Seriously. If E. M. Forester wrote today, it'd be a different sort of plea.
F*%#ing connect. And he'd most certainly be talking about some sort of technology.
But the message would be the same.
It doesn't make anything better, it just makes us sit here in front of these boxes. I can't even burn a disc without having to broker a deal with IPod or whoever. And which browser will work today? Ah, sweet anticipation......
Too much "ether" for me.
I miss tapes.
Okay, back to your regularly scheduled program; my password just went through.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
pin oaks and finals week: or, what’s left after this weekend
As an Ohioan, I find it difficult to keep the topic of weather out of my daily conversations. I once read a book on language and dialect that explained how to approach and converse with a mid-westerner-—first you discuss by what route you arrived at your destination, then you discuss the weather, then you talk about what route you’ll use to get home. The weather part of the conversation lasts the longest and covers every possible subject, including farming, flooding, records made and broken, its effect on sports, leaf color, next spring’s bulbs, holiday traveling plans, traveling plans in general…you get the point. It was only a matter of time before the weather crept into this blog…
The weather in Ohio is known for its rapid changes. Sunny summer skies can quickly give way to powerful thunderstorms as the purples, blues, and grays roll in; cool spring mornings often belie a scorching afternoon; a snowstorm can leave behind several inches that disappear by the day’s end. We layer here. We must.
This weekend began unseasonably warm. Thursday of last week brought us 70 degree temperatures which continued until Friday evening. As I drove home on Friday afternoon, I rolled my windows down and watched the autumn colors whiz by. Although some of the trees had lost their leaves (ginkos, ashes, birches fall early), the majority of the trees still had leaves. The sycamores, maples, and oaks made up so many bright splashes of color out my window.
But then the wind kicked up, the temperature fell about 25 degrees overnight, and Saturday looked and felt like November should. We woke to a rain that lingered all day. Now, on Monday, the trees are mostly empty and the air has that cold, damp feel that permeates clothing and chills all the way through. Looking out the window of the library today, I see brown branches and gray skies. An occasional evergreen or pin oak brings a little opacity, but for the most part the view is buildings through branches.
The mood on campus today seems gray as well. I did not hear much friendly chatter as I walked to the library this morning. Granted, it’s Monday, and the beginning of the week lacks the energy of the end, but I saw more bent heads that I did eyes, more hands cupping lattes than carrying pop. And I didn’t see a single student talking on a cell phone. (Sadly, the last observation is the most telling…)
As I neared the library, one of the bent heads looked up. The young man, probably a first-year student, looked both tired and shell-shocked. His mouth hung open a bit and his gaze looked through me, past me, to the library door. I looked down and saw his calculus book, stuffed fat with notebook paper, its binding straining from the added thickness. And then it dawned on me. UC is on quarters, so finals week is rapidly approaching.
It has been easy to coast through this semester without attending to the administrative and academic—midterms went by unnoticed, as did fall “break,” Parents’ weekend, Greek week, and all of the other markers of time on a college campus. This morning was a bit of a wake up call, I suppose. Soon the semester will end and I’ll have to head back to the classroom. I’m not dreading it (although I did have a teaching nightmare last night—forgot my syllabus on the first day, then couldn’t find my new office to retrieve it before class ended) but I wonder about my ability to keep writing with the hassle of lesson plans and assignments to read and grade.
Time to get serious. That calculus boy and I have a lot of ground to cover before this semester ends…
The weather in Ohio is known for its rapid changes. Sunny summer skies can quickly give way to powerful thunderstorms as the purples, blues, and grays roll in; cool spring mornings often belie a scorching afternoon; a snowstorm can leave behind several inches that disappear by the day’s end. We layer here. We must.
This weekend began unseasonably warm. Thursday of last week brought us 70 degree temperatures which continued until Friday evening. As I drove home on Friday afternoon, I rolled my windows down and watched the autumn colors whiz by. Although some of the trees had lost their leaves (ginkos, ashes, birches fall early), the majority of the trees still had leaves. The sycamores, maples, and oaks made up so many bright splashes of color out my window.
But then the wind kicked up, the temperature fell about 25 degrees overnight, and Saturday looked and felt like November should. We woke to a rain that lingered all day. Now, on Monday, the trees are mostly empty and the air has that cold, damp feel that permeates clothing and chills all the way through. Looking out the window of the library today, I see brown branches and gray skies. An occasional evergreen or pin oak brings a little opacity, but for the most part the view is buildings through branches.
The mood on campus today seems gray as well. I did not hear much friendly chatter as I walked to the library this morning. Granted, it’s Monday, and the beginning of the week lacks the energy of the end, but I saw more bent heads that I did eyes, more hands cupping lattes than carrying pop. And I didn’t see a single student talking on a cell phone. (Sadly, the last observation is the most telling…)
As I neared the library, one of the bent heads looked up. The young man, probably a first-year student, looked both tired and shell-shocked. His mouth hung open a bit and his gaze looked through me, past me, to the library door. I looked down and saw his calculus book, stuffed fat with notebook paper, its binding straining from the added thickness. And then it dawned on me. UC is on quarters, so finals week is rapidly approaching.
It has been easy to coast through this semester without attending to the administrative and academic—midterms went by unnoticed, as did fall “break,” Parents’ weekend, Greek week, and all of the other markers of time on a college campus. This morning was a bit of a wake up call, I suppose. Soon the semester will end and I’ll have to head back to the classroom. I’m not dreading it (although I did have a teaching nightmare last night—forgot my syllabus on the first day, then couldn’t find my new office to retrieve it before class ended) but I wonder about my ability to keep writing with the hassle of lesson plans and assignments to read and grade.
Time to get serious. That calculus boy and I have a lot of ground to cover before this semester ends…
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
14,000 stitches of love and hope*
A certain amount of acceptance comes with knitting a gift for a baby or a child. After all, babies and children grow, often very quickly, and soon enough the gift doesn’t fit anymore. And for the knitter, that can make the whole enterprise feel a little futile…a little empty, I guess. Couple that with the nagging suspicion that the child’s parents (usually non-knitters) might not fully appreciate the cost, time, and effort that goes into the gift, or, worse, that the parents might not even dress the child in said gift at all, and it’s a wonder any knitter would set herself or himself up for such heartbreak.
But in my experience, another feeling supersedes these others and makes it not only possible but in fact downright pleasurable to knit for a child. As I sit here typing, I’m struggling to find the right sentiment to describe it—a mix of love and hope and possibility, I suppose.
Some of the women in my knitting group work on what they call “prayer shawls.” Apparently they work the shawl in a three-part knit stitch that somehow evokes the trinity. I’m not exactly sure how the stitch works, but I do know that as they knit, they pray for the recipients.
I’m not the most religious person on the planet, so when it comes to prayer, I often find myself sending good vibes or “wishing” a person well—hoping for peace and happiness rather than asking a God to bring it.
Last weekend, I attended my niece’s christening as her godmother. I wanted to do something special for her, so I decided to knit her a cute little sweater (the Child’s Placket Neck Pullover from Last Minute Knitted Gifts.) As I was knitting, I found myself thinking about my niece—envisioning her as a baby, a toddler, a child, and a young girl. I imagined her wearing the sweater while playing outside, running (in that funny way that toddlers do) after her dog, making messes for her parents to clean up, going to pre-school, etc., etc. I imagined her laughing and smiling, reading with her parents, learning about the world around her, growing up. And soon enough, the sweater was done.
