my momma thinks I'm smart

Egregious student behavior from the last week of class:

1. Complaining about a B+ on a portfolio because friends, fiancee, parents, etc. had read the writing and thought it was great.

2. Asking what materials/ ideas should be included in the presentations that are just about to start.

3. Protesting an F for an assignment which included large chunks of plagiarized material and not seeming to understand that using exact wording without quotation or citation is a problem.

Just needed to vent. Thanks for listening.

slippery memories

Recently, I feel like I'm losing my memory. I have parts of memories, but I can't reconstruct the details. The parts of the memories I do recall are vivid, which convinces me that they are based on real experiences, but I doubt their veracity because I can't connect them to any specific times or individuals.

For instance, the other night, I woke up noticing a very distinct smell (whether it was a smell in my house or a smell from my dreaming, I can't be sure). The smell was sweet and familiar and attached to a very specific memory. The only problem was I couldn't identify the smell or attach it to any specific event.

And another: In the middle of the day, for no reason, I remembered some road trip I took with some guy (I'm assuming an ex-boyfriend) where we stopped at a gas station for road snacks. The some guy was delighted when he saw the shop had Idaho Spud bars. He told me how much he had loved them when he was a kid and how he hadn't had one in years. He bought two and ate both of them on the way home. I told him about how my aunt had sent us a box of Idaho Spud bars for Christmas one year. I vividly remember driving in the car with this mystery guy and I can remember tasting a piece of his candy bar. All of it is perfectly vivid (the tastes, the smells, the sounds) but I can't remember (even though I have racked my brain and even asked the most recent ex) who the guy was. So, did this event not really happen? Did I just dream it? It's so trivial and ultimately doesn't matter but it makes memory seems so unreliable, so useless.

i'm so confused!

This is how I spent my weekend:



And now it is snowing. That's all I want to say.

slogging through

It's always this way at the end. I just don't care. I keep forgetting things. I babble on about nothing in class, while thinking about what I should have discussed if I would have made an effort to plan and prepare. And they don't care. I know they don't. They just find me tedious and the work tedious and wish that I would stop talking and that they could stop writing. It's always this way and I always manage and the semester usually ends well and they feel good about what they've learned and accomplished and I feel good about what I've taught them and I know that I will miss them all, just a little. It's always this way, so why does it feel so much worse this time around?

Maybe it's because, as Lynn pointed out the other day, I have been teach for five semesters straight. But this makes me feel like a boob because other people work year-round without 3-month breaks and they seem to manage. But yes, I have been overworked this year--overworked and underappreciated, I tell you. And there are the break-ups and new relationships and the family matters and not enough time to go running. There are reasons.

But the reasons don't matter. What matters is that there are only two more weeks of class left and I can hardly stand it. I want to cancel the rest of my classes and tell my students to go home, to not worry about thinking and rewriting anymore. I want to tell them that it's hopeless, that clearly I can't teach them anything. Last night, I had to have a serious wrestle with myself in order to find some sort of motivation for class today, some reason to keep trying, to believe that I might actually be able to teach them something and that they might actually care. Today, after receiving my feedback on his draft, a student asked if I didn't like him very much. No, I protested. You just don't know how to make an argument. And he doesn't. But maybe it's true that I don't like him very much. Or any of them.

But I dislike that I dislike them all. It makes me feel like a horrible teacher. And usually I like my students very much. I usually find them clever and interesting and a pleasure to work with. So all I want is for the semester to end with me holding on to some bit of faith in my students and my own efforts. Wish me luck.

maybe i'm not blogging because i've been so busy making books

please don't pray for me.

Last night, as I fell asleep, I was absentmindedly saying a prayer. This is something I often do, largely I suppose out of habit. But as I was thinking my trivial prayer (something about wanting good weather for an early drive to the airport), I started analyzing the efficacy of the praying. (and for whatever it's worth, while the weather today is horrible, it did not start snowing until after I returned from the airport).

Once upon a time when I was a devoted Mormon, I believed that even if my praying didn't get results, at least someone was listening. Now that I am not a devoted Mormon, I never know whether to think A) that someone is listening, and occasionally answering; B) that no one is listening or C) that someone is listening, but not answering me because I am no longer a devoted Mormon (and thus no longer in on the deal).

Because I have this complicated relationship with prayer (and with religion in general), I've been fascinated with the recent release of the big prayer study, wherein it was revealed that intercessory prayer provided by religious strangers has a slightly negative to no effect on post-surgery complications for cardiac patients. The problematic commentary following this study provides ample evidence, I think, to convince my students that addressing religious issues with empirical means really doesn't work (but that's another story altogether). Various articles have asserted that it's not prayer that's at issue, but the study itself: (on Yahoo: "Scientists fail to show. . ."). If those silly scientists would just do things right.

