Return from England

Today, rather unexpectedly, a woman who had graduated from here last year and actually managed to get into a grad. school in Britain to study William Blake - currently on her official holiday from studies - decided to return for a visit to our humble college, and for whatever reason, wound up talking to me for about twenty mintues. Of course, some of her friends that she remembered from her last year here were still around, and she did manage to find and talk with them; I was merely an aquaintence that she recognized. I immediately recognized the "you-can't-go-home-again" air about her. When I worked at the factory, people would often quit half expecting the company to fold without them, only to return in a month - two months, or a year - to be dully disappointed that people were not more happy to see them or more grateful that they had returned. Nevertheless, despite the fact that she was trying to hide her vague, disoriented disillusionment, we had a talk about grad. school and the amount of work that is involved. I find it almost infinitely interesting that she has changed her major from English, and William Blake, to art history. (Should I read anything into that? Was it too hard or boring? Was she burned out? Selfishly, I wonder if this has any import for my future.)

Separately, today is Annie Dilliard's birthday. I still haven't read any of her books, but they're on the list; and while now I flip around the pages of her book, glancing here and there, I'll drive further in once I finish Forster's A Passage to India. Schoolwork takes precedence. Even now it beckons me; so - for now - back to the cellar.

Circuitry

Last night I had a dream in which I visited all my old co-workers at a printed circuit board factory - a place I quit well over three years ago - just to say hello to some of the people I had worked with for over eight years, night in and night out. Many people unfamiliar with circuit board manufacturing assume that the process of making the darn things is very easy and very clean, and except for the easy and clean part, they'd be right. (Consider: If you're selling a product, you probably don't want your buyer to see the ugliness of making it.) Often working with dangerous chemicals and loud machinery, we would find ourselves literally and metaphorically running on fumes. I remember thinking to myself as I was filling large tanks with 55 gallon drums of hydrochloric acid and mixing it with water at 2 a.m. in the morning, "what the hell am I doing here?" At this point, I suppose it would be redundant to say that the job had a deep impact on me; suffice it to say that as a result of working this job, I decided that I would go to college full-time and explore something I really wanted to do. However, I also developed a deep sense of identity and empathy for people who work blue collar jobs.

In my dream, I passed by the line of wet process machinery I knew pretty well, recognizing and evaluating the changes that had occurred while I was gone. Finding the shift lead, a young woman who could have succeeded at college as much as I have, I talked a minute about the prospect of the factory closing - a prospect that dogged the company the entire time I was there, and for some time afterwards. Soon, the other employees - about five of them - stopped their jobs, came over to lean on the conveyors, and talk. One employee in particular, a man who in real life wigged out because of an unrequited relationship and eventually fired some ill-considered gun shots at police while on vacation, seemed pleased to see me. In the dream, he had gotten his job back and all was forgiven. I remember being happy to see everyone, and vice versa.

Although I'm not entirely sure what to make of this dream, setting nostalgia aside for a minute, I think it might have something to do with my growing worries about making money in the near future. People who know me and have worked at the factory always used to say that I should write a book about the place, but I don't think I ever will; I think I prefer to let the memories continue to simmer in my mind for myself alone.

Russian Weekend

Feeling much better, I took my girlfriend to see the late night showing of Russian Ark in the middle of downtown big city. Initially my assesment was that the movie was interesting in a boring sort of way; however, after a couple of days of thinking about it, I'm forced to admit that the movie had a deeper impact on me than I first thought. After all, since we have been rigorously discussing British Victorian Literature in one of my classes, I have spent more time than the proverbial guy on the street thinking about the European 1800's. Although recognizing that it normally defies easy categorization, Russia - specifically St. Petersburg - seems to me to be more Western and European than anything else.

The fact that the movie was shot in a single hour and half take, or that it had used over 2000 extras was interesting and lent a certain feel to the movie, but I think that the movie marketers are cynically overselling these features, treating them as cheap movie gimmicks. However, I was really struck by the cinematic visual content (as opposed to the style). While the movie acts like a museum tour on film, the paintings and dramatic sequences are something to see; there is enough of a connection between the "scenes" to hold it all together. Shot at the Hermitage, stills from the movie and its production, such as this representation of the last Tsar's wife and their dinner together, of Catherine the Great, or of the last ball held there, capture some of the movie's visual power. (One of the scenes that I enjoyed most depicted a Persian Prince and his attendants offering a ceremonial apology to the Tsar for the murder of one of his diplomats by a Tehrani mob.) Not being Russian, or particularly well-versed in Russian History, I'm sure there were numerous aspects of the movie that were over my head. However, if you have a little patience, some time and inclination, I recommend checking it out.