Here are two pictures of the sweater. As you can see, it’s not quite finished. I have to stitch up the seams under the arms:
This close-up shows the placket. I still need to block the sweater and sew on the buttons:
As goofy as it sounds, I suppose what I was doing could be considered praying. As I was knitting I was meditating, hopefully, purposefully, on my niece and her childhood, creating positive experiences for her in my mind, wishing her happy and healthy. At one point, I realized that I didn’t care at all how long it took me to finish the sweater, or how I’d feel if her parents didn’t use it, I only wanted to express my love and hope for her.
I’m not sure this post accurately conveys the warm feeling that I felt, or how good it felt to feel it. I guess I’m not a person who feels at peace very often—I tend to be more cynical, more apt to focus on the worth of a particular task or outcome rather than the inherent pleasure of performing the task itself. This experience was different and I’m glad.
*The stitch tally is obviously an approximation, but I think it's pretty close...
But in my experience, another feeling supersedes these others and makes it not only possible but in fact downright pleasurable to knit for a child. As I sit here typing, I’m struggling to find the right sentiment to describe it—a mix of love and hope and possibility, I suppose.
Some of the women in my knitting group work on what they call “prayer shawls.” Apparently they work the shawl in a three-part knit stitch that somehow evokes the trinity. I’m not exactly sure how the stitch works, but I do know that as they knit, they pray for the recipients.
I’m not the most religious person on the planet, so when it comes to prayer, I often find myself sending good vibes or “wishing” a person well—hoping for peace and happiness rather than asking a God to bring it.
Last weekend, I attended my niece’s christening as her godmother. I wanted to do something special for her, so I decided to knit her a cute little sweater (the Child’s Placket Neck Pullover from Last Minute Knitted Gifts.) As I was knitting, I found myself thinking about my niece—envisioning her as a baby, a toddler, a child, and a young girl. I imagined her wearing the sweater while playing outside, running (in that funny way that toddlers do) after her dog, making messes for her parents to clean up, going to pre-school, etc., etc. I imagined her laughing and smiling, reading with her parents, learning about the world around her, growing up. And soon enough, the sweater was done.
Here are two pictures of the sweater. As you can see, it’s not quite finished. I have to stitch up the seams under the arms:
This close-up shows the placket. I still need to block the sweater and sew on the buttons:
As goofy as it sounds, I suppose what I was doing could be considered praying. As I was knitting I was meditating, hopefully, purposefully, on my niece and her childhood, creating positive experiences for her in my mind, wishing her happy and healthy. At one point, I realized that I didn’t care at all how long it took me to finish the sweater, or how I’d feel if her parents didn’t use it, I only wanted to express my love and hope for her.
I’m not sure this post accurately conveys the warm feeling that I felt, or how good it felt to feel it. I guess I’m not a person who feels at peace very often—I tend to be more cynical, more apt to focus on the worth of a particular task or outcome rather than the inherent pleasure of performing the task itself. This experience was different and I’m glad.
*The stitch tally is obviously an approximation, but I think it's pretty close...
Monday, October 30, 2006
daunting
That’s what chapter two is feeling like lately. Daunting. I’m not so enamored of the feeling that comes with the word, but I do appreciate the suitability of the word itself. For me, “daunting” brings to mind something bent—-a person weighed down with possibility perhaps, or someone brought down by the enormity of a task.
As evidenced by earlier posts, I’m a dork, so it should not surprise anyone that I went to the American Heritage Dictionary to investigate the etymology of the word after I finished the above statement. Like all word snobs, I do prefer the heft of the OED for purely aesthetic look-ups, but the AHD has the Indo-European root words listed in the back, and there’s nothing more satisfying than following a word back to its source. (My peers in dorkitude may especially enjoy terms “yard,” “angst,” or “epiphany,” all of which offer interesting connections through their IE root.)
Anyway, when I looked up “daunt,” I came up with this:
daunt (dônt, dänt)
To abate the courage of; discourage. See synonyms at dismay.
And it’s etymology:
Middle English daunten, from Old French danter, from Latin domitre, frequentative of domre, to tame. See dem- in Appendix I.
Of course, I went straight to Appendix I, where I found
dem-
DEFINITION: To constrain, force, especially to break in (horses). Oldest form *dem2-. 1. Suffixed o-grade form *dom()-o-. tame, from Old English tam, domesticated, from Germanic *tamaz. 2. O-grade form *dom-. daunt; indomitable, from Latin domre, to tame, subdue. 3. Zero-grade form *d-. adamant, diamond, from Greek damn, to tame (> adams, unconquerable, from *-d-nt-). (Pokorny (dem-) 199.)
Interesting, eh? I mean, I certainly did not know the “break in (horses)” or "tame, subdue" origin of the word, so how I did I come up with my feelings of “bent” or “brought down by”? I’m not arguing that my understanding of the word was right on, but when I thought of “bent,” I was definitely trying to articulate the idea of a person hunched over under a weight. Without sounding overly profound, it’s pretty amazing that a word can still (kind of, sort of) carry its original meaning. Language is coooooooool.
Okay, enough philosophizing for today. How about a visual to accompany the term “daunting”?
Here you go…
As evidenced by earlier posts, I’m a dork, so it should not surprise anyone that I went to the American Heritage Dictionary to investigate the etymology of the word after I finished the above statement. Like all word snobs, I do prefer the heft of the OED for purely aesthetic look-ups, but the AHD has the Indo-European root words listed in the back, and there’s nothing more satisfying than following a word back to its source. (My peers in dorkitude may especially enjoy terms “yard,” “angst,” or “epiphany,” all of which offer interesting connections through their IE root.)
Anyway, when I looked up “daunt,” I came up with this:
daunt (dônt, dänt)
To abate the courage of; discourage. See synonyms at dismay.
And it’s etymology:
Middle English daunten, from Old French danter, from Latin domitre, frequentative of domre, to tame. See dem- in Appendix I.
Of course, I went straight to Appendix I, where I found
dem-
DEFINITION: To constrain, force, especially to break in (horses). Oldest form *dem2-. 1. Suffixed o-grade form *dom()-o-. tame, from Old English tam, domesticated, from Germanic *tamaz. 2. O-grade form *dom-. daunt; indomitable, from Latin domre, to tame, subdue. 3. Zero-grade form *d-. adamant, diamond, from Greek damn, to tame (> adams, unconquerable, from *-d-nt-). (Pokorny (dem-) 199.)
Interesting, eh? I mean, I certainly did not know the “break in (horses)” or "tame, subdue" origin of the word, so how I did I come up with my feelings of “bent” or “brought down by”? I’m not arguing that my understanding of the word was right on, but when I thought of “bent,” I was definitely trying to articulate the idea of a person hunched over under a weight. Without sounding overly profound, it’s pretty amazing that a word can still (kind of, sort of) carry its original meaning. Language is coooooooool.
Okay, enough philosophizing for today. How about a visual to accompany the term “daunting”?
Here you go…
Monday, October 23, 2006
money and a room of one's own notwithstanding
A good view makes all the difference in the world.
Today I'm feeling a little blue. I don't feel like writing. I also don't feel like reading anything related to my dissertation. One can only read so many essays and books on involuntary sterilization without starting to feel a little, um, disenchanted with the human race.
However, it feels a little irresponsible to wallow in self-pity when one has not one but two places to write with such beautiful views. The pictures can't do justice to the autumn leaves and the bustling street below, but they do hint at the "treehouse" feel of our apartment. We're on the second floor: in the trees, but not so high that moving will be a chore.
