast, where I hope to relax and prepare for the upcoming term. Even though it is cliche to say so, I'll be a little wiser and will have a better idea about what is involved to do well. God willing, it will be a great new start.
Friday, December 12, 2003
The Almost-Last Day
Today is the last official day of the term. The campus has largely emptied of students and faculty, and now is largely haunted by janitorial staff, student workers at the library trying not be bored, and more than a few overworked grad. students haggardly trudging through the darkened hallways of buildings that are the seat of their variously chosen fields. As I am the T.A. for an ENG104 class, I still have about twenty more exams to grade by Monday; Tuesday is the last day for the professor to submit grades. Thus, tomorrow morning, I will be making the trip back to the campus and my office to get them done. My office, a depressing yet workable space suffused with fluorescent light, is less depressing in the morning when there is more natural light. Also, as none of the other four people I share it will be working that day, I'll have it all to myself.
In a desperate frenzy of work (lamentably uncompleted), I have been able lucky enough to have a laptop checked out to me steadily for three days. Three days! Mind you, this is no small feat as one is allowed to check a laptop out only in four hour increments. Thus, I have been at the library checkout desk requesting to extend my time at least four times a day during the second half of the week, the last request for each day being an overnight checkout.
I'm dearly hoping that I'll be able to work out something over the winter break that will allow me to purchase a computer. Even if I lived on rice cakes for the rest of the year, sold my blood every day, and scrounged through all the cushions from all the couches I ever sat on for loose change, I still wouldn't have the money. My only hope is a financial aid program, which more and more seems like a tenuous gamble on my future, the bet being a PhD and a good job against a huge debt that is accumulating as I write these very words. After an essentially demoralizing term, this bet is seeming less like a sure thing.
Beside completing all of the unfinished work that I have to do over the break, I'm intending to spend a lot of time reflecting on what I can do differently to make the next term go much more smoothly. Obviously, the first lesson I learned the hard way is to start much more earlier on the term papers than I did. But, I'm sure there are other lessons that aren't as obvious and are going to take some exploration. Basically, I'm sure it all boils down to learning how to mush! A friend told me that what everyone should understand about grad. school is that on your first day, you're already four weeks behind. He's not kidding.
Today is the last official day of the term. The campus has largely emptied of students and faculty, and now is largely haunted by janitorial staff, student workers at the library trying not be bored, and more than a few overworked grad. students haggardly trudging through the darkened hallways of buildings that are the seat of their variously chosen fields. As I am the T.A. for an ENG104 class, I still have about twenty more exams to grade by Monday; Tuesday is the last day for the professor to submit grades. Thus, tomorrow morning, I will be making the trip back to the campus and my office to get them done. My office, a depressing yet workable space suffused with fluorescent light, is less depressing in the morning when there is more natural light. Also, as none of the other four people I share it will be working that day, I'll have it all to myself.
In a desperate frenzy of work (lamentably uncompleted), I have been able lucky enough to have a laptop checked out to me steadily for three days. Three days! Mind you, this is no small feat as one is allowed to check a laptop out only in four hour increments. Thus, I have been at the library checkout desk requesting to extend my time at least four times a day during the second half of the week, the last request for each day being an overnight checkout.
I'm dearly hoping that I'll be able to work out something over the winter break that will allow me to purchase a computer. Even if I lived on rice cakes for the rest of the year, sold my blood every day, and scrounged through all the cushions from all the couches I ever sat on for loose change, I still wouldn't have the money. My only hope is a financial aid program, which more and more seems like a tenuous gamble on my future, the bet being a PhD and a good job against a huge debt that is accumulating as I write these very words. After an essentially demoralizing term, this bet is seeming less like a sure thing.
Beside completing all of the unfinished work that I have to do over the break, I'm intending to spend a lot of time reflecting on what I can do differently to make the next term go much more smoothly. Obviously, the first lesson I learned the hard way is to start much more earlier on the term papers than I did. But, I'm sure there are other lessons that aren't as obvious and are going to take some exploration. Basically, I'm sure it all boils down to learning how to mush! A friend told me that what everyone should understand about grad. school is that on your first day, you're already four weeks behind. He's not kidding.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
The Winds of Obsolescence
Most of the computers that I have been using on campus do not have a floppy drive, something that presents a real problem when I need to save my work for another day. In the past, I've e-mailed my assignments to myself through the internet, using internet mail as free storage device. Normally, this technique works pretty well, except I have to spend about five to ten minutes formatting my paper as the email systems not only take out bold, italics, and indentations, but do not even pretend to consider such things like margins or font. When you're an English major and are required to use strict MLA formatting, these picky things become important. While I may not remember the finer points of Husserl's concepts of phenomenology as it relates to criticism, I will always remember basic MLA formatting right until the day I, euphemistically speaking, slip from this mortal coil.
Consequently, I bought myself a jump drive aka flash drive, aka thumb drive, aka usb drive for forty bucks. Probably not a bargain, but a full twenty dollars cheaper than the college bookstore. When initially shopping around for a solution to my storage problem, I was confused by the constellation of names this thing had. (New technology has always had a problem with names, I suppose. Apparently, as a result of the invention of the telegraph and telegram, it was popular to refer to your autograph as an autogram. Not quite the same problem, but close enough to demonstrate the potential for confusion.) I call it a jump drive, as that is what it calls itself when it is plugged into a computer. Not wanting to be insensitive to my drive's preferences, I stick with jump drive.
Actually, I've had the drive for a couple of weeks now, but because my home computer is lamentably obsolete, I wasn't able to use it properly until today. Now, I have a sense of freedom that comes with the knowledge that I will not be subject to an internet connection for the retrieval of my papers. I know this is not a major milestone for most people, yet I humbly give thanks to all that is holy for this small grace proffered by the wizards of technology.
Most of the computers that I have been using on campus do not have a floppy drive, something that presents a real problem when I need to save my work for another day. In the past, I've e-mailed my assignments to myself through the internet, using internet mail as free storage device. Normally, this technique works pretty well, except I have to spend about five to ten minutes formatting my paper as the email systems not only take out bold, italics, and indentations, but do not even pretend to consider such things like margins or font. When you're an English major and are required to use strict MLA formatting, these picky things become important. While I may not remember the finer points of Husserl's concepts of phenomenology as it relates to criticism, I will always remember basic MLA formatting right until the day I, euphemistically speaking, slip from this mortal coil.
Consequently, I bought myself a jump drive aka flash drive, aka thumb drive, aka usb drive for forty bucks. Probably not a bargain, but a full twenty dollars cheaper than the college bookstore. When initially shopping around for a solution to my storage problem, I was confused by the constellation of names this thing had. (New technology has always had a problem with names, I suppose. Apparently, as a result of the invention of the telegraph and telegram, it was popular to refer to your autograph as an autogram. Not quite the same problem, but close enough to demonstrate the potential for confusion.) I call it a jump drive, as that is what it calls itself when it is plugged into a computer. Not wanting to be insensitive to my drive's preferences, I stick with jump drive.
Actually, I've had the drive for a couple of weeks now, but because my home computer is lamentably obsolete, I wasn't able to use it properly until today. Now, I have a sense of freedom that comes with the knowledge that I will not be subject to an internet connection for the retrieval of my papers. I know this is not a major milestone for most people, yet I humbly give thanks to all that is holy for this small grace proffered by the wizards of technology.
Monday, December 08, 2003
School and the Beach
After my last post, this one will probably seem anti-climatic. Suffice it to say, while I've not completely conquered all of the problems that currently beset me, I'm in much better shape than I was. I have until the end of the week to finish a paper that has been dogging me for far too long. I've got a decent start on it, so if I can finish it and earn a good grade--and I've been pleading with everything holy that I can--then I will have survived my first term of graduate school. One of the things that has been relatively easy to do has been reading How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents by Julia Alvarez for the ENG104 class that I'm a teaching assistant for. It's nice not to worry (or read) about high literary theory for awhile and just enjoy something good to read.
Yet, despite the implication given from my last few blogs, I do have a life outside of school. And, no, I'm not talking about the too much television I've watched over the last two weeks. I'm planning to go to the beach over the winter break. I love visiting the beach during the off season when everything is gray and raining. There are hardly ever any people around this time of year, except when it gets a little closer to Christmas. For some reason, a select group of people love to celebrate the holiday at the coast. As for myself, I'm going to enjoy the atmosphere and the rest. I plan to make a couple of fires right on the beach, and maybe I'll even try to hike a little.
After my last post, this one will probably seem anti-climatic. Suffice it to say, while I've not completely conquered all of the problems that currently beset me, I'm in much better shape than I was. I have until the end of the week to finish a paper that has been dogging me for far too long. I've got a decent start on it, so if I can finish it and earn a good grade--and I've been pleading with everything holy that I can--then I will have survived my first term of graduate school. One of the things that has been relatively easy to do has been reading How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents by Julia Alvarez for the ENG104 class that I'm a teaching assistant for. It's nice not to worry (or read) about high literary theory for awhile and just enjoy something good to read.
Yet, despite the implication given from my last few blogs, I do have a life outside of school. And, no, I'm not talking about the too much television I've watched over the last two weeks. I'm planning to go to the beach over the winter break. I love visiting the beach during the off season when everything is gray and raining. There are hardly ever any people around this time of year, except when it gets a little closer to Christmas. For some reason, a select group of people love to celebrate the holiday at the coast. As for myself, I'm going to enjoy the atmosphere and the rest. I plan to make a couple of fires right on the beach, and maybe I'll even try to hike a little.
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Weeks of Change
I imagine that one day I will look back on this period of my life and recognize it as one of the handful times, less than five or six, where the decisions I have made have significantly shaped my future. I'n twenty five years or so, I'm sure I will have forgotten about this blog, I will not remember my address at the apartment where I currently live, but I will remember these last few weeks as one of my lowest ebbs, the consequences of which will last for a long time.
I apologize if this sounds a little dramatic; it's not meant to be. It's my way of verbalizing a recognition I've been slowing coming to for the last couple of weeks. I'm sure that I'll overcome these present difficulties eventually. The next two weeks will be pivotal.
I imagine that one day I will look back on this period of my life and recognize it as one of the handful times, less than five or six, where the decisions I have made have significantly shaped my future. I'n twenty five years or so, I'm sure I will have forgotten about this blog, I will not remember my address at the apartment where I currently live, but I will remember these last few weeks as one of my lowest ebbs, the consequences of which will last for a long time.
I apologize if this sounds a little dramatic; it's not meant to be. It's my way of verbalizing a recognition I've been slowing coming to for the last couple of weeks. I'm sure that I'll overcome these present difficulties eventually. The next two weeks will be pivotal.
Saturday, November 29, 2003
The Horror
The first major part of my assignment is complete, but only twenty nine pages later. (I managed to turn it at the last possible minute, just barely). Never have I written anything so long in my entire life, never have I come so close to cursing out my computer printer to verbal oblivion, or been so close to moving deep into the woods to spend the rest of my word-wearied-life living at the top of large fir tree with my imaginary animal-friend Bob, the blue budgie. Like Mr. Kurtz in Conrad's story, I came this close to the edge and saw "the horror--the horror."
Of course, it's not yet over, I still have the second part of the assignment to write. After a few days of Thanksgiving holiday stuffing myself with turkey, I'm hoping that I've replenished the mental and physical capacity to handle it. Tomorrow will be a full day of work, from early morning to late night (possibly early morning again). I'm hoping the second part will come easy, but I'm trying not to be delusional. Blog entries may be sparse again for next couple of weeks.
The first major part of my assignment is complete, but only twenty nine pages later. (I managed to turn it at the last possible minute, just barely). Never have I written anything so long in my entire life, never have I come so close to cursing out my computer printer to verbal oblivion, or been so close to moving deep into the woods to spend the rest of my word-wearied-life living at the top of large fir tree with my imaginary animal-friend Bob, the blue budgie. Like Mr. Kurtz in Conrad's story, I came this close to the edge and saw "the horror--the horror."
Of course, it's not yet over, I still have the second part of the assignment to write. After a few days of Thanksgiving holiday stuffing myself with turkey, I'm hoping that I've replenished the mental and physical capacity to handle it. Tomorrow will be a full day of work, from early morning to late night (possibly early morning again). I'm hoping the second part will come easy, but I'm trying not to be delusional. Blog entries may be sparse again for next couple of weeks.
Monday, November 24, 2003
The 8-Ball Blues
No, I haven't disappeared; I've been really busy, and okay, I'll admit it, a little depressed. The main reason for the blues, but not the only one, is that I've missed some real important due dates for the work that is currently on-going. And, as these things somehow always tend to coalesce into a personal fiasco, much like a tornado that spins everything into a blustery chaos, I've been taking the edge off these blues by watching television--precisely the absolute wrong thing to do with work pressing. As I say, a fiasco. Still, there's hope; I'll admit that too.
This certainly has been an interesting first term. While I'm usually not one to make predictions, a lesson I learned early on from the magic eight ball (After all, there's a reason why it's an eight ball and not, say, an eleven), I think the next term will go much more smoothly. I continue to hope so anyway.
No, I haven't disappeared; I've been really busy, and okay, I'll admit it, a little depressed. The main reason for the blues, but not the only one, is that I've missed some real important due dates for the work that is currently on-going. And, as these things somehow always tend to coalesce into a personal fiasco, much like a tornado that spins everything into a blustery chaos, I've been taking the edge off these blues by watching television--precisely the absolute wrong thing to do with work pressing. As I say, a fiasco. Still, there's hope; I'll admit that too.
This certainly has been an interesting first term. While I'm usually not one to make predictions, a lesson I learned early on from the magic eight ball (After all, there's a reason why it's an eight ball and not, say, an eleven), I think the next term will go much more smoothly. I continue to hope so anyway.
Friday, November 21, 2003
Mental machinery
None of the gears in my brain appear to be willingly turning for me at the moment, and, thus, it is a challenge to think straight for more than few minutes at a time. Of course, I've no-one to blame for this condition except myself. You see, I only had two hours sleep last night because I absolutely had to have all of the ENG104 essays that have been oppresses my spirit for the past two weeks graded by this morning--which, fortunately, they were all graded by 5:00 a.m. However, I was only able to nap for two hours before going to that same class to hand them out.
Recently, I spoke with a friend, someone who has been through the grad. school experience, who told me that thing that you need to know is this: "On your very first day of class, you're already four weeks behind." That sums up my experience these last eight weeks rather well. The instructor for ENG104, who is very sympathetic and treats me and the other T.A. as (pseudo) colleagues, says that the work never really lets up the whole time you're in grad. school; the trick is to not stress out too much about it, and to try and do all of the work as it comes to you.
Since grading essays no longer burdens me, I can now focus my attention on the seminar paper that I need to have written by this Wednesday. So, it's back to the mind factory to browbeat masses of my brain cell into producing more thought from increasingly worn out mental machinery. C'est la vie!
None of the gears in my brain appear to be willingly turning for me at the moment, and, thus, it is a challenge to think straight for more than few minutes at a time. Of course, I've no-one to blame for this condition except myself. You see, I only had two hours sleep last night because I absolutely had to have all of the ENG104 essays that have been oppresses my spirit for the past two weeks graded by this morning--which, fortunately, they were all graded by 5:00 a.m. However, I was only able to nap for two hours before going to that same class to hand them out.
Recently, I spoke with a friend, someone who has been through the grad. school experience, who told me that thing that you need to know is this: "On your very first day of class, you're already four weeks behind." That sums up my experience these last eight weeks rather well. The instructor for ENG104, who is very sympathetic and treats me and the other T.A. as (pseudo) colleagues, says that the work never really lets up the whole time you're in grad. school; the trick is to not stress out too much about it, and to try and do all of the work as it comes to you.
Since grading essays no longer burdens me, I can now focus my attention on the seminar paper that I need to have written by this Wednesday. So, it's back to the mind factory to browbeat masses of my brain cell into producing more thought from increasingly worn out mental machinery. C'est la vie!