Bright Lights

Another school week draws to a close, and although I plan to head to the big city again this weekend, I admit to feeling a little blue; perhaps the reasons for it are that I haven't done as much schoolwork as I would have liked, and last weekend was not among my very favorites. I feel a vague, inchoate apprehension stalking around in my chest, above my stomach, toward a repetition or extension of events from last weekend. Fortunately, one accomplishment that I managed to pull off was a meeting with the registrar. (I actually missed two previous appointments before I finally handed in the appropriate forms, so I was compelled to offer a couple of abject apologies. It was interesting to me that although, my apologies were neither arch or dramatic, the secretary seemed to have been embarrased by them, making me wonder if she believes apology to be some expression of a kind of self-deprecating guilt.)

This upcoming week, I will really need to bear down on the mid-term assignments for The Mill on the Floss, and at least start one of my other papers, either on Laura Esqiuvel or E.M. Forster. I enjoy writing and reading; I really do. But I've discovered that, while blogging is nice, it - much like an impish goblin - compels me to surf the web for far too long. (Really, I take responsibility for my own goofing off, but practicing the art of self-discipline is something that I jealously want to acquire.)

Broken

Just got my graduation announcements in the mail today - graduation slowly creeps forward. My chosen school has also told me that I'll recieve a letter in the mail describing the next steps that I'll need to take. I also have an appointment tomorrow to discuss my graduation with the registrar to work out all potential screw-ups. The real trick for me during these last few weeks is to figure how to save and make money so I can survive the dry spell known as summer. (Although I know it won't help during the summer, I hope my FAFSA comes through relatively quickly.)

And to top everything else off, I broke my glasses. Let me tell you, for a literature nerd to break his glasses, especially when he has a couple of novels to read and papers to write, is practically debilitating. Fortunately, the ones that I broke were still on warranty, so the next pair are free, and that makes me feel a bit better.

The Flood

For some reason, I thought my job at the writing center started at 10:00 a.m. today, but when I arrived, I simultaneously remembered and discovered that I start at 1:00 p.m. Tomorrow is the day I work at 10:00 a.m. I spent a confsued twenty minutes in the writing lab trying to figure out why the other tutor was telling people that there wasn't another tutor available for them. However, the unforseen screw-up was actually quite beneficial in that I was able to complete the Eliot novel that I have been reading. If you haven't read the book already, I'm going to spoil the end for you by saying that the heroine, after being tormented by all of the males in her life, resigns herself to misery just in time to be killed by a flood. While the events of the book sound a little improbable, I sincerely believe the conflicted motivations of the female character - and let's leave that by saying it all seems very modern. There are numerous possibilities for a feminist critique of this novel, which, of course is something that I'm going to have to do for the midterm next week, but I'm not quite sure what I should focus on.

As far as an update on the Cellar here, things are continually going through revision. I think I've discovered a way to add a couple of images to the site, so I'll be focusing on what to add and how over the next month or so. I've also been listed on Blogshares; I'm not exactly sure what this is going to do for me, but I hope it throws a bit more light into the cellar here. Also besides a new quote, check out the astronomy picture of the day.

Tailings of the Weekend

School did not happen for me today; normally, I enjoy learning what I can from my classes, but I was too tired to find any kind of motivation to perform even the slightest charade of an interested college student. Every once in awhile, life will intrude and force you consider the type of person you are or how you relate to life and other poeple. You broadly re-evaluate your approach to world. And the events that may spark this re-evaluation are almost always completely unforseen.

For example, I once got an afternoon phonecall from a stranger - a young woman who gradually told me that she was recently unemployed, bereft of emotional support from family, and traveling by car from Alaska to tour the rest of the states - a phonecall that, through our conversation, had disturbed me for a couple of days. She had been desperate, and, from a payphone, dialed a wrong number, mine. It was odd talking to a stranger; I can't remember how or why she began telling me her story. She felt lost and direction-less, and, impulsively, had left her house to embark on this trip. Here she was - hundreds of days and miles later - talking about deeply personal matters for an hour over a payphone. After we hung up, I proceeded to think about this odd and random event for several days. The woman did not appear to want anything, except to talk, even if with a stranger. Only noticing it a couple of days later, I discovred that our phone conversation had changed my mood; I had become quiet and pensive.