This first shot shows the view out my office window. As I face my computer, the window is at my left, about a foot and a half away. The bottom of the window sill is shoulder-high, so I can look out, but the folks on the ground can’t see much more of me than the top of my head (perfect for early morning writing in a robe and slippers). We live on a corner one block from the main street in Clifton. There is lots of foot traffic here as people walk up to Ludlow.
The second shot looks up from my seat at our “dining room” table. We took the screens off the windows to improve the view. It means more moths (which I’m constantly ushering out of the apartment so that they don’t get into my wool) but I think it’s worth it to have the old windows fully visible. Even when the ash outside doesn’t have leaves, the view is still gorgeous. I love tree branches against a winter sky.
So, with that, I’ll head back to work. I wonder if Virginia Woolf would have felt better had she left the stuffy library and found a room with a view instead.
Today I'm feeling a little blue. I don't feel like writing. I also don't feel like reading anything related to my dissertation. One can only read so many essays and books on involuntary sterilization without starting to feel a little, um, disenchanted with the human race.
However, it feels a little irresponsible to wallow in self-pity when one has not one but two places to write with such beautiful views. The pictures can't do justice to the autumn leaves and the bustling street below, but they do hint at the "treehouse" feel of our apartment. We're on the second floor: in the trees, but not so high that moving will be a chore.
This first shot shows the view out my office window. As I face my computer, the window is at my left, about a foot and a half away. The bottom of the window sill is shoulder-high, so I can look out, but the folks on the ground can’t see much more of me than the top of my head (perfect for early morning writing in a robe and slippers). We live on a corner one block from the main street in Clifton. There is lots of foot traffic here as people walk up to Ludlow.
The second shot looks up from my seat at our “dining room” table. We took the screens off the windows to improve the view. It means more moths (which I’m constantly ushering out of the apartment so that they don’t get into my wool) but I think it’s worth it to have the old windows fully visible. Even when the ash outside doesn’t have leaves, the view is still gorgeous. I love tree branches against a winter sky.
So, with that, I’ll head back to work. I wonder if Virginia Woolf would have felt better had she left the stuffy library and found a room with a view instead.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Is an apology in order?
I read two blogs religiously: the Yarn Harlot’s blog about knitting and Heather Armstrong’s blog dooce.com. I check in on several others, but not with the same frequency. It is these two writers upon whom I depend for my inspirational “fix”. If a day goes by without a post, I find myself feeling a little, well, irritated. I wouldn’t go so far as to compare these blogs to my need for coffee, but I will say that when there’s nothing new to read, I feel a corresponding dissatisfaction and disappointment.
To compare my own blog to either of these two blogs would be ludicrous, and I understand that completely. However, I have been wondering if there’s a person or two out there who has visited my blog lately and been disappointed that I haven’t posted for a (long) while. Ever since my friend Kell linked me to her own blog, I’ve been feeling guilty about my utter lack of output in the blog department.
There are several reasons for this lack (had a conference paper to write, recent struggle with “writer’s block” leaves me a little insecure about posting, Ch. 2 of my dissertation is due in two weeks) but I think one reason in particular has been especially prohibitive: my self-imposed range of topics.
I originally chose the limits of knitting and writing to avoid the kind of emo-blogging that serves no purpose to the reader. I mean, yeah, some of my posts about writing are a little personal and introspective, but I want to believe that someone out there might have the same hurdles and, in reading my post, would think, “So, I’m not the only one who can’t write because I’ve been reading too much. How refreshing!” I thought having a couple of fairly “light” topics would give me some boundaries.
What I hadn’t considered was the problem of timeliness; that is, lately, my knitting seems redundant (more freakin’ baby hats!) and my writing feels equally dull. The topics that do enter my mind might be considered outside the lines, so to speak. Couple that with a recent discovery that “googling” my own name brings my blog up first, and I’m now feeling like I can only allude to issues of writing that might be worth thinking/writing through. (A recent job search meeting prompted me to determine what might be “out there” in cyberspace—what might be public to potential employers—and how that might reflect on me as a job candidate. I mean, sure, I’m vain enough to google myself for no reason at all, but this time it had a purpose.) As a result, posts like my most recent that allude to issues of jealousy and writing and competition and “how far along are you on your dissertation?” and other graduate student insecurities can only exist in the margins. Right?
Maybe not. I’m not sure. I tell myself that any university hiring team who would read my blog and not hire me because of something I wrote would not be the sort of people I’d want to work with anyway. But don’t we all tell ourselves that? Even as I wrote that line, I felt that I might be lying a little. If, say, the University of Cool Midwestern City cut me from their list for this blog, I’d cry. And then I’d hate myself. And then I’d cry some more.
So, still working through those issues, I guess… But in the meantime, I’ll try to post with more regularity and I’ll continue to (try to) be up front about the personal and political of blogging as I encounter it.
To compare my own blog to either of these two blogs would be ludicrous, and I understand that completely. However, I have been wondering if there’s a person or two out there who has visited my blog lately and been disappointed that I haven’t posted for a (long) while. Ever since my friend Kell linked me to her own blog, I’ve been feeling guilty about my utter lack of output in the blog department.
There are several reasons for this lack (had a conference paper to write, recent struggle with “writer’s block” leaves me a little insecure about posting, Ch. 2 of my dissertation is due in two weeks) but I think one reason in particular has been especially prohibitive: my self-imposed range of topics.
I originally chose the limits of knitting and writing to avoid the kind of emo-blogging that serves no purpose to the reader. I mean, yeah, some of my posts about writing are a little personal and introspective, but I want to believe that someone out there might have the same hurdles and, in reading my post, would think, “So, I’m not the only one who can’t write because I’ve been reading too much. How refreshing!” I thought having a couple of fairly “light” topics would give me some boundaries.
What I hadn’t considered was the problem of timeliness; that is, lately, my knitting seems redundant (more freakin’ baby hats!) and my writing feels equally dull. The topics that do enter my mind might be considered outside the lines, so to speak. Couple that with a recent discovery that “googling” my own name brings my blog up first, and I’m now feeling like I can only allude to issues of writing that might be worth thinking/writing through. (A recent job search meeting prompted me to determine what might be “out there” in cyberspace—what might be public to potential employers—and how that might reflect on me as a job candidate. I mean, sure, I’m vain enough to google myself for no reason at all, but this time it had a purpose.) As a result, posts like my most recent that allude to issues of jealousy and writing and competition and “how far along are you on your dissertation?” and other graduate student insecurities can only exist in the margins. Right?
Maybe not. I’m not sure. I tell myself that any university hiring team who would read my blog and not hire me because of something I wrote would not be the sort of people I’d want to work with anyway. But don’t we all tell ourselves that? Even as I wrote that line, I felt that I might be lying a little. If, say, the University of Cool Midwestern City cut me from their list for this blog, I’d cry. And then I’d hate myself. And then I’d cry some more.
So, still working through those issues, I guess… But in the meantime, I’ll try to post with more regularity and I’ll continue to (try to) be up front about the personal and political of blogging as I encounter it.
Friday, September 22, 2006
lagniappe 2.0
The flip side of "better than you" is "never good enough."
Fold that any way you wish...
Fold that any way you wish...
Thursday, September 21, 2006
When “back to work” means “everything rests on my ability to watch 'Grey’s Anatomy'."
