Will says I need blog. It's not like I don't talk to him every day. And in this madness of planning a wedding and a move to Canada, when I'm a mess of nerves who yells and cries, you'd think he might want to hear a little bit less from me. But I guess there's some blog magic that he just can't get from the in-person me.
I wish had something wise, pithy, funny--or even interesting--to say, but sadly my brain is fried on grading and wedding planning. So, a quick summary of the good and bad things in my life at the moment.
Bad Things: A persistent cough that came out of nowhere with no additional symptoms. It's worse at night, which means I'm not getting any sleep. A very messy house (but now that I am done grading, I can rememdy that shortly). My best friend and my sister declared today that I am in fact having a "wedding," despite my efforts otherwise; I still think it's a low-key affair, but apparently I am wrong. My George Bush stimulus cash has not yet arrived; I need it to pay for my fancy new glasses.
Good Things: Luckily my good things list is much longer: Grades are finished and the only student emails thus far have been thank-yous (maybe I was too nice?). The dance movie marathon is only five days away. Even though I have to plan a wedding, I get to have said wedding at my favorite restaurant in my favorite desert with my favorite boy. And I have a pretty dress and blue shoes. It has finally stopped snowing. And a surprise good thing today--an essay that I sent off in, oh, 2005 finally got accepted today. I should refuse the publication in protest of the delay, but it's an essay that would have a hard time finding a home other than the journal I sent it to.
So that's that. Hopefully more blogging in the days to come.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
spring break--the numbers
4 books read: Proust Was a Neuroscientist (Jonah Lehrer), The View from Castle Rock (Alice Munro), Theft (Peter Carey), The Bird Artist (Howard Norman)
6 nights sleeping in a tent: And quite well, actually--it may have been the rushing stream nearby.
4 days of climbing, 2 runs, and several hikes.
1 email responded to.
1 disastrous fall: slipping on pea gravel on a downhill slope which lead to to a bleeding toe and a very large bruise on my hip.
a 3rd viewing of Step Up 2.
I would say all of that makes for a perfect spring break. I returned totally relaxed and calm. Too bad that's not going to last.
6 nights sleeping in a tent: And quite well, actually--it may have been the rushing stream nearby.
4 days of climbing, 2 runs, and several hikes.
1 email responded to.
1 disastrous fall: slipping on pea gravel on a downhill slope which lead to to a bleeding toe and a very large bruise on my hip.
a 3rd viewing of Step Up 2.
I would say all of that makes for a perfect spring break. I returned totally relaxed and calm. Too bad that's not going to last.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
plagiarism--the blog version
Well, it took a long arduous weekend and a resulting flu, but the PhD application if on its way. Wish me luck (at this point, I'm not sure whether that means getting in or being rejected). Since I worked such long hours on the writing sample, I have to make sure I get an audience outside of the selection committee, so here is--for your thrills and enjoyment--my plagiarism paper, the blog version.
“We sampled it from them, but it’s not the same baseline. Theirs goes, ‘Ding ding ding dingy ding-ding.’ Ours goes, ‘Ding ding ding ding dingy ding-ding.’ That little bitty change. It’s not the same.” --Vanilla Ice
"I changed the beginning and the end. It's a completely different story."--Anonymous Student
"We live in an intertextual world, not as a postmodern literary conceit but as a matter of practical reality."--Perry Share
What's the line between intertextuality and plagiarism? Consider Winsor McCay's Little Nemo in Slumberland:
And its visual homage, Maurice Sendak's In the Night Kitchen:
I use this example all of the time in my children's lit class. What makes Sendak's use of McCay's design and thematic elements a legitimate example of intertextuality & not plagiarism?
Plagiarism is Tricky.
1. Easy example of plagiarism: the purchased paper.
WRONG
What about ghost writing? Smart, busy, important people pay someone else to write for them all the time. The paper mills use these arguments: "How can I attend ballet rehearsal? I'm two days short of my paper deadline." The "completely non-plagiarized" papers are the perfect solution for the over-scheduled, overworked student.
2. Not-so-easy example: Appropriation, no citation.
If we can't even rely on the eternal and essential evils of the purchased paper, what happens when we encounter the lesser evils of plagiarism? If sources are referenced or quoted, they should always be carefully and thoroughly cited. What about this?