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Scholar Squalor
Alas, the work continues, and like the famous Frost poem, "I've miles to go before I sleep." Fortunately, one of the things that is helping me get a handle on the work is my discovery of the laptop loan program operated by the University's library. As a result of easier computing, Zhaf and his Cellar has a little more portability. Now, I can write and read from the comfort of my best study spot -- my own couch.
My main project continues to be the seminar paper that wil will be due in a couple scant weeks. I've not started writing it, but it is becoming clearer as a result of the research that I've been doing. Essentially, I'm trying to combine Mikhail Bakhtin's perspective of narrative discourse on a Tim O'Brien short story in his work "The Things They Carried." At this point, a reference to the Simpson's might be instructive.
Groundskeeper Willy: Hie ye hence from me heath!
Bart: Huh?
Groundskeeper Willy: What a'matter! Can't you understand English?
Like Bart, I'm still struggling to understand some of the jargon and terminology that is often used in academic writing. Even though it appears to be English, I begin to have my doubts. When Derrida writes about the "Heidegerrean destruction of meta-physics, of onto-theology, of the determination of Being as presence," I feel as if my head will explode. When De Man, trying to employ and Archie Bunker analogy (really, no kidding) writes, "it is a de-bunker rather than a 'Bunker,' and a de-bunker of the arche (or orgin), an archie Debunker such as Nietzche or Jaques Derrida for instance, who asks the question 'What is the Difference'," I feel as if I have completely slipped off the edge of the Earth and am spinning through a cold and inky space towards the twisting red eye of Jupiter.
Alas, the work continues, and like the famous Frost poem, "I've miles to go before I sleep." Fortunately, one of the things that is helping me get a handle on the work is my discovery of the laptop loan program operated by the University's library. As a result of easier computing, Zhaf and his Cellar has a little more portability. Now, I can write and read from the comfort of my best study spot -- my own couch.
My main project continues to be the seminar paper that wil will be due in a couple scant weeks. I've not started writing it, but it is becoming clearer as a result of the research that I've been doing. Essentially, I'm trying to combine Mikhail Bakhtin's perspective of narrative discourse on a Tim O'Brien short story in his work "The Things They Carried." At this point, a reference to the Simpson's might be instructive.
Groundskeeper Willy: Hie ye hence from me heath!
Bart: Huh?
Groundskeeper Willy: What a'matter! Can't you understand English?
Like Bart, I'm still struggling to understand some of the jargon and terminology that is often used in academic writing. Even though it appears to be English, I begin to have my doubts. When Derrida writes about the "Heidegerrean destruction of meta-physics, of onto-theology, of the determination of Being as presence," I feel as if my head will explode. When De Man, trying to employ and Archie Bunker analogy (really, no kidding) writes, "it is a de-bunker rather than a 'Bunker,' and a de-bunker of the arche (or orgin), an archie Debunker such as Nietzche or Jaques Derrida for instance, who asks the question 'What is the Difference'," I feel as if I have completely slipped off the edge of the Earth and am spinning through a cold and inky space towards the twisting red eye of Jupiter.
Saturday, November 15, 2003
The Burning Monster
This is the rare Saturday blog, partly inspired by helpless frustration that my homework is not progressing more quickly than I thought, complemented with a little burnout on the side. It's been difficult to focus properly on the reading I need to focus on. Combine that with the feathered darkness of isolation brought about as a result of ceaseless graduate study.
My mind leaps at any opportunity to escape from the topic at hand, and the corresponding icy absence of concentration leaks down my spine and burns quietly in my back; therefore, it's hard to sit still because the mild pain sitting there laughingly pushes me against the weak hope that I'll stay and work in my office, rather than melt willingly into the cold bathing blue gaze of the television at home.
Despite my cherished belief that this work will get done by Monday morning, I feel a rising fear and anxiety that it will not be completed by then, or by the following day either. This is my monster, a Grendel to my Beowulf, and I fear that, unlike the Northern King, I'll not be able to defeat it. How quickly has yesterday's small triumph of having a working car already been evaporated.
This is the rare Saturday blog, partly inspired by helpless frustration that my homework is not progressing more quickly than I thought, complemented with a little burnout on the side. It's been difficult to focus properly on the reading I need to focus on. Combine that with the feathered darkness of isolation brought about as a result of ceaseless graduate study.
My mind leaps at any opportunity to escape from the topic at hand, and the corresponding icy absence of concentration leaks down my spine and burns quietly in my back; therefore, it's hard to sit still because the mild pain sitting there laughingly pushes me against the weak hope that I'll stay and work in my office, rather than melt willingly into the cold bathing blue gaze of the television at home.
Despite my cherished belief that this work will get done by Monday morning, I feel a rising fear and anxiety that it will not be completed by then, or by the following day either. This is my monster, a Grendel to my Beowulf, and I fear that, unlike the Northern King, I'll not be able to defeat it. How quickly has yesterday's small triumph of having a working car already been evaporated.
Friday, November 14, 2003
Donut Diner
Finally, after gingerly crawling around town in my car, afraid it might expire at some inopportune time or place, I had my car looked at by a professional. The problem was -- happily -- an easy fix that they decided not to charge me for: that's right, free! Therefore, I figured that I should have my transmission tuned up at their business when winter break arrives, and I've a break from the piling work. The relief knowing that my car will not spontaneously kick the proverbial bucket has been positively immeasurable.
Yet, the transmission people needed a lot of time to look at my car and diagnose the problem. Therefore, I decided that I would walk the couple of blocks through the afternoon city to a small donut and coffee shop, and like a worried father, fret over the car while I did homework. The shop itself really is unassuming. The outside of it is dingy and grey, the inside is not much better with formica tables and harsh flourescent lights. However, I quickly discovered that the shop was a favorite hangout for people over the age of fifty. Many of the customers who came in seemed to know everything about the people behind the counter, and spent at least five minutes talking with them before they ordered anything. The analogy that seemed to fit was that this place is a teenage burger joint for retired, or near-retired, people. I felt extremely out of place, as the other patrons took turns taking silent note of me and what I was doing. Photographs taped to the wall near my table portrayed a group of the same people chatting it up at the very table I was occupying. Good Lord, I thought, I'm an invader.
The only other time I had this sort of feeling was, while on a brief vacation in New York City, a friend of mine and I decided to get hamburgers at 2:00 a.m. We figured that a particular Lebanese restaurant was our best bet. The shocked stares we got the moment we walked in was not unlike the hush that falls over a saloon when either the Sheriff or Bad Guys kick their way through the swinging doors in a Hollywood western. Eating there was probably not the best decision we ever made, but the experience was something we are not likely to forget anytime soon. Similarly, while I'm not sure I go back this dilapidated donut hovel, the feeling that I've somehow discovered the hidden hangout for the over fifty crowd is likely to leave an impression for at least few weeks.
Finally, after gingerly crawling around town in my car, afraid it might expire at some inopportune time or place, I had my car looked at by a professional. The problem was -- happily -- an easy fix that they decided not to charge me for: that's right, free! Therefore, I figured that I should have my transmission tuned up at their business when winter break arrives, and I've a break from the piling work. The relief knowing that my car will not spontaneously kick the proverbial bucket has been positively immeasurable.
Yet, the transmission people needed a lot of time to look at my car and diagnose the problem. Therefore, I decided that I would walk the couple of blocks through the afternoon city to a small donut and coffee shop, and like a worried father, fret over the car while I did homework. The shop itself really is unassuming. The outside of it is dingy and grey, the inside is not much better with formica tables and harsh flourescent lights. However, I quickly discovered that the shop was a favorite hangout for people over the age of fifty. Many of the customers who came in seemed to know everything about the people behind the counter, and spent at least five minutes talking with them before they ordered anything. The analogy that seemed to fit was that this place is a teenage burger joint for retired, or near-retired, people. I felt extremely out of place, as the other patrons took turns taking silent note of me and what I was doing. Photographs taped to the wall near my table portrayed a group of the same people chatting it up at the very table I was occupying. Good Lord, I thought, I'm an invader.
The only other time I had this sort of feeling was, while on a brief vacation in New York City, a friend of mine and I decided to get hamburgers at 2:00 a.m. We figured that a particular Lebanese restaurant was our best bet. The shocked stares we got the moment we walked in was not unlike the hush that falls over a saloon when either the Sheriff or Bad Guys kick their way through the swinging doors in a Hollywood western. Eating there was probably not the best decision we ever made, but the experience was something we are not likely to forget anytime soon. Similarly, while I'm not sure I go back this dilapidated donut hovel, the feeling that I've somehow discovered the hidden hangout for the over fifty crowd is likely to leave an impression for at least few weeks.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Ned and hubcaps
Last night, after a detour to the grocery store to restock my perpetually empty fridge with food, I pulled into my apartment's parking lot to find that someone had rather ungraciously parked in my assigned space, space number five. Parking has always been an issue with me, especially considering that spaces are limited and that, while I know I'm burning up the world's limited supply of dinosaurs and fossilized plants, I really need a car to get around. This intruder in my space irked me. The irritation was multiplied by the fact that empty visitor spaces are available just a couple hundred yards away. So, being a nice guy, I left a short note under the interloper's windshield saying: "Please do not park here as it is my assigned space. Thank you."
However, after thinking about it, I realized that wasn't the note I really wanted to write. Not being practiced with confrontation, I initially figured that being brief would communicate my desire with as little chance possible of the stranger getting inordinately upset. (I make it policy not to upset strangers as you never know who is itching to return their cramped cell at the state bighouse.) The note I wanted to write is as follows:
---
Dear Sir or Madam,
I understand how difficult parking can be here in this lot, especially as space is limited. No-one understands the difficulty of parking a vehicle relatively close to where you need to do business, attend school, or just visit others more than I. It simply is not fair to decent law abiding car owners not to have safe space to leave their vehicle. If I were mayor, it would be mandatory for the city to have large parking garages built every five blocks, radiating from the city center.
However, that understood, if you ever park here again -- so help me, I'll train that dirty drowned river-rat-looking nutria [Ned from the earlier blog entry] to crawl out of that diseased infested mud pile they call a creek and pee all over your hubcaps.
Thank you for your kind attention to this matter.
Last night, after a detour to the grocery store to restock my perpetually empty fridge with food, I pulled into my apartment's parking lot to find that someone had rather ungraciously parked in my assigned space, space number five. Parking has always been an issue with me, especially considering that spaces are limited and that, while I know I'm burning up the world's limited supply of dinosaurs and fossilized plants, I really need a car to get around. This intruder in my space irked me. The irritation was multiplied by the fact that empty visitor spaces are available just a couple hundred yards away. So, being a nice guy, I left a short note under the interloper's windshield saying: "Please do not park here as it is my assigned space. Thank you."
However, after thinking about it, I realized that wasn't the note I really wanted to write. Not being practiced with confrontation, I initially figured that being brief would communicate my desire with as little chance possible of the stranger getting inordinately upset. (I make it policy not to upset strangers as you never know who is itching to return their cramped cell at the state bighouse.) The note I wanted to write is as follows:
---
Dear Sir or Madam,
I understand how difficult parking can be here in this lot, especially as space is limited. No-one understands the difficulty of parking a vehicle relatively close to where you need to do business, attend school, or just visit others more than I. It simply is not fair to decent law abiding car owners not to have safe space to leave their vehicle. If I were mayor, it would be mandatory for the city to have large parking garages built every five blocks, radiating from the city center.
However, that understood, if you ever park here again -- so help me, I'll train that dirty drowned river-rat-looking nutria [Ned from the earlier blog entry] to crawl out of that diseased infested mud pile they call a creek and pee all over your hubcaps.
Thank you for your kind attention to this matter.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Sand and stress
My grandiose plans to study hard over the weekend have evaporated like cool spring water in the Mojave desert. The result of not studying has been that I'm even further behind than I was and am now confronted with mounting stress, piled like numerous grains of sand in so many dunes of the aforementioned desert -- all of which brings me to my car.
Not being very mechanically inclined, I'll employ a metaphor that compares my car to an elderly person to describe the problem. Essentially, my car fractured a hip. While still able to move about, the car needs to see a professional, either today or tomorrow. I've been reluctantly forced to realize the car's eventual mortality. Although I can use the local bus system in emergencies, car trouble will severely restrict my mobility. Whether or not this episode is the beginning of the end remains to be seen; but once again, you'll note, the theme here is stress.
I figure I should take a lesson from Ned. Ned is the name that I've given to the nutria I mentioned a few entries back. Apparently, the acorn tree in front of my mailbox is his favorite dining establishment/night club. When I collect my mail at 11:00 p.m. or later, he seems to always be calm and unperturbed, even as I'm trying to dance away from him, lest he prove me wrong. Still his serenity, transcendental in a mystical way, gives me hope that I, too, will somehow find a way through this improbable work-mountain
My grandiose plans to study hard over the weekend have evaporated like cool spring water in the Mojave desert. The result of not studying has been that I'm even further behind than I was and am now confronted with mounting stress, piled like numerous grains of sand in so many dunes of the aforementioned desert -- all of which brings me to my car.
Not being very mechanically inclined, I'll employ a metaphor that compares my car to an elderly person to describe the problem. Essentially, my car fractured a hip. While still able to move about, the car needs to see a professional, either today or tomorrow. I've been reluctantly forced to realize the car's eventual mortality. Although I can use the local bus system in emergencies, car trouble will severely restrict my mobility. Whether or not this episode is the beginning of the end remains to be seen; but once again, you'll note, the theme here is stress.
I figure I should take a lesson from Ned. Ned is the name that I've given to the nutria I mentioned a few entries back. Apparently, the acorn tree in front of my mailbox is his favorite dining establishment/night club. When I collect my mail at 11:00 p.m. or later, he seems to always be calm and unperturbed, even as I'm trying to dance away from him, lest he prove me wrong. Still his serenity, transcendental in a mystical way, gives me hope that I, too, will somehow find a way through this improbable work-mountain
Friday, November 07, 2003
Study Blizzard
The illness has finally left, to which I can actually breathe a healthy sigh of relief. Perhaps the release from the stress of writing my graduate paper, a paper that nearly made me crazy and one which I would very much like to earn a decent grade for, might have given me the respite I needed to kick the lingering effects of my personal health disaster. Now I have the ability, once again, to arise from my couch, my usual place of study, without the room hysterically laughing at me as it spins in every direction at once.
So with my newly restored health I've resolved to study like I have never done before -- to study like the wind! Well, okay, not like the wind exactly, but certainly I need to figure out how to organize my time and study much more effectively; I constantly have to resist the ever-alluring pull of doing something else entertaining. My next project involves writing a 15-40 page annotated working bibliography for a 15 page seminar paper due in five weeks. Already, I am a little behind -- and with the essays I received today from the class I T.A. for, essays which need to be graded, I'm dangerously close to falling even further behind. Hence, one can see the obvious necessity of developing the steely resolve to avoid extraneous activities (like buying food, washing clothes, paying the bills.) So adopting the motto of a championship sled dog: it's time to mush.
The illness has finally left, to which I can actually breathe a healthy sigh of relief. Perhaps the release from the stress of writing my graduate paper, a paper that nearly made me crazy and one which I would very much like to earn a decent grade for, might have given me the respite I needed to kick the lingering effects of my personal health disaster. Now I have the ability, once again, to arise from my couch, my usual place of study, without the room hysterically laughing at me as it spins in every direction at once.