An email in response to a friend's question about watching Grey's Anatomy tonight:
-----Original Message-----
From: Jen [mailto:]
Sent: Thursday, September 21, 2006 2:53 PM
To: Friend X; Friend Y; Friend Z
Subject: RE: Grey's Anatomy
Hey everyone,
I MIGHT be watching this episode, I don't know. Right now my cable is freaking out. I just went to set the VCR because I might not get to watch the show tonight--never able to plan my schedule around the shows I like, dammit--and we aren't getting any reception at all. So, we'll see. I thought it might be just a "rabbit ears" issue, but it's something else.
That said, I will NOT be watching this season if something bad happens to the Christina or Burke characters. I hope Addison stays, though, and finds a decent man. I'm not a McDreamy fan--for her or Meredith. And yes, M needs to do something with the mop on her head.
Hope you're all doing well. Back to work.
Jen
-------------------------
A slightly later email, wherein said "work" was performed...
-----Original Message-----
From: Jen [mailto:]
Sent: Thursday, September 21, 2006 5:18 PM
To: Friend X; Friend Y; Friend Z
Subject: cable hookups and ph.d.s
Hi all,
You know how I sometimes make fun of the faculty (as a whole, of course) and its inability to operate simple machinery like, say, an overhead, or a copier. Well, I must be on my way toward professor-hood because I "solved" my cable problem this afternoon in one easy step.
After much hemming, hawing, and hand-wringing, during which time I contemplated several possible solutions to my problem**, I finally pulled on the cable part of the rabbit ears. Yep, it was not attached to the TV anymore. F'ing brilliant. I plugged it back into its place and Voila! Channel Nine is fully operational.
Thought you'd get a kick out of that little lesson in humility. Now, do I tell Russell to make him laugh, or do I keep this shameful experience to myself?
Jen
**Solutions to cable problem including but not limited to: calling Russell at work, calling landlord and pressing "1" for "emergency" on the maintenance line, climbing onto the roof to check the antenna myself, calling the cable company (meaning, Channel Nine) to determine if service was out all over Cinti, crying, calling the City of Cincinnati to determine if winds (it's not even windy today) had taken down a line... No, I'm not
obsessed. Why do you ask?
------------------------------
-----Original Message-----
From: Jen [mailto:]
Sent: Thursday, September 21, 2006 2:53 PM
To: Friend X; Friend Y; Friend Z
Subject: RE: Grey's Anatomy
Hey everyone,
I MIGHT be watching this episode, I don't know. Right now my cable is freaking out. I just went to set the VCR because I might not get to watch the show tonight--never able to plan my schedule around the shows I like, dammit--and we aren't getting any reception at all. So, we'll see. I thought it might be just a "rabbit ears" issue, but it's something else.
That said, I will NOT be watching this season if something bad happens to the Christina or Burke characters. I hope Addison stays, though, and finds a decent man. I'm not a McDreamy fan--for her or Meredith. And yes, M needs to do something with the mop on her head.
Hope you're all doing well. Back to work.
Jen
-------------------------
A slightly later email, wherein said "work" was performed...
-----Original Message-----
From: Jen [mailto:]
Sent: Thursday, September 21, 2006 5:18 PM
To: Friend X; Friend Y; Friend Z
Subject: cable hookups and ph.d.s
Hi all,
You know how I sometimes make fun of the faculty (as a whole, of course) and its inability to operate simple machinery like, say, an overhead, or a copier. Well, I must be on my way toward professor-hood because I "solved" my cable problem this afternoon in one easy step.
After much hemming, hawing, and hand-wringing, during which time I contemplated several possible solutions to my problem**, I finally pulled on the cable part of the rabbit ears. Yep, it was not attached to the TV anymore. F'ing brilliant. I plugged it back into its place and Voila! Channel Nine is fully operational.
Thought you'd get a kick out of that little lesson in humility. Now, do I tell Russell to make him laugh, or do I keep this shameful experience to myself?
Jen
**Solutions to cable problem including but not limited to: calling Russell at work, calling landlord and pressing "1" for "emergency" on the maintenance line, climbing onto the roof to check the antenna myself, calling the cable company (meaning, Channel Nine) to determine if service was out all over Cinti, crying, calling the City of Cincinnati to determine if winds (it's not even windy today) had taken down a line... No, I'm not
obsessed. Why do you ask?
------------------------------
Monday, September 11, 2006
baby hat sweatshop
The announcements began trickling in back in November and December, I'd say, when the holidays brought families and friends together. At first the numbers were moderate: my sister-in-law, two friends from school, my best friend Kate. But then came the deluge, and when it was over thirteen of my friends were going to give birth by mid-September.
Without sounding cheap, I hope, I must say that I freaked out at first at the potential cost. Depending on the parents-to-be, the registries can be prohibitively expensive. The diaper champs, the Baby Bjorns (if you don't know what that is yet, don't panic--a pregnant friend will surely fill you in at some point), the myriad bedding and clothing options...for this graduate student, it all seemed like an exercise in savings depletion. The first shower I went to set me back $55.00. At that rate I was looking at $600.00 plus bucks for the entire summer, and I knew I'd spend more that that on my particularly close friends. Couple that with the fact that I don't get paid during the summer and you can perhaps understand my anxiety.
I certainly don't mean to sound dour about my situation. I mean, I was ecstatic that so many women I care about were having babies. But that celebration was always tinged with, "How will I pay for it?" And that's no way to usher in the joyous occasion of new life.
So, I purchased about ten skeins of Artful Yarns "Candy" and went to town. It's been a baby hat summer. I began with some so-so needles and finally made the investment in some Addi-turbos. (For all you non-knitters out there, the "turbo" is for real--they're super slick and fast!)
Here's the first hat I made:
Pretty cute. And relatively simple. A hat plus a book for baby made a fun, affordable (for me) gift. And for a while I was a machine, cranking out a hat per shower in no time at all. But then I started to expand my repetoire. I wanted to make a couple of my friends a sweater to go with the hat. I began with the same "Candy" yarn for two, and those sweaters turned out really well. I mean, they weren't perfect, but that's what "homemade" means, right? The Candy yarn has a little elastic in it, so it's very forgiving.
Then I asked a friend to give me some suggestions for a color and she chose solid blue. Well, there's no solid blue "Candy," so I went to regular cotton. So much harder. But here's the result:
Check the buttons:
When my friend Kate gave birth on Sept. 5, she was the last of the thirteen. I thought my stint as mad-baby-hat-knitter was over. I ordered myself some Cash Iroha to make the Hourglass Sweater from Last Minute Knitted Gifts and dreamed of finishing one of my shawls.
On Saturday, I received an invitation to another baby shower. So, back to the sweatshop I go...
Without sounding cheap, I hope, I must say that I freaked out at first at the potential cost. Depending on the parents-to-be, the registries can be prohibitively expensive. The diaper champs, the Baby Bjorns (if you don't know what that is yet, don't panic--a pregnant friend will surely fill you in at some point), the myriad bedding and clothing options...for this graduate student, it all seemed like an exercise in savings depletion. The first shower I went to set me back $55.00. At that rate I was looking at $600.00 plus bucks for the entire summer, and I knew I'd spend more that that on my particularly close friends. Couple that with the fact that I don't get paid during the summer and you can perhaps understand my anxiety.
I certainly don't mean to sound dour about my situation. I mean, I was ecstatic that so many women I care about were having babies. But that celebration was always tinged with, "How will I pay for it?" And that's no way to usher in the joyous occasion of new life.
So, I purchased about ten skeins of Artful Yarns "Candy" and went to town. It's been a baby hat summer. I began with some so-so needles and finally made the investment in some Addi-turbos. (For all you non-knitters out there, the "turbo" is for real--they're super slick and fast!)