From Sophie Matisse's series Be Back in Five Minutes. Poor DaVinci doesn't even get his name mentioned.
3. Not-so-easy example 2: Patchwriting
Cutting and pasting, weaving in one's own words--that's getting closer. The writer is trying to make sense of the text, incorporate the sources. But the patchwritten text still isn't where it needs to be. Or is it?
What about Jonathan Lethem's 2007 Harper's pastiche?
Any text is woven entirely with citations, references, echoes, cultural languages, which cut across it through and through in a vast stereophony. The citations that go to make up a text are anonymous, untraceable, and yet already read; they are quotations without inverted commas. The kernel, the soul—let us go further and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable material of all human utterances—is plagiarism. For substantially all ideas are secondhand, consciously and unconsciously drawn from a million outside sources, and daily used by the garnerer with a pride and satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them; whereas there is not a rag of originality about them anywhere expect the little discoloration they get from his mental and moral caliber and his temperment, and which is revealed in characteristics of phrasing. Old and new make the warp and woof of every moment. There is no thread that is not a twist of these two strands. By necessity, by proclivity, and by delight, we all quote.
I like what he has to say here, but none of it's his. He weaves together Barthes, Twain, Emerson. And he doesn't even admit it until the end, where he writes:
This key to the preceding essay names the source of every line I stole, warped, and cobbled together as I ‘wrote’ (except, alas, those sources I forgot along the way). Nearly every sentence I culled I also revised, at least slightly—for necessities of space, in order to produce a more consistent tone, or simply because I felt like it.
Because he felt like it? Well, it works for me.
Outside of our teaching lives, we all recognize and accept that texts are used and reused and that plagiarism is big and flexible and indefinable. But in the classroom, we take the rigid view, believing that plagiarism "hurts the inquirer, who has avoided thinking independently and has lost the opportunity to participate in broader social conversations” (wpa statement on plagiarism). We even take a bit of pleasure when we catch the little buggers.
But our students also know that plagiarism is big and flexible and indefinable. They see it every day. All the sampling, mash-ups, parodies--it can seem like a textual free-for-all.
But there are rules. Take DJ Spooky aka that subliminal kid, who warns against "too much citation, not enough synthesis." Sounds like advice I might give my students.
Conclusion: Think rhetorical, not ethical. Use the textual practices outside of academia to explore the uses of text inside of academia.
And now, all of your plagiarism practices have been solved.
“We sampled it from them, but it’s not the same baseline. Theirs goes, ‘Ding ding ding dingy ding-ding.’ Ours goes, ‘Ding ding ding ding dingy ding-ding.’ That little bitty change. It’s not the same.” --Vanilla Ice
"I changed the beginning and the end. It's a completely different story."--Anonymous Student
"We live in an intertextual world, not as a postmodern literary conceit but as a matter of practical reality."--Perry Share
What's the line between intertextuality and plagiarism? Consider Winsor McCay's Little Nemo in Slumberland:
And its visual homage, Maurice Sendak's In the Night Kitchen:
I use this example all of the time in my children's lit class. What makes Sendak's use of McCay's design and thematic elements a legitimate example of intertextuality & not plagiarism?
Plagiarism is Tricky.
1. Easy example of plagiarism: the purchased paper.
WRONG
What about ghost writing? Smart, busy, important people pay someone else to write for them all the time. The paper mills use these arguments: "How can I attend ballet rehearsal? I'm two days short of my paper deadline." The "completely non-plagiarized" papers are the perfect solution for the over-scheduled, overworked student.
2. Not-so-easy example: Appropriation, no citation.
If we can't even rely on the eternal and essential evils of the purchased paper, what happens when we encounter the lesser evils of plagiarism? If sources are referenced or quoted, they should always be carefully and thoroughly cited. What about this?
From Sophie Matisse's series Be Back in Five Minutes. Poor DaVinci doesn't even get his name mentioned.
3. Not-so-easy example 2: Patchwriting
Cutting and pasting, weaving in one's own words--that's getting closer. The writer is trying to make sense of the text, incorporate the sources. But the patchwritten text still isn't where it needs to be. Or is it?
What about Jonathan Lethem's 2007 Harper's pastiche?