So with my newly restored health I've resolved to study like I have never done before -- to study like the wind! Well, okay, not like the wind exactly, but certainly I need to figure out how to organize my time and study much more effectively; I constantly have to resist the ever-alluring pull of doing something else entertaining. My next project involves writing a 15-40 page annotated working bibliography for a 15 page seminar paper due in five weeks. Already, I am a little behind -- and with the essays I received today from the class I T.A. for, essays which need to be graded, I'm dangerously close to falling even further behind. Hence, one can see the obvious necessity of developing the steely resolve to avoid extraneous activities (like buying food, washing clothes, paying the bills.) So adopting the motto of a championship sled dog: it's time to mush.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Illness and Discontent
Grappling with an illness, likely brought about by the stress of working on my paper, I've found it hard to motivate myself forward to fling myself towards even more study and more books. I've not worked quite this hard and had so little to show for it in the results department for some time. Frankly, when I hear someone talk about the deconstructive imperatives influencing the grand narratives of centered discourse, it's hard not to feel slightly demoralized. Okay, sure -- I do spend more time watching television than I should, but I'm an American, right? Television is practically an inalienable right. I've briefly spoken with an instructor about feeling like I'm somehow, not just in the wrong place, but in the completely wrong dimension. The reassurance I received was, of course, reassuring, but just a little. The instructor suggested that it may take a whole year before I feel like I have a strong grasp of the process. Good Lord, I hope not.
Grappling with an illness, likely brought about by the stress of working on my paper, I've found it hard to motivate myself forward to fling myself towards even more study and more books. I've not worked quite this hard and had so little to show for it in the results department for some time. Frankly, when I hear someone talk about the deconstructive imperatives influencing the grand narratives of centered discourse, it's hard not to feel slightly demoralized. Okay, sure -- I do spend more time watching television than I should, but I'm an American, right? Television is practically an inalienable right. I've briefly spoken with an instructor about feeling like I'm somehow, not just in the wrong place, but in the completely wrong dimension. The reassurance I received was, of course, reassuring, but just a little. The instructor suggested that it may take a whole year before I feel like I have a strong grasp of the process. Good Lord, I hope not.
Monday, November 03, 2003
Under the Hammer
As far as the English 104 class that I T.A. for, I've definitely settled into a routine: park my car, walk across the freezing cold campus for fifteen minutes to get to class, wonder when the squirrels will begin to hibernate, listen to the lecture, try to inspire small group discussions when appropriate, and check in with the instructor after class. It seems that the biggest challenge has been the grading; and as far as that is concerned, I'm getting a better handle on the types of things that the instructor expects. The only potential snag on the horizon are the upcoming essays that all the students should be diligently working on. (Hah!)
Of course, with my own experience as a guide, I know for a fact that 98% of the students will wait until the night before. I myself have a paper that is due tomorrow that, while I have done the research ahead of time, I haven't begun to write yet. I'll spend the better part of today and early tomorrow writing it, so there'll likely not be blog entries for a day or two. Even though I know better, and despite constantly hear the same advice from every English teacher I've ever met (including fellow grad. students), I should have started writing my paper a couple of weeks ago. Old habits are hard to break.
But, applying some perspective, I should say that it is not all that bad. I do revise my papers after drafting them, and I have actually done some free writing about my topic already. So, if trends continue, I'll eventually get to where I want to be, but let's hope that's not after I've already graduated.
As far as the English 104 class that I T.A. for, I've definitely settled into a routine: park my car, walk across the freezing cold campus for fifteen minutes to get to class, wonder when the squirrels will begin to hibernate, listen to the lecture, try to inspire small group discussions when appropriate, and check in with the instructor after class. It seems that the biggest challenge has been the grading; and as far as that is concerned, I'm getting a better handle on the types of things that the instructor expects. The only potential snag on the horizon are the upcoming essays that all the students should be diligently working on. (Hah!)
Of course, with my own experience as a guide, I know for a fact that 98% of the students will wait until the night before. I myself have a paper that is due tomorrow that, while I have done the research ahead of time, I haven't begun to write yet. I'll spend the better part of today and early tomorrow writing it, so there'll likely not be blog entries for a day or two. Even though I know better, and despite constantly hear the same advice from every English teacher I've ever met (including fellow grad. students), I should have started writing my paper a couple of weeks ago. Old habits are hard to break.
But, applying some perspective, I should say that it is not all that bad. I do revise my papers after drafting them, and I have actually done some free writing about my topic already. So, if trends continue, I'll eventually get to where I want to be, but let's hope that's not after I've already graduated.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Nutrias and Monkeys
Last night, after completing a small chunk of the work that had been oppressing me for the last several days, I drove home on fairly empty streets, pulled into the darkened parking lot in my humble corner of student housing, and, once out of my car, walked over to the depressing metal boxes underneath an acorn tree to uncage my mail for the day. In spite of the late hour, there was another person standing nearby looking at what I assumed was his mail.
"Excuse me," the person asked me. He had an accent, so I immediately assumed that he was an international student from an Asian country, perhaps China. "Do you know what kind of animal this is?" He pointed down at large rodent timidly staring at the both of us, shuffling his webbed feet around some loose acorns. The creature's eyes were translucently reflecting a hazy light from a street lamp somewhere.
"Oh," I said, briefly startled, "That is a nutria." The creature was slowly backing up into some hedges, presumably to find a switchblade or some other kind of blade to defend itself with.
"Nyootria," the man repeated, "It looks like a big rat."
"Yeah, they're rodents all right. Way back when, some guy figured that he could sell them for fur, but when nobody bought any, they were released into the wild some time in the thirties. It probably lives in the creek behind this building." The international student was looking at the creature with an intense and interested fascination. I supposed he was wondering if it was dangerous, a thought that amused me.
My personal policy with these sorts of creatures - nutria or raccoons - is to treat them like bees: keep your distance and ignore them. It is extremely unlikely that they'll harm you. Even if, like raccoons, they stand up on their hind legs and menacingly wave their arms at you in a "wax-on wax-off" Karate Kid sort of way. (My younger sister uttered the loudest, most shrill scream I've ever heard in my life when a raccoon actually did just that.) Still, I wondered if the situation was reversed and I was the international student living in China, would have a similar reaction to, say, a monkey? Probably. Although, I think my worry would be more justified; afterall, a monkey might actually have a switchblade hidden somewhere. And I am unused to brawling with monkeys.
Last night, after completing a small chunk of the work that had been oppressing me for the last several days, I drove home on fairly empty streets, pulled into the darkened parking lot in my humble corner of student housing, and, once out of my car, walked over to the depressing metal boxes underneath an acorn tree to uncage my mail for the day. In spite of the late hour, there was another person standing nearby looking at what I assumed was his mail.
"Excuse me," the person asked me. He had an accent, so I immediately assumed that he was an international student from an Asian country, perhaps China. "Do you know what kind of animal this is?" He pointed down at large rodent timidly staring at the both of us, shuffling his webbed feet around some loose acorns. The creature's eyes were translucently reflecting a hazy light from a street lamp somewhere.
"Oh," I said, briefly startled, "That is a nutria." The creature was slowly backing up into some hedges, presumably to find a switchblade or some other kind of blade to defend itself with.
"Nyootria," the man repeated, "It looks like a big rat."
"Yeah, they're rodents all right. Way back when, some guy figured that he could sell them for fur, but when nobody bought any, they were released into the wild some time in the thirties. It probably lives in the creek behind this building." The international student was looking at the creature with an intense and interested fascination. I supposed he was wondering if it was dangerous, a thought that amused me.
My personal policy with these sorts of creatures - nutria or raccoons - is to treat them like bees: keep your distance and ignore them. It is extremely unlikely that they'll harm you. Even if, like raccoons, they stand up on their hind legs and menacingly wave their arms at you in a "wax-on wax-off" Karate Kid sort of way. (My younger sister uttered the loudest, most shrill scream I've ever heard in my life when a raccoon actually did just that.) Still, I wondered if the situation was reversed and I was the international student living in China, would have a similar reaction to, say, a monkey? Probably. Although, I think my worry would be more justified; afterall, a monkey might actually have a switchblade hidden somewhere. And I am unused to brawling with monkeys.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Baa!
babaabba baabaaaa baaababa bbabbbbb baababaa baabaaab baabaaaa baaabaaa bbabbbbb babbabba bbabbbbb baaabbab baabbaba baabbbba baabaabb baabaabb baaaabba bbabbbbb baaabbaa baababbb baabaaaa baaababa baabaabb baabbabb bbabbbbb baaabbaa baaababb baabbbba baaabbab baaababb bbabbbbb baaabaaa baabaaaa baaabbab baababaa baababba baabaaab baabbaaa bbabbbbb baabbbba baabaaab baabbabb bbabbbbb baaabbba baaababa baababba baaababb bbabbbbb baaabaaa baabaaaa baabaaab baabbabb baabbaba baaabbab baababba baabaaab baabbaaa bbabbbbb baabbbba baabbbab baabaaaa baaababa baaababb bbabbbbb baaabaaa baababbb baaaabba bbabbbbb baabbbba baabaaab baaaabba baabaaaa baabaaab baabbaba bbabbbbb baaabaaa baabaaaa baaababa baabaabb baabbabb bbabbbbb baaabaaa baabbbba baabaaab baaababb bbabbbbb baaababb baabaaaa bbabbbbb baaabbaa baaabbbb baabbaba baabbbba baababaa bbabbbbb baaabaaa baababba baaababb baababbb bbabbbbb baaabbaa baababbb baabbaba baabbaba baaabbbb bbabaaab bbabbbbb bbabbbbb
babaabba baabaaaa baaababa bbabbbbb baababaa baabaaab baabaaaa baaabaaa bbabbbbb babbabba bbabbbbb baaabbab baabbaba baabbbba baabaabb baabaabb baaaabba bbabbbbb baaabbaa baababbb baabaaaa baaababa baabaabb baabbabb bbabbbbb baaabbaa baaababb baabbbba baaabbab baaababb bbabbbbb baaabaaa baabaaaa baaabbab baababaa baababba baabaaab baabbaaa bbabbbbb baabbbba baabaaab baabbabb bbabbbbb baaabbba baaababa baababba baaababb bbabbbbb baaabaaa baabaaaa baabaaab baabbabb baabbaba baaabbab baababba baabaaab baabbaaa bbabbbbb baabbbba baabbbab baabaaaa baaababa baaababb bbabbbbb baaabaaa baababbb baaaabba bbabbbbb baabbbba baabaaab baaaabba baabaaaa baabaaab baabbaba bbabbbbb baaabaaa baabaaaa baaababa baabaabb baabbabb bbabbbbb baaabaaa baabbbba baabaaab baaababb bbabbbbb baaababb baabaaaa bbabbbbb baaabbaa baaabbbb baabbaba baabbbba baababaa bbabbbbb baaabaaa baababba baaababb baababbb bbabbbbb baaabbaa baababbb baabbaba baabbaba baaabbbb bbabaaab bbabbbbb bbabbbbb
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Holiday Harmonium
Yesterday, in spite of recovering from my cold, I climbed four flights of stairs to get to my office. I should have waited for the elevator, but there was an insane amount of people waiting for it, the elevator was taking forever to open up, and I had an attack of conscience based on the realization that I potentially might infect 10 other people with the health equivalent of a mugging and an atom bomb rolled into one.
Taking the stairs is normally nothing worth noting, but in this case it was different. A handsome middle-aged woman was sitting in a chair on the third floor stairwell playing Jingle Bells on an accordion. Another man, with a slouched hat and a beard, sat opposite her, listening and making notes in a book. I did what most people would have done when confronted with an unusual scene involving an accordion: I pretended not to see it and walked silently by. I know that in some cities, this sort of thing would not be too unusual, but for me, it was definitely out of the ordinary.
Yesterday, in spite of recovering from my cold, I climbed four flights of stairs to get to my office. I should have waited for the elevator, but there was an insane amount of people waiting for it, the elevator was taking forever to open up, and I had an attack of conscience based on the realization that I potentially might infect 10 other people with the health equivalent of a mugging and an atom bomb rolled into one.
Taking the stairs is normally nothing worth noting, but in this case it was different. A handsome middle-aged woman was sitting in a chair on the third floor stairwell playing Jingle Bells on an accordion. Another man, with a slouched hat and a beard, sat opposite her, listening and making notes in a book. I did what most people would have done when confronted with an unusual scene involving an accordion: I pretended not to see it and walked silently by. I know that in some cities, this sort of thing would not be too unusual, but for me, it was definitely out of the ordinary.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Doughnuts of Comfort
The cold I had mentioned in the previous blog blew up into a full fledged affair that wiped me out for most of the weekend, so despite a monkey-barrel full of good intentions, I accomplished almost nothing except bed rest. And, unfortunately, I'm still not completely well. All of which made for a somewhat amusing fire inspection this morning. Since I live in off-campus housing at a public university, and since that university receives government money, the tenants are subject to routine inspections to ensure that the smoke detectors will detect smoke and that some college student - emulating a grizzly bear - hasn't demolished government issue carpeting or ignored mold silently breeding in the sink.
This cold, with it's ironic fevers, comes at time when I thought I was getting healthier, or at least not doing as much damage as usual with a burger laden diet and practically no exercise. I've even joined a health club - not to lose weight, but to feel better physically. The tragedy of getting older is realizing that you are no exception to health maintenance, that your body is just as prone to limitations as someone else, and that too many doughnuts of comfort - bathed in the buttery goodness of a sweet, sweet glaze - will easily transform themselves into an elephant sized arterial clog that mockingly laughs at you as you feel the first sledge hammer pound of an early heart attack.
The cold I had mentioned in the previous blog blew up into a full fledged affair that wiped me out for most of the weekend, so despite a monkey-barrel full of good intentions, I accomplished almost nothing except bed rest. And, unfortunately, I'm still not completely well. All of which made for a somewhat amusing fire inspection this morning. Since I live in off-campus housing at a public university, and since that university receives government money, the tenants are subject to routine inspections to ensure that the smoke detectors will detect smoke and that some college student - emulating a grizzly bear - hasn't demolished government issue carpeting or ignored mold silently breeding in the sink.
This cold, with it's ironic fevers, comes at time when I thought I was getting healthier, or at least not doing as much damage as usual with a burger laden diet and practically no exercise. I've even joined a health club - not to lose weight, but to feel better physically. The tragedy of getting older is realizing that you are no exception to health maintenance, that your body is just as prone to limitations as someone else, and that too many doughnuts of comfort - bathed in the buttery goodness of a sweet, sweet glaze - will easily transform themselves into an elephant sized arterial clog that mockingly laughs at you as you feel the first sledge hammer pound of an early heart attack.
Friday, October 24, 2003
HTML Bumpers
One of the things that has been nagging at me for the last several days has been the general design of my site. When I initially created it, I took a little knowledge of HTML, an old blogger template, and combined it with the spirit of tinkering. I didn't really change the blog template so much as shifted it a certain way and tacked on a bunch of links. Afterwards, if I discovered something I liked, I tacked it on in pretty much the same way that I have tacked everything else on. So, even in spite of all the work that I have been griping about for the last several weeks, I'm thinking about pushing my web skills a little further and doing something a bit different. The holy grail of doing something different would be finding a host for some images, but that eventuality is at the end of a long line of school work and bills that keep getting in the way.
On a personal front, while fighting off a cold I've recently required - which was probably exacerbated by the fact that I was up until 2:00 a.m. grading essays for ENG104 - I'm finding that I'm coping with a general malaise that is brought on by something much deeper than the usual schoolwork. Unfortunately, although I have my theories, I'm not one hundred percent sure what the matter is. Consequently, I blew about five bucks in a Simpsons pinball machine at the student union. So long as I don't make it habit, I think it could be a good way to decompress now and again.
One of the things that has been nagging at me for the last several days has been the general design of my site. When I initially created it, I took a little knowledge of HTML, an old blogger template, and combined it with the spirit of tinkering. I didn't really change the blog template so much as shifted it a certain way and tacked on a bunch of links. Afterwards, if I discovered something I liked, I tacked it on in pretty much the same way that I have tacked everything else on. So, even in spite of all the work that I have been griping about for the last several weeks, I'm thinking about pushing my web skills a little further and doing something a bit different. The holy grail of doing something different would be finding a host for some images, but that eventuality is at the end of a long line of school work and bills that keep getting in the way.
On a personal front, while fighting off a cold I've recently required - which was probably exacerbated by the fact that I was up until 2:00 a.m. grading essays for ENG104 - I'm finding that I'm coping with a general malaise that is brought on by something much deeper than the usual schoolwork. Unfortunately, although I have my theories, I'm not one hundred percent sure what the matter is. Consequently, I blew about five bucks in a Simpsons pinball machine at the student union. So long as I don't make it habit, I think it could be a good way to decompress now and again.