Here's the first hat I made:
Pretty cute. And relatively simple. A hat plus a book for baby made a fun, affordable (for me) gift. And for a while I was a machine, cranking out a hat per shower in no time at all. But then I started to expand my repetoire. I wanted to make a couple of my friends a sweater to go with the hat. I began with the same "Candy" yarn for two, and those sweaters turned out really well. I mean, they weren't perfect, but that's what "homemade" means, right? The Candy yarn has a little elastic in it, so it's very forgiving.
Then I asked a friend to give me some suggestions for a color and she chose solid blue. Well, there's no solid blue "Candy," so I went to regular cotton. So much harder. But here's the result:
Check the buttons:
When my friend Kate gave birth on Sept. 5, she was the last of the thirteen. I thought my stint as mad-baby-hat-knitter was over. I ordered myself some Cash Iroha to make the Hourglass Sweater from Last Minute Knitted Gifts and dreamed of finishing one of my shawls.
On Saturday, I received an invitation to another baby shower. So, back to the sweatshop I go...
Thursday, August 31, 2006
other people's dreams are boring...
But that isn't going to prevent me from sharing a dream I had last night...
I want to remember this dream. And it's my blog, right? Right.
I think it's relatively safe to say that anyone who's ever been in school has had the dream wherein you don't have your calculator and it's the final exam in algebra and you're just screwed. Right? I mean, we've all been there. The rest of the class is filing into the room and you suddenly intuit, without even looking, that your calculator is NOT in your backpack where it's supposed to be. And then you look and OF COURSE it's not there, but you have to take your seat anyway, and the test comes at you over the back of the person in front of you and all you can do is sit there and wait until you wake up.
I've been in school a long time, so I have the test thing pretty well sussed. Seriously. I'm in, like, 25th grade, I think. And since I've been teaching, I haven't had the "no calculator" problem. Instead I have the "Oh my God, I've been assigned to teach 'Algebra I' and it's the first day and what am I going to do" dream instead.
There's part of me, when I have that dream, that says, "Okay, I've had Algebra, for Petessake. I can do this. All I have to do is start at the front of the textbook, stay ahead a few chapters and I'll be fine."
And then in my dream I get to class and I find out they're already on Chapter 15 (which is matrices, and I never understood those to begin with) and I'm screwed and I all I can do is sit there in front of my students and wait until I wake up.
I guess because I'm writing my dissertation and am somewhat beholden to my chair I feel childish and student-like. I'm also not teaching this semester, which feels strange. I'm only a student.
Anyway, last night I had the "I'm the student" dream again. This time it was the biology final, and I'm thinking: "Okay, I was a microbiology major in college, I can pass this thing" and then I realize I haven't read a page of the textbook and I decide that calling in to school with the flu is definitely the right decision.
Sadly, I'm writing my dissertation on the language of heredity and "natural selection" so I'd better have at least a Biology 101 level understanding of it, but call in sick I did.
I suppose this dream is first of many...
I can smile about it now, but in my dream last night I was definitely freaking out. I distinctly recall trying to get Kreb's cycle straight in my head, and then thinking "Okay, I know what a stomata is, so the botany question is under control."
I want to remember this dream. And it's my blog, right? Right.
I think it's relatively safe to say that anyone who's ever been in school has had the dream wherein you don't have your calculator and it's the final exam in algebra and you're just screwed. Right? I mean, we've all been there. The rest of the class is filing into the room and you suddenly intuit, without even looking, that your calculator is NOT in your backpack where it's supposed to be. And then you look and OF COURSE it's not there, but you have to take your seat anyway, and the test comes at you over the back of the person in front of you and all you can do is sit there and wait until you wake up.
I've been in school a long time, so I have the test thing pretty well sussed. Seriously. I'm in, like, 25th grade, I think. And since I've been teaching, I haven't had the "no calculator" problem. Instead I have the "Oh my God, I've been assigned to teach 'Algebra I' and it's the first day and what am I going to do" dream instead.
There's part of me, when I have that dream, that says, "Okay, I've had Algebra, for Petessake. I can do this. All I have to do is start at the front of the textbook, stay ahead a few chapters and I'll be fine."
And then in my dream I get to class and I find out they're already on Chapter 15 (which is matrices, and I never understood those to begin with) and I'm screwed and I all I can do is sit there in front of my students and wait until I wake up.
I guess because I'm writing my dissertation and am somewhat beholden to my chair I feel childish and student-like. I'm also not teaching this semester, which feels strange. I'm only a student.
Anyway, last night I had the "I'm the student" dream again. This time it was the biology final, and I'm thinking: "Okay, I was a microbiology major in college, I can pass this thing" and then I realize I haven't read a page of the textbook and I decide that calling in to school with the flu is definitely the right decision.
Sadly, I'm writing my dissertation on the language of heredity and "natural selection" so I'd better have at least a Biology 101 level understanding of it, but call in sick I did.
I suppose this dream is first of many...
I can smile about it now, but in my dream last night I was definitely freaking out. I distinctly recall trying to get Kreb's cycle straight in my head, and then thinking "Okay, I know what a stomata is, so the botany question is under control."
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
because i'm catholic? or because i'm crazy?
Today has not been a particularly successful day of writing. And you'd think I could handle that. However, the guilt has been overwhelming, perhaps because I have a couple frequent reminders that I should be writing.
First, the author of a blog I read regularly has been posting somewhat more intermittently than usual, and with good reason. She's trying to write a book herself. Lately, when I go to the blog for a little relaxing reading, a little break from my work, I find one of two things: a.) nothing, or b.) a post about how hard she's working on her book. Not at all soothing, no.
Second, a squirrel has lately been using a tree near my window to air his (or her) lament to the world. I'm not sure what the source of this squirrel's trouble is (neighborhood dogs on the prowl? acorns not ready for fall? twigs for nest are soaked because of all the rain??) but it seems as if he (or she) wants some answers from the small god of squirrel troubles. All I've been hearing all day is a sort of half-squeal, half-whine that sounds like "Weeeellllll? Weeeeeeeeellllllll??" As in, "Weeeeeeeellllll, small god of squirrel troubles, when are you going to give me a hand down here."
To my ears, that squirrel is my conscience saying "Weeeellllll?? Are you going to just sit there, or are you going to write something?" "Weeeeeelllllll??? Is that all you can do?"
I know, I know. It's not guilt, it's clinical...
First, the author of a blog I read regularly has been posting somewhat more intermittently than usual, and with good reason. She's trying to write a book herself. Lately, when I go to the blog for a little relaxing reading, a little break from my work, I find one of two things: a.) nothing, or b.) a post about how hard she's working on her book. Not at all soothing, no.
Second, a squirrel has lately been using a tree near my window to air his (or her) lament to the world. I'm not sure what the source of this squirrel's trouble is (neighborhood dogs on the prowl? acorns not ready for fall? twigs for nest are soaked because of all the rain??) but it seems as if he (or she) wants some answers from the small god of squirrel troubles. All I've been hearing all day is a sort of half-squeal, half-whine that sounds like "Weeeellllll? Weeeeeeeeellllllll??" As in, "Weeeeeeeellllll, small god of squirrel troubles, when are you going to give me a hand down here."
To my ears, that squirrel is my conscience saying "Weeeellllll?? Are you going to just sit there, or are you going to write something?" "Weeeeeelllllll??? Is that all you can do?"
I know, I know. It's not guilt, it's clinical...
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
and another thing...
I'm sorry.
This post
http://on-pens-and-needles.blogspot.com/2006/07/saying-so-long-to-culture-of-critique.html
is a sad excuse for a bridge.