Any text is woven entirely with citations, references, echoes, cultural languages, which cut across it through and through in a vast stereophony. The citations that go to make up a text are anonymous, untraceable, and yet already read; they are quotations without inverted commas. The kernel, the soul—let us go further and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable material of all human utterances—is plagiarism. For substantially all ideas are secondhand, consciously and unconsciously drawn from a million outside sources, and daily used by the garnerer with a pride and satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them; whereas there is not a rag of originality about them anywhere expect the little discoloration they get from his mental and moral caliber and his temperment, and which is revealed in characteristics of phrasing. Old and new make the warp and woof of every moment. There is no thread that is not a twist of these two strands. By necessity, by proclivity, and by delight, we all quote.
I like what he has to say here, but none of it's his. He weaves together Barthes, Twain, Emerson. And he doesn't even admit it until the end, where he writes:
This key to the preceding essay names the source of every line I stole, warped, and cobbled together as I ‘wrote’ (except, alas, those sources I forgot along the way). Nearly every sentence I culled I also revised, at least slightly—for necessities of space, in order to produce a more consistent tone, or simply because I felt like it.
Because he felt like it? Well, it works for me.
Outside of our teaching lives, we all recognize and accept that texts are used and reused and that plagiarism is big and flexible and indefinable. But in the classroom, we take the rigid view, believing that plagiarism "hurts the inquirer, who has avoided thinking independently and has lost the opportunity to participate in broader social conversations” (wpa statement on plagiarism). We even take a bit of pleasure when we catch the little buggers.
But our students also know that plagiarism is big and flexible and indefinable. They see it every day. All the sampling, mash-ups, parodies--it can seem like a textual free-for-all.
But there are rules. Take DJ Spooky aka that subliminal kid, who warns against "too much citation, not enough synthesis." Sounds like advice I might give my students.
Conclusion: Think rhetorical, not ethical. Use the textual practices outside of academia to explore the uses of text inside of academia.
And now, all of your plagiarism practices have been solved.
Friday, February 29, 2008
something to think about
For all of you Obama supporters, here's a little food for thought.
Oprah is a mega-Obama supporter, yes? Consider for a minute Oprah's megalomania. O Magazine. The O Network. The resident Oprah show doctor is Dr. Oz. Is Oprah supporting Obama to create an O-ocracy?
Imagine it: the O-office instead of the Oval Office. Little o's instead of stars on the flag. Pretty soon it will be Omerica.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
Oprah is a mega-Obama supporter, yes? Consider for a minute Oprah's megalomania. O Magazine. The O Network. The resident Oprah show doctor is Dr. Oz. Is Oprah supporting Obama to create an O-ocracy?
Imagine it: the O-office instead of the Oval Office. Little o's instead of stars on the flag. Pretty soon it will be Omerica.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
do I really want a phd?
Having just read dr. write's remarks about having a 24/7 anxiety attack, I feel a little bit better about my own 24/7 state of anxiety.
I am in the middle of applying for a phd program--well, a week away from the application deadline. In some ways, I planned ahead. The letters of recommendation have been sent, the general grad school application has been submitted, the transcripts have been sent, the gre has been taken (again!--clearly I've become a total dufus in the past ten years so my old scores just won't do). All of that is good. But what hasn't been done?
uh, a letter of intent and a writing sample. The letter has a good draft, so I can finish that up tomorrow. It's fine and does what it needs to do. But the writing sample. my god. If I were an organized person, I would just submit some writing from my master's, like say my thesis. But no, I have no idea where the thing is. I had the option to do a "project" which was exactly like a thesis, but I didn't have to meet any of the graduate school's expectations or deadlines, which basically means the thesis didn't get bound. Which means is became a stack of papers. Which means it is lost somewhere in my endless stacks of papers. And since I wrote the thesis eight years ago, the digital version is either a) on a floppy disk or b) on a zip drive.
Also, since my job is all about teaching, I have not done any substantial academic writing in the last eight years. So, I am trying to expand a conference presentation I did on plagiarism. It's an interesting topic and the draft is sort of working, but I seriously don't know how to do this kind of writing any more. What happened to my complex sentences, my ability to build an argument, my ease with integrating sources. Even the mystery novel I'm currently reading (The Somnambulist) uses more complex language than I seem to be capable of.