This weekend was similar, but I'll not say why. On my trip home, a long morning drive on an almost trance inducing highway, I watched the trees and hills as they passed, thinking about how moments of quiet stillness, almost like an undogmatic meditation, can bring an emotional calmness that I feel I should learn to value, and perhaps even practice, more.

Official

Well, it's official. I have now told both schools that I will be attending their university in the fall, with the obvious intention of then turing around and telling one of them that I actually won't. Not only have I made a telephone call to the university that needed confirmation, but I also submitted a formal e-mail declaring my intentions. (Sounds like a southern marriage proposal during the Civil War, doesn't it?) The other university apparently doesn't need confirmation, which is a little weird; it makes me think that they either don't care whether I show up or not, or that they don't have their act together. The FAFSA is also in the mail. Here's hoping nothing is screwed up.

In any event, I'm off to the big city again this weekend. This particular trip should be interesting in that I'm going to meet my girlfriend's father for the first time. As long as I hoping for stuff, here's also hoping that I make a good impression. Social situations - being a nerd and all - are not usually my forte. Oh well, as AHrnold would say "I'll be bah-ck" on monday.

Money

Even as the deadline looms, I think I have finally decided what I am going to do about the future and grad. school. And, of course, the plan is classic Zhaf - you might even say that it is Zhaftastic!. It's convoluted, mixed up, slightly impractical, torturous, but do-able. I know where I'll accept, I know what I'm going to do this summer, and I know how I'm going to handle it. (Am I going to tell? Coyly, I'll say "no.") The only thing that is left to screw up my plans now is the fact that I waited far too long to submit my FAFSA.

Remember the guy who screwed up his GRE's? (See April 10th.) I talked with him today and found out more. Even though he was accepted to one of the universities I was, he was only accepted conditionally. Therefore, if I - or another person - tells this particular school that I will definitely not be attending in the fall, then he will get to go. As it stands now, he will not be able to attend any school whatsoever, so he is counting on this university to come through after all. The overall story is rather sad. This is a clear case of guy - who has ambitious hopes for his future (albeit slighty unrealistic) and who has already spent several hundreds of dollars - probably setting himself up for a disaster. Aside from that, the school has told him that if he is going to attend in the fall then he will need to take a couple of graduate summer courses. However, in order to do that, he needs money, and he will not have any money until his financial aid package comes through. Of course, the deadline for a financial aid package for summer has already passed. He needs about 2,000 dollars just for the classes. He'll need about another 2,000 for living expenses. He doesn't know where he is going to get it.

Now you can see why I am worried about my own FAFSA. A teaching assistantship would be great, but I don't mind loans; I already envision making loan payments for so long that I know that I'm going to miss paying them when the bills finally stop coming when I'm about 90.

The Registrar

For some reason or another, I wasn't able to get a hold of the English Department Chair again, a nice guy, but notoriously hard to get a hold of, especially if he's playing basketball during his lunch-break. Yesterday, he waved to me as he crossed through the tennis courts to our wide open wasteland known as the parking lot. He was leaving for the day, and I was too far away (and disinclined) to chase him down. I need him to sign a substitution form for me so I can I get things straightened out with the reigistrar's office; and I need to do that so I can graduate on time without any trouble. Everyone who I have ever talked to, and who has also already graduated, has said that they have had all kinds of trouble with the registrar's office before they left. Frequently, these cursed people have to come back to make up missed credits and plow through more classes, sort of like angry zombies. I do not want to miss graduate school because of some bureaucratic fiasco. And of course you know, it is always a fiasco.

On a less personal note, I have been able to update the ol' blog here in the cellar. There is now a Musicologia section where you can follow the links to listen to free music, like Virgin Atlantic Radio, BBC Radio One, or Blackalicious. Plus, check out Roadside America. See america without leaving the comfort of your car (or keyboard, or screen, or whatever.)