It should be two separate posts. I know that. I just had trouble starting them both so...smash.
My bad.
This post
http://on-pens-and-needles.blogspot.com/2006/07/saying-so-long-to-culture-of-critique.html
is a sad excuse for a bridge.
It should be two separate posts. I know that. I just had trouble starting them both so...smash.
My bad.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
remember when you got to go to europe for a semester?
I don't. I've never been. I know it's deplorable, but there it is. You can pity me, but I hope you'll still consent to be my friend...
However, I do believe I now understand the freedom that comes with a foreign country--paid for by school or otherwise.
I'm officially on fellowship.
***
Today was difficult. I could barely contain myself. Everyone I know began teaching, but I did not. I'm not accustomed to that. Usually it's the other way around. I have the jackass summer schedule and then I tamp it down while everyone else eases into fall as if A) it never mattered to begin with or B) they have some other, important, duty to contend with that doesn't require teaching.
(I really do love teaching. I do.)
This year, everyone else had to create syllabi, summon good karma, and otherwise throw themselves prostrate to the machine. But I, I have a fellowship...
Before you start to hate me, let me explain: it makes me feel like a real writer. And anyone who's read this blog knows how much I struggle with the Lack.
It just made me feel professional, you know? As if I had something to say. I wonder how anyone else would feel if an institution said, yeah, go ahead, work that dissertation...we'll cover it!
It's glorious.
***
A friend emailed me about getting together tomorrow for coffee and inquired about my new "prestigious" position, to which I replied:
--Are you talking about the prestigious position that doesn't require us to teach for an entire semester? Yeah, I started that one. Felt weird. I slept through the night for the first "first-day" ever.
I'll see you tomorrow. With some work.
But how awesome is it???
--Jen
***
The first question I'm going to ask Susan--who also has a fellowship--before I plunge into more reading and writing and reading and writing is:
Is this live?
I can hardly believe it myself...
Where are the hoops? How high must I jump?
***
Some Fitzgerald then, if I may...
Then they were in an elevator bound skyward.
"What floor, please?" said the elevator man.
"Any floor," said Mr. In.
"Top floor," said Mr. Out.
"This is the top floor," said the elevator man.
"Have another floor put on," said Mr. Out.
"Higher," said Mr. In.
"Heaven," said Mr. Out.
***
And yes, I get it.
However, I do believe I now understand the freedom that comes with a foreign country--paid for by school or otherwise.
I'm officially on fellowship.
***
Today was difficult. I could barely contain myself. Everyone I know began teaching, but I did not. I'm not accustomed to that. Usually it's the other way around. I have the jackass summer schedule and then I tamp it down while everyone else eases into fall as if A) it never mattered to begin with or B) they have some other, important, duty to contend with that doesn't require teaching.
(I really do love teaching. I do.)
This year, everyone else had to create syllabi, summon good karma, and otherwise throw themselves prostrate to the machine. But I, I have a fellowship...
Before you start to hate me, let me explain: it makes me feel like a real writer. And anyone who's read this blog knows how much I struggle with the Lack.
It just made me feel professional, you know? As if I had something to say. I wonder how anyone else would feel if an institution said, yeah, go ahead, work that dissertation...we'll cover it!
It's glorious.
***
A friend emailed me about getting together tomorrow for coffee and inquired about my new "prestigious" position, to which I replied:
--Are you talking about the prestigious position that doesn't require us to teach for an entire semester? Yeah, I started that one. Felt weird. I slept through the night for the first "first-day" ever.
I'll see you tomorrow. With some work.
But how awesome is it???
--Jen
***
The first question I'm going to ask Susan--who also has a fellowship--before I plunge into more reading and writing and reading and writing is:
Is this live?
I can hardly believe it myself...
Where are the hoops? How high must I jump?
***
Some Fitzgerald then, if I may...
Then they were in an elevator bound skyward.
"What floor, please?" said the elevator man.
"Any floor," said Mr. In.
"Top floor," said Mr. Out.
"This is the top floor," said the elevator man.
"Have another floor put on," said Mr. Out.
"Higher," said Mr. In.
"Heaven," said Mr. Out.
***
And yes, I get it.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
metaphors we live by
My metaphor of choice for the beginning of my writing process has always been that of pouring peanut butter out of a jar—an exceedingly slow, subtle shift of matter culminating in a resounding “plop” when the entire mass lands on the page. Today, I’m turning in that metaphor for a new model. Today, I am a plane, overburdened with the cargo of a million other writers, packed to the hilt with information and ideas (what belongs to me, if anything?), desperate to get this thing off the ground, but feeling the immense weight of the anxiety of influence.
Feel free to extend the metaphor as far as you wish. There’s plenty of fodder in entailments like baggage, drag, endurance, “airworthiness”…you get the picture.
Feel free to extend the metaphor as far as you wish. There’s plenty of fodder in entailments like baggage, drag, endurance, “airworthiness”…you get the picture.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
lagniappe? i want to think so...
Correction. Endnote. Let me be clear here:
Teaching and occasional writing should mean just as much, if not more, than its converse. No one likes the writer who occasionally teaches. They're only sometimes good writers, and seldom good teachers.
Why does the academy let this happen?
We're an academy. We teach. Sheesh.
Teaching and occasional writing should mean just as much, if not more, than its converse. No one likes the writer who occasionally teaches. They're only sometimes good writers, and seldom good teachers.
Why does the academy let this happen?
We're an academy. We teach. Sheesh.
neuroses
When I read an article like this one I can’t help but continue thinking about it a few days later. (Read the whole thing. Whenever. It’s a great essay.)
And then my thoughts arrive like a thunderbolt.
--Oh my god! Does the fact that I prefer, am better at, teaching writing to writing itself make me the proofreader of the writing community? Does my inherent (?) enjoyment of helping people make more sense as they write, does that mean I have to relate to the article? Am I destined to clean up, like her Burger King table-wiper? Or can I walk the walk I talk?
But in between those thoughts are about eleven million other related or slightly-related thoughts. Brewing, steeping, curing. The thoughts are usually about me, bien sûr, but aren’t I supposed to consider the manner a personal essay or personal narrative relates to me?
Which brings me to writing. Of course.
--Can one teach and never write? Can one try to write, and be better at teaching, but really want to write better?
I’ve always hated the statement/cliché/booktitle(!) that goes: Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. I mean, I just googled it. It's alive and circulating.
But a stereotype’s a stereotype for a reason. So I must ask.
--Am I that girl?
***
Thankfully, one of the reasons I’m even sitting down to write tonight is that I’ve had a nice breakthrough on my dissertation. I feel better, mentally, about my ability to write than I have in months. Since April, I think. So I don’t actually have to delve into the question too deeply. But the idea that I might never finish my dissertation makes me nervous. Not to brag, but I have a cool plan, so I really want to write it. I really like my topic.
But lately, I’ve been drowning in reading. Reading reading reading reading reading reading reading. I could go on. Sadly, I probably will. Go on reading. I’ll stop with the reading reading reading, etc.
--So the fact that I haven’t been writing seems okay? Right? I need to read before I can write about it, right? Right? Right? Right?
***
Just kidding. I couldn't help myself.
***
--Oh, and one more thing: Should I worry that I’m still fully capable of giving others advice on their writing? That particular talent never seems to go away. Blessing? Curse? Who cares? Could I just shut my teacher’s mouth, please?
And then I reflect on the article.
What if I’m only “good for teaching”? What if I can’t actually write? Is not my career SCREWED if I can’t write? I’d say yeah.