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Electric Caveman
Despite my occasional forays into the world of computer technology, I essentially remain bereft of the true graces that sing enchantingly electronic melodies from the elysian fields of circuitry. Briefly, I've recently discovered that my home computer is infected with a virus (link goes to a description at Symantec), and I'm still not sure how to remove it safely without messing up all of my other files. Of course, it is a fair question to ask what sort of impact that this has one me. The inevitable answer is - not much. Although I have used a computer for one reason or another almost every day (like most students), the computers I consistently use are firmly parked in a dank cellar-like computer lab. My skin has become luminescent by being constantly bathed in the soft blue glow of an electric screen. My own home computer has been laughably obsolete for awhile. And the computer previous to that was truly antique; the tech-support for it was an actual Neanderthal and the monitor was carved from stone, which isn't metaphor. Seriously. One of the computer's input devices was a large wooden club. All of the computers I have ever owned have been acquired second-hand.
Yet, there may be hope. Since another one of my hobbies besides blogging has been accumulating an obscene amount of college loan debt, I have discovered that there is a way to combine my talent for expanding debt and my desire to buy a computer (laptop). Apparently, the financial aid office will approve a one time extension for me to buy one. Once I finish shopping around for the best price, getting official price quotes, and filling out the paperwork, I should be well into final exam week, which - of course - will not be of much use for fall term. Life is full of ridiculous ironies. But maybe, just maybe, I'll have one for winter. And this time, I keep my virus software updated.
Despite my occasional forays into the world of computer technology, I essentially remain bereft of the true graces that sing enchantingly electronic melodies from the elysian fields of circuitry. Briefly, I've recently discovered that my home computer is infected with a virus (link goes to a description at Symantec), and I'm still not sure how to remove it safely without messing up all of my other files. Of course, it is a fair question to ask what sort of impact that this has one me. The inevitable answer is - not much. Although I have used a computer for one reason or another almost every day (like most students), the computers I consistently use are firmly parked in a dank cellar-like computer lab. My skin has become luminescent by being constantly bathed in the soft blue glow of an electric screen. My own home computer has been laughably obsolete for awhile. And the computer previous to that was truly antique; the tech-support for it was an actual Neanderthal and the monitor was carved from stone, which isn't metaphor. Seriously. One of the computer's input devices was a large wooden club. All of the computers I have ever owned have been acquired second-hand.
Yet, there may be hope. Since another one of my hobbies besides blogging has been accumulating an obscene amount of college loan debt, I have discovered that there is a way to combine my talent for expanding debt and my desire to buy a computer (laptop). Apparently, the financial aid office will approve a one time extension for me to buy one. Once I finish shopping around for the best price, getting official price quotes, and filling out the paperwork, I should be well into final exam week, which - of course - will not be of much use for fall term. Life is full of ridiculous ironies. But maybe, just maybe, I'll have one for winter. And this time, I keep my virus software updated.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Vietnam Generation
Today, I finished reading Tim O'Brien's book, The Things They Carried, and not just the short story by the same name that is frequently anthologized. I finished the last story in an overhot, muggy, solarium attached to the student union cafeteria; even though the food was somewhat bland, which I suppose is typical of most cafeterias, I was engrossed in the story.
I am not one of those people fascinated by the machismo of war, or the amped up conceptions of manliness that frequently go with it. When I worked at a printed circuit board factory, a coworker encouraged me to sign up with the National Guard saying it was "just like camp, only you get to blow up stuff." He told me how he and fellow soldiers blew a large crater into one of our national forests by using a little too much C4 to clear out a dead and fallen over log. I forget what the purpose of clearing out the logs were, but I wonder if he still thinks the National Guard is like camp because, almost assuredly, he is currently on duty in Iraq.
The fascination for me comes from two places: first, the (unwilling) extreme experience of pain and terror, and the various ways that are developed to cope with that, and second, the connection of the Vietnam War and my parent's generation. The War has significantly shaped them, but in ways - while I can feel - I don't really understand.
Today, I finished reading Tim O'Brien's book, The Things They Carried, and not just the short story by the same name that is frequently anthologized. I finished the last story in an overhot, muggy, solarium attached to the student union cafeteria; even though the food was somewhat bland, which I suppose is typical of most cafeterias, I was engrossed in the story.
I am not one of those people fascinated by the machismo of war, or the amped up conceptions of manliness that frequently go with it. When I worked at a printed circuit board factory, a coworker encouraged me to sign up with the National Guard saying it was "just like camp, only you get to blow up stuff." He told me how he and fellow soldiers blew a large crater into one of our national forests by using a little too much C4 to clear out a dead and fallen over log. I forget what the purpose of clearing out the logs were, but I wonder if he still thinks the National Guard is like camp because, almost assuredly, he is currently on duty in Iraq.
The fascination for me comes from two places: first, the (unwilling) extreme experience of pain and terror, and the various ways that are developed to cope with that, and second, the connection of the Vietnam War and my parent's generation. The War has significantly shaped them, but in ways - while I can feel - I don't really understand.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Stolen Soda
For my grad. studies class, I will begin writing the required abstract, and so doing, begin the process of writing my first seminar paper. Never having written one, the prospect of this new task - combined with grading papers while trying to sort out just what the other grad. students and professors are talking about in classes - looms before me omniously.
The looming is not unlike the looming of a unbalanced soda machine slowing falling towards you in your effort to procure a a stolen beverage. While I assure you that I would never try to satisfy my thirst in such a dangerous manner, the squashing metaphor by a half ton machine seems rather apt when compared to the process of writing my first grad. paper.
I still feel on top of things for the most part - after all, I have managed to keep myself fed and clothed and whatnot, but I find that my free time is vanishing in increasingly larger increments. There is an adjustment between grad. and undergrad. work. While I could usually slide through a ten week undergrad course by missing a few classes here and there, and by blowing off the occasional homework, here sliding is definitely not an option. I've also had to continually confront the question (usually in the morning): is this the right path for me? While I'm fairly certain the answer is still yes, the realization that this is the true beginning of future job has been sobering. I had hoped that all of my sobering realizations would have already happened by now.
For my grad. studies class, I will begin writing the required abstract, and so doing, begin the process of writing my first seminar paper. Never having written one, the prospect of this new task - combined with grading papers while trying to sort out just what the other grad. students and professors are talking about in classes - looms before me omniously.
The looming is not unlike the looming of a unbalanced soda machine slowing falling towards you in your effort to procure a a stolen beverage. While I assure you that I would never try to satisfy my thirst in such a dangerous manner, the squashing metaphor by a half ton machine seems rather apt when compared to the process of writing my first grad. paper.
I still feel on top of things for the most part - after all, I have managed to keep myself fed and clothed and whatnot, but I find that my free time is vanishing in increasingly larger increments. There is an adjustment between grad. and undergrad. work. While I could usually slide through a ten week undergrad course by missing a few classes here and there, and by blowing off the occasional homework, here sliding is definitely not an option. I've also had to continually confront the question (usually in the morning): is this the right path for me? While I'm fairly certain the answer is still yes, the realization that this is the true beginning of future job has been sobering. I had hoped that all of my sobering realizations would have already happened by now.
Monday, October 20, 2003
Afflicted River
Over the weekend, I saw the movie Mystic River. I have to agree with all of the critics that Sean Penn did a real good job acting the role of a lost lower class father trying to cope with the murder of his daughter. On the other hand, after hearing Tim Robbins discuss the film on television, I was expecting an extended meditation on what it means to be male (different from the kind that society usually demands), and how to cope with that. At many points, aside from a rather brutal scene of violence (not the murder), this a police drama. I feel Affliction, with Nick Nolte, is a rather good film that explores the issue of violence and what it means to be male rather well. It is based on a book by Russell Banks that I haven't read yet. So, I'm focusing purely on content here. While the technical movie magic that Affliction employed may not be the same quality as Mystic River, I felt the story was pretty good.
Over the weekend, I saw the movie Mystic River. I have to agree with all of the critics that Sean Penn did a real good job acting the role of a lost lower class father trying to cope with the murder of his daughter. On the other hand, after hearing Tim Robbins discuss the film on television, I was expecting an extended meditation on what it means to be male (different from the kind that society usually demands), and how to cope with that. At many points, aside from a rather brutal scene of violence (not the murder), this a police drama. I feel Affliction, with Nick Nolte, is a rather good film that explores the issue of violence and what it means to be male rather well. It is based on a book by Russell Banks that I haven't read yet. So, I'm focusing purely on content here. While the technical movie magic that Affliction employed may not be the same quality as Mystic River, I felt the story was pretty good.
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Downpours
The winter rain has arrived and proceeded to soak everything with its usual aplomb. While walking to class this morning, I was wondering how the local population of squirrels keeps from drowning in their burrows, or at least from going (ahem) nuts. The other TA for the class says that she was almost run over while cycling to school, and I think that it has a lot to do with the fact that this has been the first real rain of the season. It has also surprised me a little to see everyone with umbrellas. Living through the winters here for so long has made see umbrellas as something approaching a gesture of futility.
My main project continues to be grading the quizzes; I'm still trying to figure how to be consistent and give an appropriate grade. Of course being just the TA, there is an added pressure of trying to figure out the grade the Professor would give, not just the grade I would, and figuring out how to align the two. But of course, there are the articles to read for the seminar, so I off to entomb myself in either my shared office or the library, where I will slowly moulder in the sickly light of the florouscent bulbs burning above my head. To sum up in one word, Ack!
The winter rain has arrived and proceeded to soak everything with its usual aplomb. While walking to class this morning, I was wondering how the local population of squirrels keeps from drowning in their burrows, or at least from going (ahem) nuts. The other TA for the class says that she was almost run over while cycling to school, and I think that it has a lot to do with the fact that this has been the first real rain of the season. It has also surprised me a little to see everyone with umbrellas. Living through the winters here for so long has made see umbrellas as something approaching a gesture of futility.
My main project continues to be grading the quizzes; I'm still trying to figure how to be consistent and give an appropriate grade. Of course being just the TA, there is an added pressure of trying to figure out the grade the Professor would give, not just the grade I would, and figuring out how to align the two. But of course, there are the articles to read for the seminar, so I off to entomb myself in either my shared office or the library, where I will slowly moulder in the sickly light of the florouscent bulbs burning above my head. To sum up in one word, Ack!
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Lifting Fog
Now that I've had a full two and a half weeks here at grad. school, things, although still a little incomprehensible at times, are beginning to fall into place. My personal life continues to be an unrepentant disaster, but my professional life seems to be starting. I can now navigate my way confidently through all of the tasks that seem to be required of me so far, and I have been talking with some of the other grad. students who feel a little like I do. Now that the basic fog of "how do I fit in this place," has begun to lift, I now have to focus seriously on my studies. My grades, while good in an average sort of way, have to be brought up; and to successfully do that, I have to begin both of my seminar papers very soon. The problem is, of course, that I have to write about something that I still don't quite understand, but at least I have a good idea of where I should start.
Now that I've had a full two and a half weeks here at grad. school, things, although still a little incomprehensible at times, are beginning to fall into place. My personal life continues to be an unrepentant disaster, but my professional life seems to be starting. I can now navigate my way confidently through all of the tasks that seem to be required of me so far, and I have been talking with some of the other grad. students who feel a little like I do. Now that the basic fog of "how do I fit in this place," has begun to lift, I now have to focus seriously on my studies. My grades, while good in an average sort of way, have to be brought up; and to successfully do that, I have to begin both of my seminar papers very soon. The problem is, of course, that I have to write about something that I still don't quite understand, but at least I have a good idea of where I should start.
Friday, October 10, 2003
Life in the Slow Lane
Today was the first day that the class for which I am the TA had a quiz. It was interesting insofar as I got to see the reactions of the students taking the quiz, to listen to their pleas for more time, and - after the quiz was over - to downplay the overworry expressed those students who should have no reason to worry. Of course, I've seen this all before when I myself had taken quizzes in my undergraduate classes, but this was different for two reasons. The first is the mere fact that it has been some time since I have been in one hundred level class, so the reactions were a little different from those I remember as a senior. The second reason is, since I'm a TA, my perspective has shifted slightly from student to someone who will one day (inshallah) be an instructor. This prospective role is highlighted by the mere fact that I will be grading about a third of these quizzes, so the students who sighed heavily when they were forced to relinquish their papers will have me as their quiz evaluator.
Yet, with the exception of this one hundred level class, the analogy that seems to characterize my efforts here at grad. school is this: I am the old man in the hat driving the late-model buick in the slow lane of the freeway. It seems everyone else is passing me on the right and giving me the proverbial finger, while I'm crankily asking myself if I have stopped despite the seeming forward movement. My weekend is up in the air because of the necessity to study, but I think I'm going to schedule enough time off to see a movie. I believe I might see Mystic River because it sounds like it could be really interesting. I would have seen "Kill Bill," but David Denby of the New Yorker has said that "'Kill Bill' is what’s formally known as decadence and commonly known as crap." Ouch. Let's just say if I ever make a movie, I hope that Mr. Denby doesn't see it.
Today was the first day that the class for which I am the TA had a quiz. It was interesting insofar as I got to see the reactions of the students taking the quiz, to listen to their pleas for more time, and - after the quiz was over - to downplay the overworry expressed those students who should have no reason to worry. Of course, I've seen this all before when I myself had taken quizzes in my undergraduate classes, but this was different for two reasons. The first is the mere fact that it has been some time since I have been in one hundred level class, so the reactions were a little different from those I remember as a senior. The second reason is, since I'm a TA, my perspective has shifted slightly from student to someone who will one day (inshallah) be an instructor. This prospective role is highlighted by the mere fact that I will be grading about a third of these quizzes, so the students who sighed heavily when they were forced to relinquish their papers will have me as their quiz evaluator.
Yet, with the exception of this one hundred level class, the analogy that seems to characterize my efforts here at grad. school is this: I am the old man in the hat driving the late-model buick in the slow lane of the freeway. It seems everyone else is passing me on the right and giving me the proverbial finger, while I'm crankily asking myself if I have stopped despite the seeming forward movement. My weekend is up in the air because of the necessity to study, but I think I'm going to schedule enough time off to see a movie. I believe I might see Mystic River because it sounds like it could be really interesting. I would have seen "Kill Bill," but David Denby of the New Yorker has said that "'Kill Bill' is what’s formally known as decadence and commonly known as crap." Ouch. Let's just say if I ever make a movie, I hope that Mr. Denby doesn't see it.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
The Sac of Suds
I've overcome the whole issue about defining the word rhetoric by side-stepping the issue altogether. My new assignment is to give a ten minute presentation and 5 page paper on Literary History. Of course, this puts me right back at square one, but I think that I'm slowly getting a handle on the type of academic rigor that is required to do well. The professor has reassured me that the students who seem talkative and confident have some experience with graduate work before, so by extension, I should not feel so out of the loop or intimidated. Still, I can't help but feel a little nervous and a bit behind everyone else. More study on my part is needed, and as a consequence, my life is about to get more regimented.
Let there be no misunderstanding, the adjustment to grad. school has been, for me, inordinately difficult. And, dovetailing rather nicely with this difficult adjustment, my personal affairs have stumbled beyond my control into anarchy. Since it is fall, and I live in the northwest, there has been plenty of rain to complement my mood. Yet, the key to not letting it overwhelm me has been my trying to keep a sense of humor. I'll not explain how or why, but a particular scene from the movie My Cousin Vinny has helped me maintain some balance. I've found I can relieve some pressure by maintaining perspective. Thus life continues. Tonight, I immerse myself back into study, and tomorrow I buy some small things for my office.
I've overcome the whole issue about defining the word rhetoric by side-stepping the issue altogether. My new assignment is to give a ten minute presentation and 5 page paper on Literary History. Of course, this puts me right back at square one, but I think that I'm slowly getting a handle on the type of academic rigor that is required to do well. The professor has reassured me that the students who seem talkative and confident have some experience with graduate work before, so by extension, I should not feel so out of the loop or intimidated. Still, I can't help but feel a little nervous and a bit behind everyone else. More study on my part is needed, and as a consequence, my life is about to get more regimented.