I loved this article in today's Slate where William Saletan details what we can learn about god from this study.

Coffee Tastes Better with Nixon

Last week, shopping in NY at Fish’s Eddy , the excellent purveyor of ceramic wares, I found this beautiful specimen (which my brother convinced me to purchase):




The mug’s stars are:

George Bush, Sr.
Newt Gingrich
Joseph McCarthy
Herbert Hoover
Richard Nixon
Trent Lott
George W. Bush
Strom Thurman
Spiro Agnew
Tom DeLay

Why no Reagan, that’s what I want to know. If the theme is infamous Republicans, shouldn’t Reagan be there? Shouldn’t he replace GHWB? A man in my bookbinding class declared the other day that Reagan should replace Jackson on the $20 because he “saved the modern world.” I may agree that Jackson shouldn’t be on the $20, but I could argue for ages about the assertion that Reagan saved the modern world (but you already know what I would say). Reagan doesn’t belong on the $20 but he does belong on my mug! I think I may have to paint him in.

this is just to say that I am an idiot

today in class, while attempting to use the past tense of to read, I actually said "readed"--with a long e.

let's talk about race, baby

Ok, I know lisa b. already posted about this, but at least I'm posting! How is it possible that Crash won best picture? Was any character in that movie even remotely believable? Hi, I'm Matt Dillon and I'm the white bigot who despite my racist ideology can still be moved by human suffering. An entire movie of mouthpiece performance just doesn't work for me. I think the movie won because we acknowledge that it might benefit our culture to talk about race, to speak frankly about issues that we can pretend don't exist. But there's a difference between talking about race and talking about race with some level of integrity and believability. And then there's the improbability of the plot connections. Most of them I was willing to accept, but the plot line involving Thandie Newton and Terrance Howard strained believability: a couple gets assaulted by white police officers, then the wife gets in a major car accident (which husband seems totally unaware of) and gets rescued by white police officer A, then husband gets carjacked and gets rescued (essentially) by white officer B, who then later kills one of the carjackers. Come on. I had a disagreement about this with film prof. C who told me that I needed to be a little flexible, that this was a movie, not reality. But when the elements of a plot are entirely manipulated in order to assert an argument about race, the thing becomes polemical, not cinematic.

I am delighted, though, that the screenplay for Brokeback won. I was amazed by how well the screenplay matched the pacing of Proulx's story, an impressive feat for a short story, and a spare one at that.

My favorite John Stewart lines of the evening:
Walk the Line is Ray with white people.
It just got a little easier out here for a pimp.

I hope Johnny sticks with the Daily Show, though. I'm just not sure the Oscars is the right millieu for him.

more book excitement

I couldn't get a good picture of the book cloth, but here is the lovely end paper:



My email is currently not working (damn IT) so what can I do but blog? The exciting news for today is that I got new bookbinding supplies in the mail. I really have to practice before I use any of it because it's all spectacularly beautiful. My favorite is some bookcloth that looks like linen and is a pale bluish-green (the color is called "endive" which is probably why I bought it). I also got some wicked cool decorative paper for end pages. Oh, and a very sharp knife that I will most likely cut myself on many, many times. I know you all probably don't care about any of this, but oh well. Later today, when I am at home with my camera, I will post pictures.

my first book

I just wanted to announce the arrival of my first book. Unfortunately, not a book I've written, but I book I've made.

I decided to take a book binding class, something I thought about doing as an undergrad, but never got around to. I made a deal with myself in January that because I had purchased a new kitchen mixer, I couldn't buy any books until March. I've done well at keeping my resolution, but now I'm just spending all my money on materials to make books. It is a very expensive hobby. I also already have too many hobbies. Oh well.

So, here is the unveiling of my first book:





The book has many flaws, but hopefully they aren't visible in the pictures. Yesterday, as I was doing the finally gluing of the book, I was cursing myself for thinking that because I like to read books I would be good at making books. Bookbinding is essentially a complicated craft and I have never been very good at crafts. But I am hopeful that I will eventually figure out what I am doing.

grizzly man

Has anyone seen this movie? Wow. I rented it the other night and it kept me up until 3 in the morning and I can't even explain why. I didn't know much about this movie except that it was about a man who lived among grizzly bears in Alaska and who was eventually killed by a bear. From this, I assumed that Timothy Treadwell, the title character, was a scientist of some sort--a biologist or an ecologist. I didn't know that he was a novice, a lost boy, a manic Mr. Rogers with a bandana instead of a sweater and a neighborhood full of grizzlies. When I first started watching the movie, I thought I couldn't finish it because Treadwell was so saccharine, so absurd.