***
Did I mention that I had a breakthrough on my dissertation? Praise to the small gods of stranded writers.
And then my thoughts arrive like a thunderbolt.
--Oh my god! Does the fact that I prefer, am better at, teaching writing to writing itself make me the proofreader of the writing community? Does my inherent (?) enjoyment of helping people make more sense as they write, does that mean I have to relate to the article? Am I destined to clean up, like her Burger King table-wiper? Or can I walk the walk I talk?
But in between those thoughts are about eleven million other related or slightly-related thoughts. Brewing, steeping, curing. The thoughts are usually about me, bien sûr, but aren’t I supposed to consider the manner a personal essay or personal narrative relates to me?
Which brings me to writing. Of course.
--Can one teach and never write? Can one try to write, and be better at teaching, but really want to write better?
I’ve always hated the statement/cliché/booktitle(!) that goes: Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. I mean, I just googled it. It's alive and circulating.
But a stereotype’s a stereotype for a reason. So I must ask.
--Am I that girl?
***
Thankfully, one of the reasons I’m even sitting down to write tonight is that I’ve had a nice breakthrough on my dissertation. I feel better, mentally, about my ability to write than I have in months. Since April, I think. So I don’t actually have to delve into the question too deeply. But the idea that I might never finish my dissertation makes me nervous. Not to brag, but I have a cool plan, so I really want to write it. I really like my topic.
But lately, I’ve been drowning in reading. Reading reading reading reading reading reading reading. I could go on. Sadly, I probably will. Go on reading. I’ll stop with the reading reading reading, etc.
--So the fact that I haven’t been writing seems okay? Right? I need to read before I can write about it, right? Right? Right? Right?
***
Just kidding. I couldn't help myself.
***
--Oh, and one more thing: Should I worry that I’m still fully capable of giving others advice on their writing? That particular talent never seems to go away. Blessing? Curse? Who cares? Could I just shut my teacher’s mouth, please?
And then I reflect on the article.
What if I’m only “good for teaching”? What if I can’t actually write? Is not my career SCREWED if I can’t write? I’d say yeah.
***
Did I mention that I had a breakthrough on my dissertation? Praise to the small gods of stranded writers.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Saying "so long" to a culture of critique?
Writing a dissertation feels different for a lot of reasons, but I’ve been thinking about one in particular. Lately I’ve been enjoying some kinder, gentler feelings about writing that recall my classroom practices but not my “professional” writing style, which is, like most English majors, mostly critical.
A few weeks ago, I had dinner with my friend, Shannon. She’s an English major at a nearby university. During the school year, we get together to read/study/grouse about once a week, sometimes more. Before I continue, I should mention that Shannon is what the university calls a “non-traditional student,” which translates to “she’s not entering the university fresh out of high school.” Shannon is very bright. She’ll probably pursue a graduate degree in film studies, so English is a good choice. In a perfect world, Shannon would be able to focus on the conventions of various genres of writing and storytelling. However…
One of Shannon’s complaints about school centers on the inane writing assignments she is asked to complete. “Analyze the significance of the tree in Jane Eyre.” Or, “Choose one chapter of Joseph Andrews and convince your readers that it contains all of the main themes of the novel.” Or, “Write an assertion (that’s really what they call it) about what you believe to be the most important plot point. Make sure to use lots of textual evidence to support your argument.”
Not the most inspiring of prompts, you see. They ask students to “critique” the texts they’re reading, but they do not ask them to do anything with the text. The emphasis is on analysis rather than invention.
I’ve seen Shannon’s notes from class, I’ve read her “freewrites,” and I’ve talked with her about her reading—it’s clear that she knows the material back and forth. However, when it comes time to write, she often struggles to fulfill the page requirement. (Seriously, five pages about the stupid tree in Jane Eyre? Give me a break…who would want to write that much??) A prompt that asked Shannon to create a new context for the story of Jane Eyre would be perfect. “Revise the story of Jane Eyre for a modern audience, changing only one or two elements of the story.” (Think Emma to Clueless.) Or, “rewrite a chapter from JE for a modern film version. Include details about setting, character development, dialogue.” Both papers could still incorporate an argument, but it would be more of a “here are the reasons this revision is relevant/significant”.
In order to respond to these prompts, students would have to know the text, so teachers would have a means of evaluating the students’ interaction with and understanding of the material. However, students would also have an opportunity to engage with the text on a more creative, even collaborative, level.
While I was musing on Shannon’s problem, I realized that I no longer feel the need to critique my texts in the same way that I have in the past. So many of my seminar papers began with me challenging another author on his or her interpretation of a text, problem, or issue. Writing was an antagonistic, critical, analytic enterprise. I often felt that I had to tear down the critic before I could float my own ideas.
But now, as I begin this dissertation, I don’t think of composing in the same way. I mean, I still disagree with some of the interpretations I’m reading, but I’m only thinking about those differences as ways to frame my discussion. I find myself thinking about ways that I can use these other interpretations to buttress my own ideas about what I’m reading, or ways that these other authors can support me as I try to explain myself. The whole process feels more creative and collaborative rather than so argumentative. In the same way that asking a student to develop one of her own ideas using an existing text (Jane Eyre as modern social commentary, for example), this new approach allows me to see the similarities between my project and other projects and to emphasize the similarities for my own purposes.
I’ll write more on this topic in the future. For now, I’m still trying to find ways to explain what I feel. Shannon’s issue seemed like a good way to open the discussion for me. Perhaps the difference is that I have more control over how the dissertation turns out. Or maybe it’s the fact that I came up with my own question, so I can answer it in any way I want (rather than having a question posed to me and being asked to demonstrate my knowledge in a five-page response.) I don’t know yet…
But it feels great to envision my work as a part of a collaborative conversation (pardon the cliché) and less like a vitriolic talk radio shouting match wherein I better have my proof or I’ll get an F.
A few weeks ago, I had dinner with my friend, Shannon. She’s an English major at a nearby university. During the school year, we get together to read/study/grouse about once a week, sometimes more. Before I continue, I should mention that Shannon is what the university calls a “non-traditional student,” which translates to “she’s not entering the university fresh out of high school.” Shannon is very bright. She’ll probably pursue a graduate degree in film studies, so English is a good choice. In a perfect world, Shannon would be able to focus on the conventions of various genres of writing and storytelling. However…
One of Shannon’s complaints about school centers on the inane writing assignments she is asked to complete. “Analyze the significance of the tree in Jane Eyre.” Or, “Choose one chapter of Joseph Andrews and convince your readers that it contains all of the main themes of the novel.” Or, “Write an assertion (that’s really what they call it) about what you believe to be the most important plot point. Make sure to use lots of textual evidence to support your argument.”
Not the most inspiring of prompts, you see. They ask students to “critique” the texts they’re reading, but they do not ask them to do anything with the text. The emphasis is on analysis rather than invention.
I’ve seen Shannon’s notes from class, I’ve read her “freewrites,” and I’ve talked with her about her reading—it’s clear that she knows the material back and forth. However, when it comes time to write, she often struggles to fulfill the page requirement. (Seriously, five pages about the stupid tree in Jane Eyre? Give me a break…who would want to write that much??) A prompt that asked Shannon to create a new context for the story of Jane Eyre would be perfect. “Revise the story of Jane Eyre for a modern audience, changing only one or two elements of the story.” (Think Emma to Clueless.) Or, “rewrite a chapter from JE for a modern film version. Include details about setting, character development, dialogue.” Both papers could still incorporate an argument, but it would be more of a “here are the reasons this revision is relevant/significant”.