Let there be no misunderstanding, the adjustment to grad. school has been, for me, inordinately difficult. And, dovetailing rather nicely with this difficult adjustment, my personal affairs have stumbled beyond my control into anarchy. Since it is fall, and I live in the northwest, there has been plenty of rain to complement my mood. Yet, the key to not letting it overwhelm me has been my trying to keep a sense of humor. I'll not explain how or why, but a particular scene from the movie My Cousin Vinny has helped me maintain some balance. I've found I can relieve some pressure by maintaining perspective. Thus life continues. Tonight, I immerse myself back into study, and tomorrow I buy some small things for my office.
Monday, October 06, 2003
Rhetoric
Lately, I've had such a hard time figuring out what to write and how to write it that I'm now (of course) paralyzed with writers block. I haven't posted to the cellar here for some time, at least not as often as I had originally hoped, and I haven't made much progress on the assignment that has been blighting all of my thoughts and free time lately.
What is the assignment you may ask? Define the term rhetoric (5 pages) and give a ten minute presentation on the term to your fellow students. The problem stems from the fact that I'm not sure exactly what the specifications are for academic writing, meaning should I ramble on in my introduction about something that is only tangentially related to the topic at hand, and I'm not as excited about the topic as I should be. If I were more interested in reading articles that have all of the pleasant, end-of-meal satisfaction as a box of sawdust, then I'd be laughing because the paper would have alreay been completed. So, while I have finally tranferred all of my belongings to my new place of residence as of this last weekend, I can't exactly relax and spend a few minutes wacthing television because of my looming assignment. Your guess is as good as mine concerning what will happen tomorrow in class.
Lately, I've had such a hard time figuring out what to write and how to write it that I'm now (of course) paralyzed with writers block. I haven't posted to the cellar here for some time, at least not as often as I had originally hoped, and I haven't made much progress on the assignment that has been blighting all of my thoughts and free time lately.
What is the assignment you may ask? Define the term rhetoric (5 pages) and give a ten minute presentation on the term to your fellow students. The problem stems from the fact that I'm not sure exactly what the specifications are for academic writing, meaning should I ramble on in my introduction about something that is only tangentially related to the topic at hand, and I'm not as excited about the topic as I should be. If I were more interested in reading articles that have all of the pleasant, end-of-meal satisfaction as a box of sawdust, then I'd be laughing because the paper would have alreay been completed. So, while I have finally tranferred all of my belongings to my new place of residence as of this last weekend, I can't exactly relax and spend a few minutes wacthing television because of my looming assignment. Your guess is as good as mine concerning what will happen tomorrow in class.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Kidneys
Today has been about as productive as I can make it, although I do intend to study my brains out this evening. I'm telling everyone that if this was a reality television show, I would have been voted off the island by about 3:00 p.m. today. The positive things I've accomplished have been that I've finally found out where the computer lab for the GTF's are, the discovering of which was not unlike finding secret elephant burial grounds. I also signed up for medical insurance through the union; so, I can be really sick now without worrying about dying outright from what health professionals usually term "lack of care." Cultivating a continuing taste for the surreal, I had the following conversation with the union rep. She mentioned that I needed to sign the "transplant form" that covered 24 months of something. I hadn't heard what she said so I asked what the form was about:
She: "This just means that you can't get a transplant for two years, if it is pre-existing condition."
Me: "So, if I need a kidney - then, I'm out of luck."
She: "Yes, if the reason you needed one was pre-existing. But, if you needed one a week from now."
Me: "Like if I were stabbed in the small of the back or something, and the blade punctured a kidney, then. . ."
She: "Then you could get a kidney no problem."
In retrospect, I shouldn't have been so creepy, but the above conversation actually helped me figure out that they were denying transplants outright in every circumstance. I guess it's my lower class upbringing that inspires me to say stuff like this and not think about how it might sound until later.
On a final note, some of the computers here at the University do not have 3.5 disk drives anymore. Nor do they have a server (at least I don't think they do) where students can save their work to access later. So what the hell am I supposed to do? The answer apparently is I should buy a jump drive, aka a flash drive or thumb drive(?), that I carry around with me in order to save my work on that. Of course, they sell them at the bookstore for small fee. Although I'm not afraid of new technology, I hate to be forced to buy stuff like this when I'm not really prepared for it.
Today has been about as productive as I can make it, although I do intend to study my brains out this evening. I'm telling everyone that if this was a reality television show, I would have been voted off the island by about 3:00 p.m. today. The positive things I've accomplished have been that I've finally found out where the computer lab for the GTF's are, the discovering of which was not unlike finding secret elephant burial grounds. I also signed up for medical insurance through the union; so, I can be really sick now without worrying about dying outright from what health professionals usually term "lack of care." Cultivating a continuing taste for the surreal, I had the following conversation with the union rep. She mentioned that I needed to sign the "transplant form" that covered 24 months of something. I hadn't heard what she said so I asked what the form was about:
She: "This just means that you can't get a transplant for two years, if it is pre-existing condition."
Me: "So, if I need a kidney - then, I'm out of luck."
She: "Yes, if the reason you needed one was pre-existing. But, if you needed one a week from now."
Me: "Like if I were stabbed in the small of the back or something, and the blade punctured a kidney, then. . ."
She: "Then you could get a kidney no problem."
In retrospect, I shouldn't have been so creepy, but the above conversation actually helped me figure out that they were denying transplants outright in every circumstance. I guess it's my lower class upbringing that inspires me to say stuff like this and not think about how it might sound until later.
On a final note, some of the computers here at the University do not have 3.5 disk drives anymore. Nor do they have a server (at least I don't think they do) where students can save their work to access later. So what the hell am I supposed to do? The answer apparently is I should buy a jump drive, aka a flash drive or thumb drive(?), that I carry around with me in order to save my work on that. Of course, they sell them at the bookstore for small fee. Although I'm not afraid of new technology, I hate to be forced to buy stuff like this when I'm not really prepared for it.
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
The Storm Again
Even after attending my second class as a teaching assistant (T.A.), I'm still not sure what being a T.A. is going to entail. I suspect once I've had a chance to talk in depth with the instructor, rather than just chat for the few minutes before and after class, I'll be helping out with the minor computer related tasks and offering the usual tips and tricks one needs when geeking out on the web. By absolutely no means am I some kind of techie or web wizard (some of the incoming freshman already know more about that sort of thing than I ever will). Still, I think that I have more tech. and geek savvy than the other teaching assistant and instructor put together. (When I first met with the instructor in her fourth floor office to check-in with her the week before class, she showed me the syllabus and indicated that she was experiencing some trouble removing the hyperlink from her Microsoft word document. She told me, "I'll put a copy [of the syllabus] in your mailbox after I fix this email address so it's not blue. I'm hoping the photocopier will make it black again." Super simple stuff. I kept my mouth shut at the time figuring that silence was golden and that I needed to hear more about my job than explain the mysteries of hyperlinks.)
As for the graduate courses, I must admit to feeling more than my share of trepidation about the amount of work required and the intellectual capacity that I will need to have to immerse myself fully and successfully as a grad. student. I spent this whole afternoon reading an academic article about the history of rhetoric, something I need to do in order to write a paper about it for next week. I have to say the article was about as clear as mud. (If I had to summarize it in a few words, the article was essentially saying: Yep, rhetoric sure causes a heap o' fuss. Even way back a'fore anyone can re-collect, some folks has liked it, and some don't. No use trying to stop all this feudin' and a fussin', so best-of-luck to the poor fool who has to pick a side. Which, by the way, that fool is you!)
The stress of still not being completely moved dovetailed rather nicely with the stress of school and has made me (look out: understatement ahead!) a little frazzled. I don't have a phone; I haven't changed my address yet; and I've not even told some of my long time friends exactly where the hell I am. (Metaphorically speaking, I guess I don't know where the hell I am either.) This Friday, I'll be back in my old town packing the smaller things I left behind and tying up the financial loose ends. Those older and wiser than myself have suggested that I tell myself that everything will work out, and, they say, I should keep telling myself that. Advice I interpret as: Fake it 'till you make it. I don't know if I buy this argument, but right now, it's the only real advice about my situation I've got.
Even after attending my second class as a teaching assistant (T.A.), I'm still not sure what being a T.A. is going to entail. I suspect once I've had a chance to talk in depth with the instructor, rather than just chat for the few minutes before and after class, I'll be helping out with the minor computer related tasks and offering the usual tips and tricks one needs when geeking out on the web. By absolutely no means am I some kind of techie or web wizard (some of the incoming freshman already know more about that sort of thing than I ever will). Still, I think that I have more tech. and geek savvy than the other teaching assistant and instructor put together. (When I first met with the instructor in her fourth floor office to check-in with her the week before class, she showed me the syllabus and indicated that she was experiencing some trouble removing the hyperlink from her Microsoft word document. She told me, "I'll put a copy [of the syllabus] in your mailbox after I fix this email address so it's not blue. I'm hoping the photocopier will make it black again." Super simple stuff. I kept my mouth shut at the time figuring that silence was golden and that I needed to hear more about my job than explain the mysteries of hyperlinks.)
As for the graduate courses, I must admit to feeling more than my share of trepidation about the amount of work required and the intellectual capacity that I will need to have to immerse myself fully and successfully as a grad. student. I spent this whole afternoon reading an academic article about the history of rhetoric, something I need to do in order to write a paper about it for next week. I have to say the article was about as clear as mud. (If I had to summarize it in a few words, the article was essentially saying: Yep, rhetoric sure causes a heap o' fuss. Even way back a'fore anyone can re-collect, some folks has liked it, and some don't. No use trying to stop all this feudin' and a fussin', so best-of-luck to the poor fool who has to pick a side. Which, by the way, that fool is you!)
The stress of still not being completely moved dovetailed rather nicely with the stress of school and has made me (look out: understatement ahead!) a little frazzled. I don't have a phone; I haven't changed my address yet; and I've not even told some of my long time friends exactly where the hell I am. (Metaphorically speaking, I guess I don't know where the hell I am either.) This Friday, I'll be back in my old town packing the smaller things I left behind and tying up the financial loose ends. Those older and wiser than myself have suggested that I tell myself that everything will work out, and, they say, I should keep telling myself that. Advice I interpret as: Fake it 'till you make it. I don't know if I buy this argument, but right now, it's the only real advice about my situation I've got.
The Storm
I have now been to all of the classes that I'm going to have this term. I knew I was griping before about the amount of work that I was going to have to do with packing and moving and all, but I guess I didn't realize just how busy I would be with the minutiae attendant with school and school preparation. I'd talk more now, but I have to be at class in fifteen minutes, and I need to hurry.
I have now been to all of the classes that I'm going to have this term. I knew I was griping before about the amount of work that I was going to have to do with packing and moving and all, but I guess I didn't realize just how busy I would be with the minutiae attendant with school and school preparation. I'd talk more now, but I have to be at class in fifteen minutes, and I need to hurry.
Friday, September 26, 2003
The Calm
This is the last weekday before classes, and now I'm about to check on the apartment that I'm going to be living in for the next two years. (When I arranged to "check-in" a couple of days ago, the student employee in the apartment office said to a fellow employee that she wondered if it would be ready for the 26th. Since it is a small office, I happened to overhear.) I'm hoping that there will not be any kind of problem, especially seeing as how I have friends and family coming from Big City to help me pack. This weekend is my planned day to move. Here's hoping everything works out because Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. I officially kick off my graduate career.
This is the last weekday before classes, and now I'm about to check on the apartment that I'm going to be living in for the next two years. (When I arranged to "check-in" a couple of days ago, the student employee in the apartment office said to a fellow employee that she wondered if it would be ready for the 26th. Since it is a small office, I happened to overhear.) I'm hoping that there will not be any kind of problem, especially seeing as how I have friends and family coming from Big City to help me pack. This weekend is my planned day to move. Here's hoping everything works out because Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. I officially kick off my graduate career.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Dickinson and Deadlines
Today has been at least as busy as yesterday, and with my planned trip to Big City tonight, the day is about to get a lot busier. I still haven't finished packing, but that has dropped to my second or third priority. I'm hoping that I'll be able to rope friends and family into insanity known as packing. The main project, the one that has consumed most of the energy I regularly devote to worrying, concerns a 3-5 page paper that I'll have to write by 2:00 p.m. Tuesday concerning my choice of one of five given poems by Emily Dickinson. I also have to figure out what classes I'm going to registering for by tomorrow. The meeting I had with my graduate advisor cleared up some problems, but now that I have a clearer idea of what I'm doing, it has created new ones. I hope I don't forget anything.
Today has been at least as busy as yesterday, and with my planned trip to Big City tonight, the day is about to get a lot busier. I still haven't finished packing, but that has dropped to my second or third priority. I'm hoping that I'll be able to rope friends and family into insanity known as packing. The main project, the one that has consumed most of the energy I regularly devote to worrying, concerns a 3-5 page paper that I'll have to write by 2:00 p.m. Tuesday concerning my choice of one of five given poems by Emily Dickinson. I also have to figure out what classes I'm going to registering for by tomorrow. The meeting I had with my graduate advisor cleared up some problems, but now that I have a clearer idea of what I'm doing, it has created new ones. I hope I don't forget anything.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Discombobulatory
Alas, here it is Wednesday and I haven't made many posts here in the cellar lately. However, I expect that to change somewhat now that I'm in school again and have more regular access to a computer.
I must say that the last few days at my new grad. school have been nothing short of bewildering. Among the many academic requirements to remember, the forms to fill out, the professors to meet, and the meetings to attend (there's a composition conference that's currently in session), I am still just figuring out what I'm supposed to be doing at any given moment and how I'm going to move this weekend. It has been a struggle. Many of my things remain unpacked. In true college student fashion, I intend to throw out most of what I can. Rather than receive the general and congenial welcome that I had initially expected, especially considering the apparently misleading term of "welcome week," I now feel that the experience can be summarized as "sink or swim." I've only been keeping my head above water for the last few days.
Alas, here it is Wednesday and I haven't made many posts here in the cellar lately. However, I expect that to change somewhat now that I'm in school again and have more regular access to a computer.
I must say that the last few days at my new grad. school have been nothing short of bewildering. Among the many academic requirements to remember, the forms to fill out, the professors to meet, and the meetings to attend (there's a composition conference that's currently in session), I am still just figuring out what I'm supposed to be doing at any given moment and how I'm going to move this weekend. It has been a struggle. Many of my things remain unpacked. In true college student fashion, I intend to throw out most of what I can. Rather than receive the general and congenial welcome that I had initially expected, especially considering the apparently misleading term of "welcome week," I now feel that the experience can be summarized as "sink or swim." I've only been keeping my head above water for the last few days.
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Closer Inspection
I forgot to mention the other day that, among my adventures in travel, I took the greyhound bus from the Big City back to my small home town. The reason for this was my car needed extensive repairs despite my need to be elsewhere; so while the car got what it needed, I did too. And earlier I had already mentioned that I was pulled aside in John Wayne Airport so a security person could wave a wand over my body, not to find contraband or explosives so much as to alert half of the people in the airport to begin staring at me with wide-eyed suspicion. "Lookit here folks," the arm waving seemed to say, "this here is not just your average scruffy looking guy, he just might be a genuine scary person. Be sure to keep an eye on him in the plane." Again, decidedly not a terrorist, I took it all in stride and good humor. After all, I want to be as safe as the next person, yet I think that they could figure out a way to examine people in this manner more discreetly. I imagine that if I had the slightest tint of color to my skin, the experience would have been decisively unpleasant rather than mildly amusing.