But I got caught up in the narrative, the strangeness of it all. I started rewatching it the next day, but I didn't think I could handle it all again. I think what kept me up was thinking about how confused we are about the natural world. Here's a man who feels so out of place in the world of people that he decides to retreat to the wild. But he doesn't fully understand what that wild, animal world is all about. He talked often about how the bears could maim and kill, but he didn't really seem to believe it. Or he seemed to believe that it wouldn't happen to him, that he was somehow different, that he was somehow a bear. One of the men who helped with the recovery effort for Treadwell's body said that Treadwell seemed to think that the bears were just people in bear's clothing. That seemed an accurate assessment. I understand his need to retreat into wild nature because we have removed ourselves inappropriately far from those wild places and creatures and I think in doing so, we lose something of ourselves. But in the removal, I think it's easy to forget that wild nature is, well, wild and grizzly bears aren't fuzzy friends that we can call Mr. Chocolate.

the disorganization vortex

I've realized that the one thing that would dramatically improve my work life would be a bit more (ok, a lot more) organization on my part. Then, instead of frantically scrambling before class to find the right handout, I would just go to the place where I knew it would be and then I could relax and read/write blogs (instead of ignoring the clutter I should be organizing right now in order to blog). Life would be sweeter, I would be calmer. The problem is I am so disorganized that I don't know where to start. And I fear that in the process of organizing my current clutter I would just get behind on the things I should be doing now and then that will just lead to a me that is even more stressed. I think that I'll just have to wait until summer, but then I realize that some of my clutter is left over from the other summers where I attempted, but failed, to get myself organized. My brother suffers from the same disorder and he told me the other day that he hired a consultant to organize his studio. He figures that if someone sets up a system for him, he can follow it. This is what I need. Sadly, I don't make as much money as my dear brother does, so I am stuck with my own inability. Unless someone wants to volunteer to be my consultant. It's a good cause. MB? Anyone else have a knack for organizing?

I'm a matchmaker

One of my children's lit students told me today that she'd be missing class the rest of the week because she's getting married. I realize that this is not particularly interesting information, but wait. . .

The real news is that she is marrying someone she met in the writing class she took from me last year (they were always chatty, but I didn't know they'd been courting). I realize that I can't really take credit for their meeting and marrying, but I like to think that I teach writing in a way that encourages love. If you know anyone who needs my services, let me know.

The best part is that no matter how much they may want to forget me or English 1010, the can't. I am a permanent part of their life history.

in the church of johnny cash

Today, I was listening to a CD of Johnny Cash spirituals (the God cd of the Love, God, Murder box set which I borrowed from a friend--ok, ex-boyfriend--and don't want to give back, but I gave it to him, so it doesn't matter, right?) Anyway, while I would rather listen to Johnny Cash sing murder ballads than sing about god, the cd got me to thinking that if religion were just about Johnny Cash singing about sin and salvation I would go to church every damn Sunday.

You're a Goop!

One of my children's lit students brought this book to class this week:

The Gloop Encycopedia (ca. 1916) details all of the bad habits that children have, such as:

Beginning, Not Finishing
Fidgety Dressing
Clothes Snobbery
Silliness and Giggling
Yawning

the list goes one.
The bad habits are presented with little rhymes. Here's a sampling:

"When you are waiting in a shop,
Don't handle things like Sandy Mopp;
He nibbles and he tastes and takes
Such things as crackers, nuts, and cakes.
The Grocery Man, when Sandy's near,
Says, "You're a Goop! Don't Come in here!"

The Gloops are big-headed featureless folks:



I'm so glad children's lit has evolved. Although, maybe I needed something like this when I was a kid because I think I had at least 60% of the bad habits listed.

conscious dreaming

This morning, I woke up early. I read a bit and then I fell back to sleep. And then this happened:

I watched an episode of I Love Lucy , but it was in color. And Ricky was wearing a pink suit. And he was doing the laundry. And Fred Mertz wasn't Fred Mertz, but George Costanza.

And then I decided to make my bed. But when I pulled back the covers there was a pile of squirming black creatures that sort of looked like earthworms and sort of looked like centipedes. And I tried to vacuum them up, but they moved really fast and crawled under my floor boards and into the walls.

And then I was listening to RadioWest and the lights went out. And none of the lights in the house would turn on, but the radio was still playing. And it was dark outside. And then I realized I had forgotten to lock my door. And suddenly someone was trying to get in, I could hear him breathing outside, and I was trying to hold the door closed.