I am usually a procrastinator, but this I have not been procrastinating. I'm just way too busy and way to out of practice. Hopefully by the end of tonight (when will that be exactly?) I will have a not-too-crappy draft. Then I will try to edit furiously in order to get it sent off by the end of the week. Oh yes, and I will also grade like 4000 student papers.
Wish me luck. The good thing is that my paper references Vanilla Ice, Maurice Sendak, Jonathan Lethem, and DJ Spooky. It can't be bad, right?
I am in the middle of applying for a phd program--well, a week away from the application deadline. In some ways, I planned ahead. The letters of recommendation have been sent, the general grad school application has been submitted, the transcripts have been sent, the gre has been taken (again!--clearly I've become a total dufus in the past ten years so my old scores just won't do). All of that is good. But what hasn't been done?
uh, a letter of intent and a writing sample. The letter has a good draft, so I can finish that up tomorrow. It's fine and does what it needs to do. But the writing sample. my god. If I were an organized person, I would just submit some writing from my master's, like say my thesis. But no, I have no idea where the thing is. I had the option to do a "project" which was exactly like a thesis, but I didn't have to meet any of the graduate school's expectations or deadlines, which basically means the thesis didn't get bound. Which means is became a stack of papers. Which means it is lost somewhere in my endless stacks of papers. And since I wrote the thesis eight years ago, the digital version is either a) on a floppy disk or b) on a zip drive.
Also, since my job is all about teaching, I have not done any substantial academic writing in the last eight years. So, I am trying to expand a conference presentation I did on plagiarism. It's an interesting topic and the draft is sort of working, but I seriously don't know how to do this kind of writing any more. What happened to my complex sentences, my ability to build an argument, my ease with integrating sources. Even the mystery novel I'm currently reading (The Somnambulist) uses more complex language than I seem to be capable of.
I am usually a procrastinator, but this I have not been procrastinating. I'm just way too busy and way to out of practice. Hopefully by the end of tonight (when will that be exactly?) I will have a not-too-crappy draft. Then I will try to edit furiously in order to get it sent off by the end of the week. Oh yes, and I will also grade like 4000 student papers.
Wish me luck. The good thing is that my paper references Vanilla Ice, Maurice Sendak, Jonathan Lethem, and DJ Spooky. It can't be bad, right?
Friday, February 15, 2008
I just want to dance
Last weekend, I saw Step Up 2: the Streets twice, TWICE. I've been waiting for this thing since since December when I saw the preview before Sweeney Todd. I was beside myself with joy. My sister-in-law thought I was kidding. No. There's no joking about dance movies.
I'm pretty sure I've gushed about my love for the dance movie before, but this one is like the best ever. It feels like when I was a pre-teen watching Breakin' over and over all night long at a sleepover. Maybe the love is all about the "street" element of both movies. Yes, the street is always part of the dance movie, but usually the street gets citified with polished ballet moves. Whatever. In both Breakin and Step Up, the streets win baby. I was so into Breakin' that I took some breakdancing classes. Sadly, I've got no sick moves.
It's decidedly silly this love I have for dance movies, but I just can't help it. Step Up had both ridiculous ("we call it a battle but what are we fighting for") and hilarious ("hey, this ain't high school musical"). The romance was silly. The dancing was amazing. I so wish I could move like that, but I'm lucky if I can walk through a parking lot without running into a car mirror.
"For the break of your life! Push it to pop it! Rock it to lock it! Break it to make it!"
I'm pretty sure I've gushed about my love for the dance movie before, but this one is like the best ever. It feels like when I was a pre-teen watching Breakin' over and over all night long at a sleepover. Maybe the love is all about the "street" element of both movies. Yes, the street is always part of the dance movie, but usually the street gets citified with polished ballet moves. Whatever. In both Breakin and Step Up, the streets win baby. I was so into Breakin' that I took some breakdancing classes. Sadly, I've got no sick moves.
It's decidedly silly this love I have for dance movies, but I just can't help it. Step Up had both ridiculous ("we call it a battle but what are we fighting for") and hilarious ("hey, this ain't high school musical"). The romance was silly. The dancing was amazing. I so wish I could move like that, but I'm lucky if I can walk through a parking lot without running into a car mirror.