The experience was again repeated at the bus station, but with a twist. This time, rather than single me out, the security personnel examined everyone in this way. On my earlier bus trip a week before, there was no examination at all - the bus driver didn't even sell me a ticket, he said that I could pay for it once I arrived in Big City. If I had been more daring and less conscientious, I might have gotten away without paying at all. (Although, being a classic good guy, I paid in full.) While I was able to carry my small pocket knife with me on the first trip, the security personnel took it away from me on my second. It irks me a little, even though they did offer to ship it to me for about two dollars; of course, only after I was already in line.
I can't help but think that there are some class issues at work here. Bus travel, the mode of transportation for the very poor, seems to require (at least occasionally) inspections of everyone. I know that the buzzer for the airport metal detector went off when I walked through it, still I have yet to see a "business man" being examined like I had been. Maybe I would have to travel a lot more to see that happen, or maybe those business guys are incredibly careful about what they carry, still I can't help feel a little singled out as individual at the airport and then singled out as a class member at the bus station.
I forgot to mention the other day that, among my adventures in travel, I took the greyhound bus from the Big City back to my small home town. The reason for this was my car needed extensive repairs despite my need to be elsewhere; so while the car got what it needed, I did too. And earlier I had already mentioned that I was pulled aside in John Wayne Airport so a security person could wave a wand over my body, not to find contraband or explosives so much as to alert half of the people in the airport to begin staring at me with wide-eyed suspicion. "Lookit here folks," the arm waving seemed to say, "this here is not just your average scruffy looking guy, he just might be a genuine scary person. Be sure to keep an eye on him in the plane." Again, decidedly not a terrorist, I took it all in stride and good humor. After all, I want to be as safe as the next person, yet I think that they could figure out a way to examine people in this manner more discreetly. I imagine that if I had the slightest tint of color to my skin, the experience would have been decisively unpleasant rather than mildly amusing.
The experience was again repeated at the bus station, but with a twist. This time, rather than single me out, the security personnel examined everyone in this way. On my earlier bus trip a week before, there was no examination at all - the bus driver didn't even sell me a ticket, he said that I could pay for it once I arrived in Big City. If I had been more daring and less conscientious, I might have gotten away without paying at all. (Although, being a classic good guy, I paid in full.) While I was able to carry my small pocket knife with me on the first trip, the security personnel took it away from me on my second. It irks me a little, even though they did offer to ship it to me for about two dollars; of course, only after I was already in line.
I can't help but think that there are some class issues at work here. Bus travel, the mode of transportation for the very poor, seems to require (at least occasionally) inspections of everyone. I know that the buzzer for the airport metal detector went off when I walked through it, still I have yet to see a "business man" being examined like I had been. Maybe I would have to travel a lot more to see that happen, or maybe those business guys are incredibly careful about what they carry, still I can't help feel a little singled out as individual at the airport and then singled out as a class member at the bus station.
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Bemused in California
So ends my trip to southern California - Orange County to be exact. I must admit, having lived in the Pacific northwest for several years, there are some differences I noted, the biggest of which is the amount of water people use considering the inescapable fact that the place is geographically a desert. Almost every home I saw from the plane has a pool, and a nice one too.
(Speaking of the plane, I was only pulled aside once to have the security personnel examine everything in my carry-on and then promptly parade me through to a special area where they used "shoe sniffers" and their "magic detector wand" to. . . well, I'll just leave to rest to your imagination. Needless to say, although I might look scruffy and disheveled for a man of thirtysomething, I'm decidedly not a terrorist.)
One of the places we visited, besides seeing relatives, was Knotts Berry Farm. Overall, I must admit to liking the place, especially since we got in for half price; and as it was the off season, there were absolutely no lines. My favorite ride was the log ride and one of the roller coasters, but every ride is way too short which I guess is the price for being extremely popular. The apparent emphasis is to get as many people through the ride as quickly as possible.
There is a western theme to a large part of the park, and "the mystery lodge" ride is offensive in that it appears to make the indigenous people of the northwest coast of north america both an entertainment and a exhibit, which theoretically could work I suppose, but the tone was all wrong and the "makeup" for the main performer was horrible. It presents a people as a spectacle, almost as if they were zoo animals.
There is much more to tell, but time is still short, and I still have to move. I need to pack, change my address, and all of that. I did it for my girlfriend about a month ago. Now I need to do it for myself.
So ends my trip to southern California - Orange County to be exact. I must admit, having lived in the Pacific northwest for several years, there are some differences I noted, the biggest of which is the amount of water people use considering the inescapable fact that the place is geographically a desert. Almost every home I saw from the plane has a pool, and a nice one too.
(Speaking of the plane, I was only pulled aside once to have the security personnel examine everything in my carry-on and then promptly parade me through to a special area where they used "shoe sniffers" and their "magic detector wand" to. . . well, I'll just leave to rest to your imagination. Needless to say, although I might look scruffy and disheveled for a man of thirtysomething, I'm decidedly not a terrorist.)
One of the places we visited, besides seeing relatives, was Knotts Berry Farm. Overall, I must admit to liking the place, especially since we got in for half price; and as it was the off season, there were absolutely no lines. My favorite ride was the log ride and one of the roller coasters, but every ride is way too short which I guess is the price for being extremely popular. The apparent emphasis is to get as many people through the ride as quickly as possible.
There is a western theme to a large part of the park, and "the mystery lodge" ride is offensive in that it appears to make the indigenous people of the northwest coast of north america both an entertainment and a exhibit, which theoretically could work I suppose, but the tone was all wrong and the "makeup" for the main performer was horrible. It presents a people as a spectacle, almost as if they were zoo animals.
There is much more to tell, but time is still short, and I still have to move. I need to pack, change my address, and all of that. I did it for my girlfriend about a month ago. Now I need to do it for myself.
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Abandonment
It has been awhile, so I figured that I should post something to explain how I haven't abandoned my blog. I still intend to keep it updated, but I've got some big plans over the next couple of weeks: moving, a week long trip to California, and starting grad. school. Therefore, if you don't see any posts, it doesn' mean that there won't be any in the future. Again, there are several things that have happened that are worth writing about, but I can't fit them in here now with the time available.
It has been awhile, so I figured that I should post something to explain how I haven't abandoned my blog. I still intend to keep it updated, but I've got some big plans over the next couple of weeks: moving, a week long trip to California, and starting grad. school. Therefore, if you don't see any posts, it doesn' mean that there won't be any in the future. Again, there are several things that have happened that are worth writing about, but I can't fit them in here now with the time available.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
Kaboom!
After spending a night sleeping on the couch and waking up this morning, I spent a couple of hours wasting time watching the movie "Airport," and then "The Adventures of Baron Munchausen," a film directed by Terry Gilliam. I confess to liking both of them, each a little campy, but especially the second. Gilliam is a true visual artist, whereas most other directors have become mere marketers selling a product they themselves don't believe in.
As I get older, the type of movies that exicted me before are having less of an impact. Action movies like Highlander and The Terminator were among my favorites, something I now chalk up to aggressive teenage hormones. I've significantly mellowed, so while I still can enjoy a post-apocalyptic action fest on a certain level, I'm more interested in the originality of an idea or presentation. The fifth time you've seen a mode of transportation mechanically blow up, from firetruck to streetcar, you get a little bored with the idea.
I remember watching a true cult classic - "C.C. and Company" - latenight at 2:00 a.m. several years ago. (Once movies are older than twenty years or so, you can ignore really bad plots and just focus on how times and attitudes have changed.) The story, which reminded me of "Easy Rider," was mildly interesting in a boring sort of way, focusing, as the hero's name would imply - "C.C. Ryder" - on motorcycles. I was able to recognize it as an action movie, albeit without much action. There was an easily identifiable hero rebelling against "the man," "society," or "whatever you got," who, of course, had an attractive girlfriend. Everything appeared to be building up a final confrontation between the hero and a large and angry motorcycle gang. When the climax of that last confrontation occurred, there was one explosion. One. And a very small one at that. I remember thinking - "that's it?" I'd been programmed by the summer blockbusters to expect bigger explosions, and a lot more of them. Still, I had to realize that people during that time must have thought it somewhat exciting, and maybe even a little shocking. (Although I've read critics had panned the movie even back then.) I guess I've been inoculated against poor action movies. I've built up a type of mental resistance because essentially they're all the same. As an overall group, I believe we've all become a little bored with this sort of movie, but as long as there are still teenagers struggling with their own aggressive hormones, and who also have money to burn, there will continue to be a KABOOM! in the summer movies.
After spending a night sleeping on the couch and waking up this morning, I spent a couple of hours wasting time watching the movie "Airport," and then "The Adventures of Baron Munchausen," a film directed by Terry Gilliam. I confess to liking both of them, each a little campy, but especially the second. Gilliam is a true visual artist, whereas most other directors have become mere marketers selling a product they themselves don't believe in.
As I get older, the type of movies that exicted me before are having less of an impact. Action movies like Highlander and The Terminator were among my favorites, something I now chalk up to aggressive teenage hormones. I've significantly mellowed, so while I still can enjoy a post-apocalyptic action fest on a certain level, I'm more interested in the originality of an idea or presentation. The fifth time you've seen a mode of transportation mechanically blow up, from firetruck to streetcar, you get a little bored with the idea.
I remember watching a true cult classic - "C.C. and Company" - latenight at 2:00 a.m. several years ago. (Once movies are older than twenty years or so, you can ignore really bad plots and just focus on how times and attitudes have changed.) The story, which reminded me of "Easy Rider," was mildly interesting in a boring sort of way, focusing, as the hero's name would imply - "C.C. Ryder" - on motorcycles. I was able to recognize it as an action movie, albeit without much action. There was an easily identifiable hero rebelling against "the man," "society," or "whatever you got," who, of course, had an attractive girlfriend. Everything appeared to be building up a final confrontation between the hero and a large and angry motorcycle gang. When the climax of that last confrontation occurred, there was one explosion. One. And a very small one at that. I remember thinking - "that's it?" I'd been programmed by the summer blockbusters to expect bigger explosions, and a lot more of them. Still, I had to realize that people during that time must have thought it somewhat exciting, and maybe even a little shocking. (Although I've read critics had panned the movie even back then.) I guess I've been inoculated against poor action movies. I've built up a type of mental resistance because essentially they're all the same. As an overall group, I believe we've all become a little bored with this sort of movie, but as long as there are still teenagers struggling with their own aggressive hormones, and who also have money to burn, there will continue to be a KABOOM! in the summer movies.
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Heat
It has been really hot during the last few days, especially considering that it is now september and things should be cooling off in this part of the country. The heat has been partially responsible for the general malaise I've been feeling over the last two days. While things around me seem to be speeding up (what with my plans to move and all combined with finishing the final tasks at my summer job), I've been personally slowing down - like taking naps and watching television. No-one really likes change when they are relatively comfortable, and it has been a reluctant realization on my part that compels me to admit that I really don't like change, even when I'm uncomfortable. Still, I will force myself forward; I just hope it won't take to heavy a toll.
It has been really hot during the last few days, especially considering that it is now september and things should be cooling off in this part of the country. The heat has been partially responsible for the general malaise I've been feeling over the last two days. While things around me seem to be speeding up (what with my plans to move and all combined with finishing the final tasks at my summer job), I've been personally slowing down - like taking naps and watching television. No-one really likes change when they are relatively comfortable, and it has been a reluctant realization on my part that compels me to admit that I really don't like change, even when I'm uncomfortable. Still, I will force myself forward; I just hope it won't take to heavy a toll.
Friday, August 29, 2003
Into the Internet, ceaselessly rocking
Believe it or not, I'm currently at the grad. school I'll be attending in just a few weeks writing this blog in a new cellar! Typically, like the other two colleges I've actually attended, and a few that I have only visited, the computer lab (aka: the cellar) happens to be in the basement of one of the buildings - the reason for which remains (to me) an unfathomable mystery! Thus, the name Zhaf and the cellar. Rather than find an inviting, not-too-warm place with lots of natural light to compute from, I've learned to seek out the cool, dank recesses of a basement computer lab so I can be bathed in the incandescent blue glow of an electric screen and be comforted by the ceaselessly rocking waves of the Internet.
In thirty minutes, I'm going to look at an apartment that I'm considering renting. This technically being the second day of commuting for me, combined with unsettling realizations I've had since receiving the unanimous advice from friends and family agaisnt commuting, I can now admit how doing so every day would get really old. There is a lot to work out, and nothing is certain, but I continue the search!
Believe it or not, I'm currently at the grad. school I'll be attending in just a few weeks writing this blog in a new cellar! Typically, like the other two colleges I've actually attended, and a few that I have only visited, the computer lab (aka: the cellar) happens to be in the basement of one of the buildings - the reason for which remains (to me) an unfathomable mystery! Thus, the name Zhaf and the cellar. Rather than find an inviting, not-too-warm place with lots of natural light to compute from, I've learned to seek out the cool, dank recesses of a basement computer lab so I can be bathed in the incandescent blue glow of an electric screen and be comforted by the ceaselessly rocking waves of the Internet.
In thirty minutes, I'm going to look at an apartment that I'm considering renting. This technically being the second day of commuting for me, combined with unsettling realizations I've had since receiving the unanimous advice from friends and family agaisnt commuting, I can now admit how doing so every day would get really old. There is a lot to work out, and nothing is certain, but I continue the search!
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Symbols and Transformations
Three things occurred, which taken alone mean nothing, but when viewed within the context of the events of my life during the last two weeks take on a somewhat symbolic meaning. The first, and the most memorable, occurred after purchasing an expensive but beautiful bouquet of purple-esque roses in Big City, the blooms of two of those roses snapped off their stems; The second was the ongoing proximity of Mars, as close to earth as it has been in 60,000 years; and the third occured in the psychology hall of the University I am going to attend in the fall, where I had a major sense of deja vu.
Yesterday, I made the long 2-hour drive to the University and did some exploration. I'm thinking that I may need an apartment down there, but reluctant to make drastic changes, I've been considering commuting instead. I've not made up my mind yet. Nevertheless, among the many things that I did yesterday, besides delivering my undergrad. transcripts noting my reciept of an English degree and besides my obtaining a student I.D., I walked around the surrounding neighborhoods looking for apartments that I might consider renting. Part of my internal struggle over the question of moving is that the rent where I currently live - admittedly a slum - is decidedly cheap. If I rent the cheapest apartment I could find near the University, it would still cost more than the combined price of rent and monthly gas where I live now. I'm also certain that the new place, although close to the college, has more noise, crime, and general rowdiness than where I live now too: It'll be a tough decision. However, this has been the week for changes, so I might just make the leap after all.
According to some, we live in a culture of fear where we overestimate our vulnerability to harm as it is channeled through our prejudice. Could I be projecting and overestimating my own fear? I don't think so, but it is something to think about. Of course, I'll keep you posted on the situation - literally.
Three things occurred, which taken alone mean nothing, but when viewed within the context of the events of my life during the last two weeks take on a somewhat symbolic meaning. The first, and the most memorable, occurred after purchasing an expensive but beautiful bouquet of purple-esque roses in Big City, the blooms of two of those roses snapped off their stems; The second was the ongoing proximity of Mars, as close to earth as it has been in 60,000 years; and the third occured in the psychology hall of the University I am going to attend in the fall, where I had a major sense of deja vu.
Yesterday, I made the long 2-hour drive to the University and did some exploration. I'm thinking that I may need an apartment down there, but reluctant to make drastic changes, I've been considering commuting instead. I've not made up my mind yet. Nevertheless, among the many things that I did yesterday, besides delivering my undergrad. transcripts noting my reciept of an English degree and besides my obtaining a student I.D., I walked around the surrounding neighborhoods looking for apartments that I might consider renting. Part of my internal struggle over the question of moving is that the rent where I currently live - admittedly a slum - is decidedly cheap. If I rent the cheapest apartment I could find near the University, it would still cost more than the combined price of rent and monthly gas where I live now. I'm also certain that the new place, although close to the college, has more noise, crime, and general rowdiness than where I live now too: It'll be a tough decision. However, this has been the week for changes, so I might just make the leap after all.