And then I woke up. And I started thinking about dreams, how convincing they can be, and how waking up after a bad dream is the most exhausing thing in the world. It's a curious thing how convincing they can be when they are so improbable. Why, when I am dreaming, can my rational brain not recognize that:

1. If the lights won't turn on, the radio won't be playing.
2. George Costanza is not Fred Mertz
3. Ricky Ricardo does not wear pink suits
4. Ricky Ricardo does not do the laundry
5. I do not make my bed

If I could realize these things, I would not have to wake up exhausted thinking that someone was trying to get into my house or that I Love Lucy had been remastered in color. Someone told me recently how he had taught himself how to dream consciously and how he had knocked out someone in a dream who was trying to harm him. I wish I could learn to do this.

I don't have to know stuff. I've just got to legislate

Today, the news from our favorite state legislature was that a bill for massive new water projects moved successfully out of committee. The proposed water projects will end up costing $1 billion (conveniently, $1 billion is also the amount of the budget surplus). In the report on the bill's progress, various folks questioned the wisdom of moving forward on such expensive (and environmentally damaging) projects without focusing first on conservation. (Why should we get rid of our lawns if we can build a billion dollar damn?)One legislator (can't remember his name and can't get the story to replay on my computer) said that we should pursue these water projects or "stop drinking water." Jackie Bikupski asked whether the state has ever spent so much on a water project. And Mr. Legislator said, "I don't know. I don't know the history of water in this state." Oh yes, this is what we are blessed with. How can you possibly make a decision about water in the state if you don't know the history of water in the state? Especially when you live in a state that has such a complicated and contested history of water rights and usage.

as if you didn't already know, let me tell you: people are strange

Today, I rode the bus to and from Orem to spend time with my family (who complain that I don't visit them enough). I'm not sure why I rode the bus. Partly because the prescription on my lenses desperately needs to be adjusted and my already bad night vision has become horrific and me on the freeway at night with the very bad vision is not the best idea. Partly because I drive too much and occasionally the guilt gets to me. Anyway, I rode the bus. And riding the bus always provides insight into how odd people can be. Tonight's example: A guy had some sort of pink liquid (it looked like lemonade) in a plastic bottle. He shook the bottle vigorously as one might to mix up the pulp in juice. Then, he looked at the bottom of the bottle. Apparently he wasn't successful in mixing up whatever he intended to, because he started shaking the bottle again. Still no luck. He did this over and over--literally for 1/2 hour. It was baffling.

sometimes it's hard to be a woman

Disclaimer: Before I begin this post, I want to assert that while I have watched a couple of seasons of the Bachelor, I do not watch the show on a regular basis (this is for lynn, who thinks I'm addicted to all of the tv shows. While I don't watch the Bachelor regularly, I do very much like to watch the very end of the first episode because there is always one unstable woman who freaks out about being rejected by this man who she's only spoken to for 10 minutes. This week, there was a doozy. This season's spectacle was horrifyingly delicious in the way that only really bad reality tv can be. Apparently, in her brief conversation with the Bachelor (full of cliched desirability, this one--a doctor, and blond!) the crazy woman declared that she was in her reproductive stage. As you can imagine, this was a bit startling to the handsome doctor (the woman is a doctor, as well). When this woman was rejected, she started yelling at all the rejected bachelorettes: "What's wrong with men?! Why are all men such shitheads!" And then she yelled at the Bachelor: "What's wrong with me? Am I too short? Are my breasts too small? Why are you on this show if you don't want to reproduce?" Then she yelled at a member of the filming crew; "Do you know what's wrong with him? What's his problem? I guess I shouldn't have talked about reproducing." And then she started sobbing about how she tries to help people and how she gets nothing in return. And about how she's tried every kind of dating (online, dating service, and now this!) and nothing has worked. Oh, the poor woman.

Woman over a certain age have this reputation--that they only care about making babies, that they are only looking for men to be partners in reproduction. This woman was the stereotype taken to the extreme. Watching her, I thought how crazy she is, how she might want to relax--just a little.

Then, I read a blog posting by a food blogger who is also a gynecologist. She was taking a break from food blogging to write about her practice and women's reproductive health (a strange departure, and she actually took the post down later in the week); anyway, in the post, she had a chart that showed how women's reproductive ability plummets dramatically at a certain age. There is, in fact, a "reproductive stage" for women and if you miss it, you miss it. Men, on the other hand, don't face such limitations.

I've always been rather ambivalent about having kids, so it's hard for me to understand the urgency that some women feel. It's hard for me to understand how a woman can declare without any introduction that she is ready to reproduce and then curse her fate when a man doesn't immediately respond. But maybe I don't understand because I haven't yet reached the edge of that plummet into infertility.

This biological reality puts women in a tough position, I think. You're not supposed to care, you're not supposed to advertise your desire for children, you're not supposed to pursue relationships primarily to reproduce. And yet one's body can assert some pretty persuasive imperatives. And we are, after all, just animals.