A Passage to the Bookstore

I've signed up to give a presentation on E.M. Forster and his book, A Passage to India. Although I'm looking forward to it, I still have to read it; and of course, I'll need to get a hold of a copy. So to that end, I'm off to the city again. However, I'm doing it more for the diversion of doing so, rather than actual need. I spent all morning working on homework, topping it off with a four and a half hour class; and even though I have a test tomorrow for which I have to study, I figure I need a break. I spend so much time in the cellar (the 'ol computer lab) and the library, I think I'm beginning to miss daylight.

As for the class, I'll say this. The Mill on the Floss is an interesting read. It takes forever to get going, but when it finally does there are some rather interesting depictions of women in Victorian England. I can really see how someone could easily do a Marxist reading on this book if they were so inclined. However, I'm not. (I just don't have the time.)

Lost Youth

If you're were someone my age, pre-disposition, and who had plenty of time on your hands, then it is highly likely that - in addition to watching countless episodes of Gilligan's Island, The Jeffersons, and Three's Company after school - you watched The Land of the Lost on Saturday mornings. Recently, because a friend of a friend had several Sid and Marty Krofft television shows (probably most famous for HR Pufnstuf) on DVD, I had occasion to see Land of the Lost again. It is amazing to me how cool I thought that show had been on those mis-spent Saturday mornings - because now, it is so laughable. Besides noticing the obvious repetitious scene of Grumpy - the angry T-rex - charging the camera, I also noticed how ridiculous the foam set now seems, and I wondered how often the dad character, "Rick Marshall," was going to get down on one knee to pick up dirt, touch a dino track, or flash his signal mirror. I can't believe I thought this guy was some proto-McGuyver. (Cripes! I even wanted to change my name to Rick.)

If it has been several years since you have seen this show too, then treat yourself to at least the opening sequence where the main characters - AHHHHHHH! - go over the waterfall. One thing has remained a constant for me, then and now - I always, always, always hated that dweeb Cha-Ka.

I look, you look, he look - I publish

Yesterday, I collected my Melville paper from last term, where I argued a deconstructive reading on "The Doubloon" chapter. The professor was enthusiastic about it, and he says that he will enter it into a department wide competition - Winners get a $500 prize. That would be really cool, but I honestly don't think my paper is as good as he is making it out to be. I struggled writing it because (alas) I had waited until the last minute. Consequently, while there are some good ideas in it, I could have developed them more, and tightened up the writing more. My main purpose in meeting with him was to explore how I might get a critical paper, like the Melville one, published. After finding out that some of the my fellow undergraduate nerds (albeit super-SUPER-nerds) of the English literature field have already published papers, I felt that I should at least familiarize myself with the academic publishing process.

But rather than do that right away, I'm steadfastly looking forward to the weekend; I'm headed for the big-city, yet again. I intend to have lots of fun, but for tonight, it's laundry, homework, and plenty of study.

Super Nerd

When I took the GRE's for graduate school, I had to go to the big city, and find the Sylvan learning center, which I did not expect to find next to a store called "Stamp-i-dee-doo-dah" and behind an IHOP. (Think you can't make money selling stamps? Think again.) Taken on a non-descript Saturday, the test was tough. Although I had studied, focusing primarily on the verbal section, I felt stressed out and greatly relieved when it was over. Some friends came by to pick me up, and I did not care where we went. They could've taken me to the zoo, locked me in the inordinately smelly penguin enclosure where I would have certainly been attacked the aforementioned "polar chickens," and I would still have felt relieved that the GRE was over. In spite of all that, I managed to do very well; I got great verbal scores and great analytical scores.

Around that time, several other fellow students were applying to grad school as well, and with an eye for helping them out, I told them how I did it, and loaned them some of my prep books. That might have been a mistake, because about a month later, one student asked me how I did on the GRE. I told him. He then told me that he did horribly: he got below a 40% percentile on his verbal score. That is not good for an English major. Period. At the time he asked me, I had not yet been accepted into graduate school. Well, now I have been, and he found out. I can't communicate the tone, or the manner in which he asked me about my being accepted, but suffice it to say - he appeared unhappy. I asked him if he had been accepted anywhere, and he told me that he was accepted to the same schools I had been. However, if I were to judge how the other professors have treated me over the last month concerning my acheivement, combined with his poor GRE's and general unhappiness, I'm not sure if I believe him. Now, I'm curious. Does this dude habor any ill-will toward me?