According to some, we live in a culture of fear where we overestimate our vulnerability to harm as it is channeled through our prejudice. Could I be projecting and overestimating my own fear? I don't think so, but it is something to think about. Of course, I'll keep you posted on the situation - literally.
Monday, August 25, 2003
Marbled Vanity
The fog hasn't lifted, but oddly, after talking about the inter-tidal formations - metaphorically speaking - of said fog with someone else, I feel slightly better. Even though I haven't accomplished much all day, I really think that I needed the decompression times that I spent this past evening reading through other people's blogs. I realized that I've spent the majority of my time looking at other people's blogs searching for a kind of reflection of myself. Now, I'm plagued with the thought that I could have been a modern-day Narcissus or Pygmalion.
I've always sort have admired the classical Pygmalion story, because, although it apparently wasn't written as such, I take it as an admonition against close-mindedness. Pygmalion, a jerk in an innocent sort of way, condemned the women of his town for what he saw was their utter lack of morals (his capacity for self-righteousness was obviously breathtaking) and consequently, sculpted himself a statue of the ideal woman. Of course he fell deeply in love with it, and the Gods - also being jerks but even more so - rewarded his piously callow stance by granting his wish to make the statue a real woman. Pygmalion is no man to admire, but he is someone to learn from. You, and by "you" I mean "me," can't go around judging people without trying to understand them on their own terms first. You (again, "me") only wind up sealing yourself in a marble block of your own cynicism. Everyone could use a little sympathy, and too often, I forget that.
The fog hasn't lifted, but oddly, after talking about the inter-tidal formations - metaphorically speaking - of said fog with someone else, I feel slightly better. Even though I haven't accomplished much all day, I really think that I needed the decompression times that I spent this past evening reading through other people's blogs. I realized that I've spent the majority of my time looking at other people's blogs searching for a kind of reflection of myself. Now, I'm plagued with the thought that I could have been a modern-day Narcissus or Pygmalion.
I've always sort have admired the classical Pygmalion story, because, although it apparently wasn't written as such, I take it as an admonition against close-mindedness. Pygmalion, a jerk in an innocent sort of way, condemned the women of his town for what he saw was their utter lack of morals (his capacity for self-righteousness was obviously breathtaking) and consequently, sculpted himself a statue of the ideal woman. Of course he fell deeply in love with it, and the Gods - also being jerks but even more so - rewarded his piously callow stance by granting his wish to make the statue a real woman. Pygmalion is no man to admire, but he is someone to learn from. You, and by "you" I mean "me," can't go around judging people without trying to understand them on their own terms first. You (again, "me") only wind up sealing yourself in a marble block of your own cynicism. Everyone could use a little sympathy, and too often, I forget that.
Fog
I confess that I have been in a moderate slump personally, and it is not that I haven't tried mightily to pull myself out of it. I could blame it for affecting the general lack of housekeeping I have done lately, both literal and figurative. I'm sure that I'll be able to eventually pull out of it, yet I know that it will require for me to try and get back in touch with the things that I think I have lost touch with. If all of this sounds vague, it is supposed to because, after all, if I knew what exactly it was that I needed, then I wouldn't be feeling like I was in a slump.
Work continues apace. Instead of showing up for work in the morning, I decided to go in at night (thank goodness for a lenient boss) and get some of the work I've been putting off done, such as updating more web-images on the corporate site website. Three years ago, when I had a full-time job year round - not like the summer job I have now - I had to work from 3:00 p.m. to at least 11:30 p.m. everyday. Sometimes, when the schedule would change, the whole work crew, including me, would be required to work much later, to at least 3:00 a.m. or so. Often, when the moon was high, I'd drive through the forest and home, noting almost every time the utter lack of people. (I'm reminded of the highwayman poem by Alfred Noyes that begins: "The wind was torrent of darkness among the gusty trees / The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.") It got to the point where I began to feel crowded in places other people might have felt lonely. I did ten years of that. And I think that it has left a mark in my motivation to work more at night than during the day. This spiritual malaise will lift, I'm sure. I liken it to a coastal fog or winter rain storm; everyone knows that these things eventually pass, but noone really knows when.
I confess that I have been in a moderate slump personally, and it is not that I haven't tried mightily to pull myself out of it. I could blame it for affecting the general lack of housekeeping I have done lately, both literal and figurative. I'm sure that I'll be able to eventually pull out of it, yet I know that it will require for me to try and get back in touch with the things that I think I have lost touch with. If all of this sounds vague, it is supposed to because, after all, if I knew what exactly it was that I needed, then I wouldn't be feeling like I was in a slump.
Work continues apace. Instead of showing up for work in the morning, I decided to go in at night (thank goodness for a lenient boss) and get some of the work I've been putting off done, such as updating more web-images on the corporate site website. Three years ago, when I had a full-time job year round - not like the summer job I have now - I had to work from 3:00 p.m. to at least 11:30 p.m. everyday. Sometimes, when the schedule would change, the whole work crew, including me, would be required to work much later, to at least 3:00 a.m. or so. Often, when the moon was high, I'd drive through the forest and home, noting almost every time the utter lack of people. (I'm reminded of the highwayman poem by Alfred Noyes that begins: "The wind was torrent of darkness among the gusty trees / The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.") It got to the point where I began to feel crowded in places other people might have felt lonely. I did ten years of that. And I think that it has left a mark in my motivation to work more at night than during the day. This spiritual malaise will lift, I'm sure. I liken it to a coastal fog or winter rain storm; everyone knows that these things eventually pass, but noone really knows when.
Saturday, August 23, 2003
Party People
A few days ago, at the culmination of my girlfriend's big move across Big City, we went to the block party that was occurring in her new neighborhood. Simultaneously, while we had been busy arranging, packing, and moving all of several years of her life and furniture, a few neighbors in her new neighborhood were planning a so-called "block" party, which pretty much turned out to be an excuse to meet all of the neighbors. It was pure coincidence that it the party was on the last day of my girlfriend's move.
Being a small town kind of guy, spending much of my previous years only hearing about block parties in movies - the medium of our age - I wasn't sure what to expect. Essentially, several older people who could be classified as hippies (and I use the term with a marker of kindness) had cooked a few hot dogs and bought a potato salad to feed an overwhelming number of neighborhood children who spontaneously melted into the streets without their parent's accompaniment. Therefore, much of the party was spent entertaining the children with a pinata and humoring them with candy. Fortunately, the street where the party was set-up had been blocked off at both ends; otherwise, the children surely would have been confronted with their doom in a sudden accident as they were obliviously careening around on bicycles and scooters in a dizzying frenzy. Chaos would be a kind word for the hour and a half that we spent there. Still, I maintained a certain equanimity in the midst of it being the kind of guy who has taken "go with the flow" as a personal motto.
I went away from the experience thinking about the type of people I met there - one was hippy guy who wore a grateful dead T-shirt and seemed nervous; the other was woman who talked about her years being abused by her ex-husband, but who also loved to read true crime stories; and the other was a young woman who had come abruptly to yell at someone she thought had yelled at her own kid (Noone had yelled, and if she had been there with her child, she might have known that). Sometimes it seems difficult for people to get along, and more than anything else, the recognition of the enduring conflicts we, as a society, are still struggling with, makes me feel old and very tired.
A few days ago, at the culmination of my girlfriend's big move across Big City, we went to the block party that was occurring in her new neighborhood. Simultaneously, while we had been busy arranging, packing, and moving all of several years of her life and furniture, a few neighbors in her new neighborhood were planning a so-called "block" party, which pretty much turned out to be an excuse to meet all of the neighbors. It was pure coincidence that it the party was on the last day of my girlfriend's move.
Being a small town kind of guy, spending much of my previous years only hearing about block parties in movies - the medium of our age - I wasn't sure what to expect. Essentially, several older people who could be classified as hippies (and I use the term with a marker of kindness) had cooked a few hot dogs and bought a potato salad to feed an overwhelming number of neighborhood children who spontaneously melted into the streets without their parent's accompaniment. Therefore, much of the party was spent entertaining the children with a pinata and humoring them with candy. Fortunately, the street where the party was set-up had been blocked off at both ends; otherwise, the children surely would have been confronted with their doom in a sudden accident as they were obliviously careening around on bicycles and scooters in a dizzying frenzy. Chaos would be a kind word for the hour and a half that we spent there. Still, I maintained a certain equanimity in the midst of it being the kind of guy who has taken "go with the flow" as a personal motto.
I went away from the experience thinking about the type of people I met there - one was hippy guy who wore a grateful dead T-shirt and seemed nervous; the other was woman who talked about her years being abused by her ex-husband, but who also loved to read true crime stories; and the other was a young woman who had come abruptly to yell at someone she thought had yelled at her own kid (Noone had yelled, and if she had been there with her child, she might have known that). Sometimes it seems difficult for people to get along, and more than anything else, the recognition of the enduring conflicts we, as a society, are still struggling with, makes me feel old and very tired.
Friday, August 22, 2003
My best friend T.V.
Although I don't really feel like writing something (partially as a result of not really having anything to say), I figured that I should force myself to at least write a little. Part of the struggle of learning how to write well for me has been developing the discipline needed to practice everyday. Discipline, as a matter of fact, happens to be my personal arch nemesis; I spend much more time with my close personal friend, the television. Television, an always ready friend, can be a jerk sometimes, especially when I have chores to do. Anyway, most people generally assume that art is created by people who have a natural talent for such a thing. For instance, how often have you heard someone say, " I wish I could do that; I just don't have the talent," or instead of talent they say gift or whatever. I betting at least once.
While it's true that talent does play a role in artistic endeavor, the secret happens to be that much of artistic talent is really skill. For example, a musician will pratice scales to help them develop the fingering to play their instrument. But even beyond that, musicians - even really accomplished ones - will spend a long time practicing a particular musical piece that they want to learn. Writing is like music in that way. If you want to write well, then you must write often. I guess the part of the problem is that most people don't consider writing an art. While it can be used as mere communication, it can also be much, much more. It is to that goal that I aspire. (Geez, I sound like a level ten cornball!) Anyhow, all of this merely explains the reason for my entry today. I'm forcing myself to write, so that I can push myself to better writing. And so I can go to sleep tonight without feeling like I wasted the whole day with my best friend, that jerk - the television.
Although I don't really feel like writing something (partially as a result of not really having anything to say), I figured that I should force myself to at least write a little. Part of the struggle of learning how to write well for me has been developing the discipline needed to practice everyday. Discipline, as a matter of fact, happens to be my personal arch nemesis; I spend much more time with my close personal friend, the television. Television, an always ready friend, can be a jerk sometimes, especially when I have chores to do. Anyway, most people generally assume that art is created by people who have a natural talent for such a thing. For instance, how often have you heard someone say, " I wish I could do that; I just don't have the talent," or instead of talent they say gift or whatever. I betting at least once.
While it's true that talent does play a role in artistic endeavor, the secret happens to be that much of artistic talent is really skill. For example, a musician will pratice scales to help them develop the fingering to play their instrument. But even beyond that, musicians - even really accomplished ones - will spend a long time practicing a particular musical piece that they want to learn. Writing is like music in that way. If you want to write well, then you must write often. I guess the part of the problem is that most people don't consider writing an art. While it can be used as mere communication, it can also be much, much more. It is to that goal that I aspire. (Geez, I sound like a level ten cornball!) Anyhow, all of this merely explains the reason for my entry today. I'm forcing myself to write, so that I can push myself to better writing. And so I can go to sleep tonight without feeling like I wasted the whole day with my best friend, that jerk - the television.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Burrth-day Sneakers
School approaches, and I'm finding that time is really getting short for the many tasks that I still have left to complete. The least of these projects includes cleaning my house, and on the opposite scale, planning a trip to California with my girlfriend. Somewhere in between I need to finishing reading a text that my grad. school instructors want me to have read over the summer, and clearing my desk at work of the continually mounting pile of projects that need almost immediate attention. The small silver lining to all of this work is that I've gotten a better handle on dealing with constant low-level stress that does not include long naps during the day.
The whole last week was spent at my girlfriend's apartment moving her across town in Big City. Not only did I move the heavy furniture on the day of the move, but I almost singlehandedly did all of the packing the week before. One of the more surreal episodes during this period was the one that occured at the small convenience store/market where I decided to buy well-deserved soda to cool down. As I made a purchase at the counter, a relatively attractive young woman suddenly put her things next to mine on the counter, which included a snickers bar, and loudly announced: "I am buy-ying these sneakers because it is my burrr-thday!" Imagine a voice that sounded like a cross between Chewbacca, an angry bull frog, and a chainsaw, and you get the idea. I probably should have said something like "Happy Birthday," but instead, being really creeped out, I gave a sympathetic, startled smile, and got the hell out of there.
School approaches, and I'm finding that time is really getting short for the many tasks that I still have left to complete. The least of these projects includes cleaning my house, and on the opposite scale, planning a trip to California with my girlfriend. Somewhere in between I need to finishing reading a text that my grad. school instructors want me to have read over the summer, and clearing my desk at work of the continually mounting pile of projects that need almost immediate attention. The small silver lining to all of this work is that I've gotten a better handle on dealing with constant low-level stress that does not include long naps during the day.
The whole last week was spent at my girlfriend's apartment moving her across town in Big City. Not only did I move the heavy furniture on the day of the move, but I almost singlehandedly did all of the packing the week before. One of the more surreal episodes during this period was the one that occured at the small convenience store/market where I decided to buy well-deserved soda to cool down. As I made a purchase at the counter, a relatively attractive young woman suddenly put her things next to mine on the counter, which included a snickers bar, and loudly announced: "I am buy-ying these sneakers because it is my burrr-thday!" Imagine a voice that sounded like a cross between Chewbacca, an angry bull frog, and a chainsaw, and you get the idea. I probably should have said something like "Happy Birthday," but instead, being really creeped out, I gave a sympathetic, startled smile, and got the hell out of there.
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Life is Ridiculous
Just today I managed to finish up most of the grad. school paperwork that I had left undone, including the inadvertantly brutal financial aid report, which - thanks to the Divine Big Guy - the school is going to give me even though I had missed the required deadline by a whole week. Today, I even signed up for my first grad. school classes, but I'm not sure which ones I should be taking, or even if I have to sign up at this point at all. (The person in charge of advising students on this is revising the program, and I won't know for sure about any of this until I show up for classes.) And knowing how the Registrar's office is the most unholy of college departments with the virtually unlimited power to screw up the most careful of plans, I figured that I should get my proverbial foot in the door by signing up for a couple of classes, and then trusting to fate that I will have the ability to change anything later.
Although I'm not one hundred percent sure, I think that, in order to fulfill my eventual graduation requirements, I'm going to have to take another foreign language besides the one I took during my undergraudate years. I've been struggling a bit with deciding which one I should try to learn. Essentially, Life is ridiculous, and I know this because of instances like these. On the basis of absolutely no knowledge whatsoever - on a hunch that may be wrong - I have to make a snap decision that will likely affect the next two years of my life. So, for no reason whatsoever, besides the fact that the class is offered in the afternoon, I decided that I will try to learn German. What the hell. But I hope I remember this in the future - how a thirty second (at most) decision will impact the course of my next two years, because I'm sure it will make for a good laugh depending on what kind of mood I'm in.
Just today I managed to finish up most of the grad. school paperwork that I had left undone, including the inadvertantly brutal financial aid report, which - thanks to the Divine Big Guy - the school is going to give me even though I had missed the required deadline by a whole week. Today, I even signed up for my first grad. school classes, but I'm not sure which ones I should be taking, or even if I have to sign up at this point at all. (The person in charge of advising students on this is revising the program, and I won't know for sure about any of this until I show up for classes.) And knowing how the Registrar's office is the most unholy of college departments with the virtually unlimited power to screw up the most careful of plans, I figured that I should get my proverbial foot in the door by signing up for a couple of classes, and then trusting to fate that I will have the ability to change anything later.