In order to respond to these prompts, students would have to know the text, so teachers would have a means of evaluating the students’ interaction with and understanding of the material. However, students would also have an opportunity to engage with the text on a more creative, even collaborative, level.
While I was musing on Shannon’s problem, I realized that I no longer feel the need to critique my texts in the same way that I have in the past. So many of my seminar papers began with me challenging another author on his or her interpretation of a text, problem, or issue. Writing was an antagonistic, critical, analytic enterprise. I often felt that I had to tear down the critic before I could float my own ideas.
But now, as I begin this dissertation, I don’t think of composing in the same way. I mean, I still disagree with some of the interpretations I’m reading, but I’m only thinking about those differences as ways to frame my discussion. I find myself thinking about ways that I can use these other interpretations to buttress my own ideas about what I’m reading, or ways that these other authors can support me as I try to explain myself. The whole process feels more creative and collaborative rather than so argumentative. In the same way that asking a student to develop one of her own ideas using an existing text (Jane Eyre as modern social commentary, for example), this new approach allows me to see the similarities between my project and other projects and to emphasize the similarities for my own purposes.
I’ll write more on this topic in the future. For now, I’m still trying to find ways to explain what I feel. Shannon’s issue seemed like a good way to open the discussion for me. Perhaps the difference is that I have more control over how the dissertation turns out. Or maybe it’s the fact that I came up with my own question, so I can answer it in any way I want (rather than having a question posed to me and being asked to demonstrate my knowledge in a five-page response.) I don’t know yet…
But it feels great to envision my work as a part of a collaborative conversation (pardon the cliché) and less like a vitriolic talk radio shouting match wherein I better have my proof or I’ll get an F.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
when you're fantasizing about marathons
Something's not quite right.
I used to run a lot--30-35 miles a week in my heyday. And never once did I think to myself, "If only the six miles ahead of me was a six-page paper to write, then I could do it, no problem."
Yesterday, while staring at a blank page of legal paper, I thought: "If this dissertation was a marathon, then I could do it, no problem."
So, it's like that...
I used to run a lot--30-35 miles a week in my heyday. And never once did I think to myself, "If only the six miles ahead of me was a six-page paper to write, then I could do it, no problem."
Yesterday, while staring at a blank page of legal paper, I thought: "If this dissertation was a marathon, then I could do it, no problem."
So, it's like that...
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
overdue
Of all of the romantic notions about writers, the one that I can’t seem to purge from my mind/psyche is the “writers carry beautiful journals and write in them whenever they have a beautiful thought.” Never mind the inherent perspicuity and splendor of the prose, the real draw is the automatic, habitual, impulse to write the thought down. That one’s inclination to get the words on paper should overpower everything else—that’s what makes a writer, right?
I can’t recall exactly when I obtained my first journal (perhaps the diary I had in sixth grade should count?) but I do know that they’ve appeared about one-per-year since that point. I welcome each one with fresh enthusiasm and verve, promising myself that this time, this journal, will be the One that will solidify my status as “writer.”
My journals are lined up nice and tidy on one of my bookshelves. Each one has about two weeks worth of entries, followed by a billion blank pages.
I started this blog in part to cure me of this problem. I figured the possibility of an audience might encourage me to put my thoughts down, invoking the idealized writer I (apparently) so desperately want to be.
And, judging by the length of time between this post and the previous post, I’ve all but shelved this blog. I hate myself a little bit for that. I also hate the fact that my friend the disciplinarian might be right. Perhaps it is a matter of sitting down to write, even when I don’t really have much going.
I’m going to keep trying. Practice makes perfect.
Or better yet, “After the final no there comes a yes…”
I can’t recall exactly when I obtained my first journal (perhaps the diary I had in sixth grade should count?) but I do know that they’ve appeared about one-per-year since that point. I welcome each one with fresh enthusiasm and verve, promising myself that this time, this journal, will be the One that will solidify my status as “writer.”
My journals are lined up nice and tidy on one of my bookshelves. Each one has about two weeks worth of entries, followed by a billion blank pages.
I started this blog in part to cure me of this problem. I figured the possibility of an audience might encourage me to put my thoughts down, invoking the idealized writer I (apparently) so desperately want to be.
And, judging by the length of time between this post and the previous post, I’ve all but shelved this blog. I hate myself a little bit for that. I also hate the fact that my friend the disciplinarian might be right. Perhaps it is a matter of sitting down to write, even when I don’t really have much going.
I’m going to keep trying. Practice makes perfect.
Or better yet, “After the final no there comes a yes…”
Monday, June 05, 2006
knitted, felted laptop bag
I might as well title this post "Thankfully, off needles" because I didn't really enjoy my last project at all. Ordinarily I love knitting, but this laptop bag about ruined me.
I got the idea for this bag because two friends of mine are using the Interweave Knits pattern. I didn't want to shell out for the pattern (sorry, Interweave) so I searched online for other knitter's ideas. I found this entry in a blog and I used her specs to create my bag.
Her bag was 25" by 22" when folded, and after felting it turned out to be 17" by 13.5", a loss of about 8" during felting. I measured my laptop (a 14" by 10.5" by 1.5" Dell) and decided I would want a post-felting size of 17" by 11.5" to ensure enough room for the thickness and for some handles. That meant that I would need to have a 25" by 19.5", and because I wanted to make my stripes go up and down rather than across, the pre-folded, pre-felted piece would have to be 50" by 19.5". That, my friends, is a lot of knit, knit, knit; purl, purl, purl.
You bet your sweet ass I knit a swatch first. I always knit a swatch. Anyone who doesn't is a fool.
So here's a picture of the finished piece pinned to my rug:
When I tell you that this thing took forever, I mean it. I had to take breaks to knit a couple of baby hats and to begin a sweater while I worked on this thing. It was mind-numbingly boring. I'm sorry, but it was.
But, this afternoon, all the work suddenly became "worth it" when I felted the bag. It took me two cycles to get it to the right size (I thought it might take three!) And here is a picture of the bag next to my laptop. I stuffed it with newspaper to shape it for the laptop. Now I just have to wait until it dries...
I got the idea for this bag because two friends of mine are using the Interweave Knits pattern. I didn't want to shell out for the pattern (sorry, Interweave) so I searched online for other knitter's ideas. I found this entry in a blog and I used her specs to create my bag.
Her bag was 25" by 22" when folded, and after felting it turned out to be 17" by 13.5", a loss of about 8" during felting. I measured my laptop (a 14" by 10.5" by 1.5" Dell) and decided I would want a post-felting size of 17" by 11.5" to ensure enough room for the thickness and for some handles. That meant that I would need to have a 25" by 19.5", and because I wanted to make my stripes go up and down rather than across, the pre-folded, pre-felted piece would have to be 50" by 19.5". That, my friends, is a lot of knit, knit, knit; purl, purl, purl.
You bet your sweet ass I knit a swatch first. I always knit a swatch. Anyone who doesn't is a fool.
So here's a picture of the finished piece pinned to my rug:
When I tell you that this thing took forever, I mean it. I had to take breaks to knit a couple of baby hats and to begin a sweater while I worked on this thing. It was mind-numbingly boring. I'm sorry, but it was.
But, this afternoon, all the work suddenly became "worth it" when I felted the bag. It took me two cycles to get it to the right size (I thought it might take three!) And here is a picture of the bag next to my laptop. I stuffed it with newspaper to shape it for the laptop. Now I just have to wait until it dries...
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