Coughing

Okay, so this one dude who should not have been at school at all today, crawled in a proceeded to cough on everything in sight. Sure, he's a relatively nice guy. And alright, I sort of feel for him in that he has a wife and kid to support, in addition to thousands of dollars of student debt, so - yes - it might be important to show up for work today. But for the love of everything that's holy - Dude, don't cough on everything! In addition to his ceaseless hacking, he made a special effort to talk to me. (I feel so special.) In the next few days, we'll see if I dodged an illness bullet or not.

Tonight, I'm going to make a special effort to take it a little easy and lay off the homework for the moment. I think it's time I went shopping for food. Television beckons me with alluring promises of something entertaining. (Last night, I watched some of Bamboozled by Spike Lee. Although I understand the message of the film, I recognize that not everyone can take it.) I should read more of the Eliot book. I should start on some of my research papers. I should study for some upcoming quizzes. And I might - but I doubt it.

Breakfast-lessness

If I would have had breakfast, I'm sure I would have had pancakes, toast, bacon, and eggs. Unfortunately, since I don't have my act together, and because I'm one of those guys who is afflicted with cooking ignorance (although I'm trying to learn), my fridge is empty of everything except condiments. Consequently, I'm hungry - which of course - is the reason why this particular blog is about breakfast. I could have written about doing homework, what I learned in class the other day, something I did, or something I found on the Internet. But, I didn't.

Ars, Imitatio, Exercitato

While in prison, Malcolm X copied an entire dictionary. He was one of the most powerful and influential speakers of his day. Similarly, civilizations ago, among the various things the ancient Greeks believed was the idea that imitatio - the imitation of the accomplished poets and speakers of their era - would invariably hone a talented student's ability. So, for example, Greek students copied exactly famous works of poety. So, how do these two things relate?

Malcolm X, through copying the dictionary, rigorously learned and internalized the structure of English language - not the words, the structures. He worked with the language to reshape his image of himself, to reshape personal values, and to introduce himself to - not just the vocabulary of english language - but the cultural vocabulary of of our world. He sharpened his sense as a native english speaker of how english works, and then brilliantly utilized and applied this knowledge later on in life. Apparently, this is what imitatio teaches. For me, Malcolm X also illustrates how valuable personal, self-directed, and hard-won knowledge really is.

Haircut

On Saturday, I went to the big city and had my hair cut, although not with that specific goal in mind. I have never had my hair cut for five (yes - I said five) bucks before, not even when I was very little. Partly because this was a beauty school, and partly because this was the big city, the room where I had my haircut was very large and very crowded. I felt that I was auditioning for something with the amount of mirrors, young people, and general bustle surrounding me. There were a least sixty people packed in this room that had tall ceilings. Although there were two banana tree plants bravely enduring fogs of dust and hairspray underneath a depressing skylight, it did not prevent the room from looking as if it had once been a gritty warehouse for autoparts. As I was the last appointment of the day, and had arrived late, everything might have been more hectic than usual.

As for the young man who cut my hair, his name was Marcus and his barber's chair was in the back middle of a 5 x 7 grid of them. He had a friend who sat on a waste can next to his station by the wall. Occasionally, his friend would help cut my hair. Another guy opposite Marcus would sing sections of R&B songs while he cut yet another customer's hair. Twice, an older persian woman wearing an official white coat stopped by to offer direction to Marcus on how to cut my hair, but because she appeared to be as busy as a person trying to herd a roomful of cats, she was very curt with both her direction and praise. Although I did not say much, I could not help but listen to the comments I recieved and overheard. Among them:

Marcus:
"At least your hair is clean. Yesterday, a woman came in here with a nasty head. I wanted to spray it with ammonia before I touched it. She said that her boyfriend liked her hair a lot, but unless he was a junkyard dog, I don't see how."

"Another woman came in, she had - like - hair in patches, and wanted to look like Halle Berry, you know. I know I can take hair off, but I can't put hair on."

"Man, it's like braveheart."

Another student - female - next to Marcus:
"Your booty keeps knocking into my station, watch it."

Group
"You see Ruben last night, Ruben Studdard? That boy can sing. He don't look like an American Idol, but he sure can sing like one."