Although I'm not one hundred percent sure, I think that, in order to fulfill my eventual graduation requirements, I'm going to have to take another foreign language besides the one I took during my undergraudate years. I've been struggling a bit with deciding which one I should try to learn. Essentially, Life is ridiculous, and I know this because of instances like these. On the basis of absolutely no knowledge whatsoever - on a hunch that may be wrong - I have to make a snap decision that will likely affect the next two years of my life. So, for no reason whatsoever, besides the fact that the class is offered in the afternoon, I decided that I will try to learn German. What the hell. But I hope I remember this in the future - how a thirty second (at most) decision will impact the course of my next two years, because I'm sure it will make for a good laugh depending on what kind of mood I'm in.
Frogs and Ghosts
Personally, today has been a bust all around. I should have gone into work much, much earlier, and I should have not wasted the earlier part of the day watching television and playing video games; I didn't even feed myself properly, but instead I subsisted on potato chips and soda, as if I were still a young teenager with the biological fortitude to handle that kind of abuse. Ugh. Still, I did go to work so I haven't failed on all accounts yet.
As for the television and video games (and I also include web surfing which is pretty much the same thing), I managed to catch a the special reunion show for That's Incredible, a cheesy 80's precursor to the modern reality shows. Like many things associated with my youth, I remember the show being much more cooler and interesting than it actually was. With stories about a ghost haunting a Toy-R-Us, a man who had been struck by lightning seven times, and an opera singing parrot, combined with what they called "action stunts," I can see the appeal to my eight-year-old self. Now, with an adult perspective, I see the show as mostly exploitative, yet also somehow ever-so-slightly innocent, even though I understand, after doing some modern Net research, that the show is indirectly responsible for six people losing their lives(!). No kidding.
I suppose that this was the then modern television equivalent to the "Odd Tales" and "Weird Stories" I would often read in the school library. Tucked in the corner of the youth science fiction section, the section primarily reserved for kids with strong nerdly leanings, these "odd" and "weird" stories - usually a two or three pages - purported to be true accounts of how it rained frogs in a small nebraska town in 1892, or how a deserted mineshaft in the old west has a legendary ghost that is occasionally seen by tourists. I devoured these stories whole, but now I've grown into a full fledged cynic. Which, as far as being a cynic, is - in an odd way - partially responsible for my not wanting to go to work today.
Personally, today has been a bust all around. I should have gone into work much, much earlier, and I should have not wasted the earlier part of the day watching television and playing video games; I didn't even feed myself properly, but instead I subsisted on potato chips and soda, as if I were still a young teenager with the biological fortitude to handle that kind of abuse. Ugh. Still, I did go to work so I haven't failed on all accounts yet.
As for the television and video games (and I also include web surfing which is pretty much the same thing), I managed to catch a the special reunion show for That's Incredible, a cheesy 80's precursor to the modern reality shows. Like many things associated with my youth, I remember the show being much more cooler and interesting than it actually was. With stories about a ghost haunting a Toy-R-Us, a man who had been struck by lightning seven times, and an opera singing parrot, combined with what they called "action stunts," I can see the appeal to my eight-year-old self. Now, with an adult perspective, I see the show as mostly exploitative, yet also somehow ever-so-slightly innocent, even though I understand, after doing some modern Net research, that the show is indirectly responsible for six people losing their lives(!). No kidding.
I suppose that this was the then modern television equivalent to the "Odd Tales" and "Weird Stories" I would often read in the school library. Tucked in the corner of the youth science fiction section, the section primarily reserved for kids with strong nerdly leanings, these "odd" and "weird" stories - usually a two or three pages - purported to be true accounts of how it rained frogs in a small nebraska town in 1892, or how a deserted mineshaft in the old west has a legendary ghost that is occasionally seen by tourists. I devoured these stories whole, but now I've grown into a full fledged cynic. Which, as far as being a cynic, is - in an odd way - partially responsible for my not wanting to go to work today.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
Odd Night
Last night, after a spontaneous convergence of seemingly random events, which some generous people with a mystic sensibility might call Fate, I met up with five other old-time friends in the Big City. My girlfriend and I had planned on only meeting with one of them, but she, our other friend, wanted to see the four others that she knew were going to be in the area for only just a brief while. Let it be known that the only person who lived in Big City was my girlfriend - everyone else was only in town for the day. Most of them lived two or more hours away from Big City.
To be specific: although I had earlier planned on driving that night the hour and half home, instead I found myself sitting in a dusty, somewhat useless and dilapidated barn filled with strangers in a variety of ages listening to the band my four other friends had created. Twelve years ago, I was in that nascent band's creation. My nineteen-year-old self revelled in playing the drums, not having a permanent place to live, traveling long roads to other towns at midnight, and blissfully feeling that all of the world was as open and new as I believed it to be then. And I felt that life would be just like that forever. I'm not, nor was I then, naive, but the good feelings that overwhelmed our small group almost coerced us to consider broader horizons than the work-a-day, bill-paying, child-rearing future. During my two years with the band, I didn't earn any money; I never saw a doctor, and I never bought any that cost more than ten dollars in a given month. As corny as it may sound in our cynical world, I was happy.
Which made last night so odd. Revisiting the past and seeing how we all had changed made me feel nostalgia for our earlier selves, but it also made me feel grateful for the divergent changes that occured in our lives, the changes that were further distinguishing ourselves into different people. Several of my friends had now completed college, had children, and were struggling to create a stability that was antithetical to our early band days. Now, being older is a reality for us, and we no longer live in the same world of the same possibilities.
Last night, after a spontaneous convergence of seemingly random events, which some generous people with a mystic sensibility might call Fate, I met up with five other old-time friends in the Big City. My girlfriend and I had planned on only meeting with one of them, but she, our other friend, wanted to see the four others that she knew were going to be in the area for only just a brief while. Let it be known that the only person who lived in Big City was my girlfriend - everyone else was only in town for the day. Most of them lived two or more hours away from Big City.
To be specific: although I had earlier planned on driving that night the hour and half home, instead I found myself sitting in a dusty, somewhat useless and dilapidated barn filled with strangers in a variety of ages listening to the band my four other friends had created. Twelve years ago, I was in that nascent band's creation. My nineteen-year-old self revelled in playing the drums, not having a permanent place to live, traveling long roads to other towns at midnight, and blissfully feeling that all of the world was as open and new as I believed it to be then. And I felt that life would be just like that forever. I'm not, nor was I then, naive, but the good feelings that overwhelmed our small group almost coerced us to consider broader horizons than the work-a-day, bill-paying, child-rearing future. During my two years with the band, I didn't earn any money; I never saw a doctor, and I never bought any that cost more than ten dollars in a given month. As corny as it may sound in our cynical world, I was happy.
Which made last night so odd. Revisiting the past and seeing how we all had changed made me feel nostalgia for our earlier selves, but it also made me feel grateful for the divergent changes that occured in our lives, the changes that were further distinguishing ourselves into different people. Several of my friends had now completed college, had children, and were struggling to create a stability that was antithetical to our early band days. Now, being older is a reality for us, and we no longer live in the same world of the same possibilities.
Monday, August 04, 2003
Wal-Mart Fantasy
The other day, my car being much abused by the constant back and forth road wear I subject it to when I hurtle the seventyfive miles north and south every other day, I decided that - because it had been a couple of months overdue for an oil change - I should at least scrape up the few dollars it takes to have someone else do it. Normally, I take my car to Wal-Mart to have this sort of thing done primarily because I don't want to learn how to do it myself, but also because I think it would cost less to have them throw their wrenches around the underside of my rusting 89' Honda disaster. So, although I was in Big City, I took my car to the city Wal-Mart rather than the country Wal-Mart that I'm used to. There are tremendous differences between the two, one being that in the city there is almost always a police car parked out front, with a policeman inside likely arresting a shoplifter.
I've always thought, that in another life - one without college - I might have worked in the oil changing department at Wal-Mart. Sure, I would have probably gotten cancer later in life because of the constant contact with the oil and grime that would have been inevitably caked onto my hands. And okay, I would have probably hated the long hours, the tough physical work, the grouchy customers who "don't get it," but I still think that I could have done a good job. One of the things that always seems to happen in these car situations, regardless of which store I'm at - it can even be a gas station - men my age and younger will want to talk to me about the intricacies of cars. ("Hey, do you know if that is a Z-80X, V8, with a hemi?") For some reason, I think I really look like a guy who knows a lot about cars. While most guys I knew were reading "auto-trader," a magazine devoted to selling cars, I was honing my inner nerd by playing Dungeons & Dragons in the library with fellow nerds. (I'm pleased to say that I've since given up D&D. My nerdliness is waning.)
On a completely different note, I've gotten my final financial aid award letter from my grad. school of choice, and while I'm going to fall further into the infernal crevice of debt, it will cover all my current expenses. I was really worried that I wouldn't get anything and would have to rely on the teaching assistantship to pay for it all. I could have pulled it off, but my hair might have also fallen out due to poor nutrition caused by a month long consumption of nothing but noodle Ramen. Which, of course, would have been uncool - even for a nerd.
The other day, my car being much abused by the constant back and forth road wear I subject it to when I hurtle the seventyfive miles north and south every other day, I decided that - because it had been a couple of months overdue for an oil change - I should at least scrape up the few dollars it takes to have someone else do it. Normally, I take my car to Wal-Mart to have this sort of thing done primarily because I don't want to learn how to do it myself, but also because I think it would cost less to have them throw their wrenches around the underside of my rusting 89' Honda disaster. So, although I was in Big City, I took my car to the city Wal-Mart rather than the country Wal-Mart that I'm used to. There are tremendous differences between the two, one being that in the city there is almost always a police car parked out front, with a policeman inside likely arresting a shoplifter.
I've always thought, that in another life - one without college - I might have worked in the oil changing department at Wal-Mart. Sure, I would have probably gotten cancer later in life because of the constant contact with the oil and grime that would have been inevitably caked onto my hands. And okay, I would have probably hated the long hours, the tough physical work, the grouchy customers who "don't get it," but I still think that I could have done a good job. One of the things that always seems to happen in these car situations, regardless of which store I'm at - it can even be a gas station - men my age and younger will want to talk to me about the intricacies of cars. ("Hey, do you know if that is a Z-80X, V8, with a hemi?") For some reason, I think I really look like a guy who knows a lot about cars. While most guys I knew were reading "auto-trader," a magazine devoted to selling cars, I was honing my inner nerd by playing Dungeons & Dragons in the library with fellow nerds. (I'm pleased to say that I've since given up D&D. My nerdliness is waning.)
On a completely different note, I've gotten my final financial aid award letter from my grad. school of choice, and while I'm going to fall further into the infernal crevice of debt, it will cover all my current expenses. I was really worried that I wouldn't get anything and would have to rely on the teaching assistantship to pay for it all. I could have pulled it off, but my hair might have also fallen out due to poor nutrition caused by a month long consumption of nothing but noodle Ramen. Which, of course, would have been uncool - even for a nerd.
Friday, August 01, 2003
Egret (Hunting)
Today was the day for commuting; not only will I drive the approximately two hours it will take to get to Big City tonight, but I have already made several short trips in my car totaling a coupe of hours already. I spend so much time in my car, at work, and in Big City, that I'm beginning to feel a little weird in my own apartment. (Who is the dude who lives here, and why are their chips on the floor.) I think I have still maintained my equanimity about the whole driving thing, and have even learned how to enjoy a car ride without listening to the radio, especially when nothing interesting is on.
On one of these short trips today, I glanced to the left looking straight into a hay field that had recently been cut within the last several weeks. And while glancing left to look into a field of recently cut hay is normally not worth remembering, seeing an Egret hunting for mice is. These kinds of sights are rare enough to feel surprised about when you happen upon them, and for me, rare enough to think about it during the passing of the rest of day. I suppose some might say that this sight was a gift of grace, while others would say that it is merely nothing. For me, it was pretty cool, but nothing mystical, and I think that the whole experience and my reaction to it somehow sums up my mood for the past couple of days.
Today was the day for commuting; not only will I drive the approximately two hours it will take to get to Big City tonight, but I have already made several short trips in my car totaling a coupe of hours already. I spend so much time in my car, at work, and in Big City, that I'm beginning to feel a little weird in my own apartment. (Who is the dude who lives here, and why are their chips on the floor.) I think I have still maintained my equanimity about the whole driving thing, and have even learned how to enjoy a car ride without listening to the radio, especially when nothing interesting is on.
On one of these short trips today, I glanced to the left looking straight into a hay field that had recently been cut within the last several weeks. And while glancing left to look into a field of recently cut hay is normally not worth remembering, seeing an Egret hunting for mice is. These kinds of sights are rare enough to feel surprised about when you happen upon them, and for me, rare enough to think about it during the passing of the rest of day. I suppose some might say that this sight was a gift of grace, while others would say that it is merely nothing. For me, it was pretty cool, but nothing mystical, and I think that the whole experience and my reaction to it somehow sums up my mood for the past couple of days.
Thursday, July 31, 2003
The Gates of Cool
After the very minor updates that I made to this site recently, combined with the stark fact that I've now been an inhabitant in the proverbial blogosphere for the past few months, I've started to develop the desire to push my meager and significantly poor programming skills further. Eventually, I'd like to overhaul this site to be more visually appealing and give this site more of what the eternally hip and fatefully cool people call "it." While the realms of cool have never been violated by my mercurial and indivisible aura of nerdiness, I think I could at least approach the gates of cool and imperceptibly lounge around the vicinity. Here's hoping for a better, more tantalizing, vision of digitized paroxysms of delight.
After the very minor updates that I made to this site recently, combined with the stark fact that I've now been an inhabitant in the proverbial blogosphere for the past few months, I've started to develop the desire to push my meager and significantly poor programming skills further. Eventually, I'd like to overhaul this site to be more visually appealing and give this site more of what the eternally hip and fatefully cool people call "it." While the realms of cool have never been violated by my mercurial and indivisible aura of nerdiness, I think I could at least approach the gates of cool and imperceptibly lounge around the vicinity. Here's hoping for a better, more tantalizing, vision of digitized paroxysms of delight.
Monday, July 28, 2003
Changes
If you have ever seen this site before, and - for whatever reason - somehow have managed to have miraculously remembered it, then you might notice that I have updated a lot of the information on the side of the pages. I have finally acknowledged that it is summer here on the west coast, after spending the last couple of months trying to ignore it. Regarding some of the old links I would occasionally follow, I've since lost interest, so I have correspondingly removed them. All of the things that I link to now, I have a current interest in for one reason or another.
My overall concept for this particular web design was that I would try to create a three bar design that I've often seen replicated somewhere else. It also fits my impression of what a classic newspaper format would have looked like (like the current Wall Street Journal), and since I do not have any images on the page, I figured that was the style I should try to emulate. The major limiting factor in all of this was, and still remains, my overall lack of HTML knowledge. Therefore, I only a little more than someone who knows nothing. I'm sure the guy who operates and writes Web Pages that Suck would be horrified at my little endeavor. Still, as it stretches my skills as an ultra-novice designer, and is essentially my own creation, I satisfied with it. Eventually I may overhaul it to something more presentable, but for the time being, it will remain as it is.
If you have ever seen this site before, and - for whatever reason - somehow have managed to have miraculously remembered it, then you might notice that I have updated a lot of the information on the side of the pages. I have finally acknowledged that it is summer here on the west coast, after spending the last couple of months trying to ignore it. Regarding some of the old links I would occasionally follow, I've since lost interest, so I have correspondingly removed them. All of the things that I link to now, I have a current interest in for one reason or another.
My overall concept for this particular web design was that I would try to create a three bar design that I've often seen replicated somewhere else. It also fits my impression of what a classic newspaper format would have looked like (like the current Wall Street Journal), and since I do not have any images on the page, I figured that was the style I should try to emulate. The major limiting factor in all of this was, and still remains, my overall lack of HTML knowledge. Therefore, I only a little more than someone who knows nothing. I'm sure the guy who operates and writes Web Pages that Suck would be horrified at my little endeavor. Still, as it stretches my skills as an ultra-novice designer, and is essentially my own creation, I satisfied with it. Eventually I may overhaul it to something more presentable, but for the time being, it will remain as it is.
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