Anyway - I don't get my hair cut very often, as you probably can infer from the braveheart comment; but, if I need another and am still in the area, I think I'll go back.

Homework

I've not done as much homework as I would have liked because I have been too busy geeking out with my blog. (How true is the saying "the more you know, the more you realize you don't know." Wishlist for a future blog: pictures, buttons, stats, and another page.) Nevertheless, I'll be pretty busy over the weekend. Not only am I headed for the big city, but I've got appointments with my George Eliot novel and the T-Units in my grammar book. Unless of course there's something good on televison.

A Parade!

Graduation creeps forward, and in yet another instance of the gradually accumulating evidence for that, I picked up and paid for my graduation cap and gown this morning, which, in all honesty, looks like a set of red curtains. If you ever go to the Jostens website, you'll notice they mostly show people from the neck up. They know what they're doing; oh, and forget all the tommyrot about life achievement, or amazing journeys. The only thing that is really amazing is how much this "journey" is going to cost me. It would not overstate things to say that I am going to detest wearing that ridiculous outfit, but because this upcoming sideshow means something to certain memebers of my family, I will reluctantly play my part. Being paraded in front of a bunch of people who've only come to see one, single, solitary person in a vast two hundred receive their diploma and handshake, which by the way takes about half a minute in a ceremony that lasts for hours, is not necessarily my idea of fun.

Nevertheless, I still have to make it to that point, and as far as that is concerned, things are shaping up to be rather diffcult this last term, which I suppose is good preparation for grad school. Of course, all of the work centers around the usual suspects: novels to read, papers to write, and the work in the writing center I'll have to do. It is just that, this term, there appears to be more of it.

Lunchtime

Today was the first time in my academic life that a professor has ever invited me to lunch; he said that I should think of lunch as a kind of congratulations for being accepted to a particular school - the flagship of the state as he called it. I accepted his invitation partially because it was free food and partially because I was very interested in hearing his general impressions of the college in question and my future prospects, especially regarding the holy grail of Masters Degree programs - the Teaching Fellowship! (The letter that I recieved was somewhat ambiguous in that regard.)

I felt a little awkward following the professor around. Over the past year or so, I've grown slightly sensitive to the Nerd issue as of late, and this kind of fraternization with a professor could propel my reputation beyond mere nerd to Ultra-Super-Nerd-factor-TEN! Oh well. Over tamales, I learned that he likes to watch 24, his wife remains unemployed, and he enjoys his long commute to work.

Ghoti

In our Linguistics class the other day, the instructor mentioned something that I had seen and heard a couple of times from other English professors. Like the drinking game "what-major-work-of-literature-haven't-you-read-yet-but-were-supposed-to," this is something that almost seems to be a requirement for word-nerds to know. Apparently, it is very old so you might have already seen it before. Here it is:

How do you pronouce this word, GHOTI. If you've said "fish," then you're right!

How does Ghoti sound like fish? The GH sounds like it does in the word "lauGH." The O sounds like it does in the word "wOmen." And the TI sounds like it does in the word transformaTIon. Obvious, right? (I think that Bernard Shaw came up with this, although he probably did not envision "ghoti" being used by rock bands, web blogs, and linguistics professors.) Whenever someone points out your mispellings, or says your grammar is bad, show them this thing and explain how English, like most languages I'm sure, can sometimes be tricky. Then toss a wet angry cat on their head and run!

True Love

If any of the effulgences of our culture are supossed to be believed, then you might consider the validity of this: in every relationship, there comes a point in which you realize that the person you exalted in your romanticized imagination is actually another human being with their own faults. For example, your love for coffee clashes with your significant others extreme dislike of the stuff and hardly misses an opportunity to point it out. However, if you can work out the problems, you then begin to ground your imagining of your significant other with reality, which leads to real emotional growth for the two of you.

This all leads me to my relationship with Blogger. You might say that we've had our first problem, and now my idealized vision of what our relationship might be is more grounded. For some reason, my entire template disappeared, and for the better part of a day, I've been searching for a way to get it back. Unfortunately, my status as a web novice was confirmed: I lost most of what I created. Yet, I've gained the experience to figure out how to put it back together relatively quickly, so it was no huge disaster. I'll be putting most of the stuff that disappeared back up in the next few days.