"For the break of your life! Push it to pop it! Rock it to lock it! Break it to make it!"
Sunday, February 10, 2008
why I voted for Clinton
At the beginning of this week, I wasn't entirely sure whether I would vote for Clinton or Obama. The way I look at things, anyone's better than Dubya, so let's just get on with the switch-up. Hell, at this point I would even take McCain. He may still support the war, but I'm guessing he'll handle the mess with more efficiency and intelligence. Clinton and Obama have very similar policy positions, so the choice seems less urgent than it might with two other candidates. And they're both for change right?
I didn't decide who I would vote for until I showed up at the polls. Ultimately, my decision came down to this: I wanted to vote for a woman. Clearly I wouldn't have voted for a woman if she had the political views of Huckabee or the smarminess of Mitt, but in this choice gender was a deciding factor for me.
As the week has progressed, though, I am more and more satisfied with my choice for reasons beyond gender. Here's what it's really all about:
1.Too much kumbaya. During Tuesday night's Super Tuesday coverage on ABC, Charlie Gibson referred to Obama's supporters as his "followers." And as Obama talked to the crowd, many of them seemed to be in some sort of orgasmic trance. Followers indeed. Add to this that Oprah is a mega-follower of Obama. This is a woman who believes in and promotes The Law of Attraction, which suggests that the universe is just waiting to deliver to you whatever you ask it for (including shiny stoves and houses on the beach as illustrated in one of her shows about The Secret). Further, increasingly his speeches mimic the rhetorical styles of MLK and JFK. Granted, these two were expert rhetoricians, but I worry that his derivative style may indicate that he is also lacking in original, pragmatic plans for action. Invoking MLK's style and "echoes from the hills" may be inspiring, but I need something a little more concrete. To consider this point further, read David Brooks' excellent and hilarious NY Times column.
2. What's with all the sexism? Based on the chatter surrounding the Clinton/ Obama contest thus far, I am beginning to suspect that our country may be far more sexist than racist. Yes, we are racist, but much of our racism is connected to poverty. With all things being equal in terms of education, class, and political views, I think being female is a bigger stumbling block than being black. (Another NY Times column on this point.) And strangely, much of the sexist response to Clinton has been from highly-educated, liberal women. Recently, there was a whole collection of essays published (can't remember the title) about Hillary by various high-profile feminists. Were they writing about Hillary's politics? Uh, no. They were writing about her as a woman, how she reflects on their identities as women, how her life speaks to their own insecurities. Where's the book about Obama's role as a man? Clinton tends to get far more support from older and working-class women than she does from upper-middle class women. Maybe working class women know that being a woman means both mothering and working--it's not a matter of trying to "have it all"--and they just want someone to help them out a little bit in managing that life. I'm not saying anyone should vote for Clinton because she is a woman, but they certainly shouldn't not vote for her for the same reason. She's a candidate, not the foil for your feminist insecurities.
That's all I have to say--for now. Kumbaya.
I didn't decide who I would vote for until I showed up at the polls. Ultimately, my decision came down to this: I wanted to vote for a woman. Clearly I wouldn't have voted for a woman if she had the political views of Huckabee or the smarminess of Mitt, but in this choice gender was a deciding factor for me.
As the week has progressed, though, I am more and more satisfied with my choice for reasons beyond gender. Here's what it's really all about:
1.Too much kumbaya. During Tuesday night's Super Tuesday coverage on ABC, Charlie Gibson referred to Obama's supporters as his "followers." And as Obama talked to the crowd, many of them seemed to be in some sort of orgasmic trance. Followers indeed. Add to this that Oprah is a mega-follower of Obama. This is a woman who believes in and promotes The Law of Attraction, which suggests that the universe is just waiting to deliver to you whatever you ask it for (including shiny stoves and houses on the beach as illustrated in one of her shows about The Secret). Further, increasingly his speeches mimic the rhetorical styles of MLK and JFK. Granted, these two were expert rhetoricians, but I worry that his derivative style may indicate that he is also lacking in original, pragmatic plans for action. Invoking MLK's style and "echoes from the hills" may be inspiring, but I need something a little more concrete. To consider this point further, read David Brooks' excellent and hilarious NY Times column.
2. What's with all the sexism? Based on the chatter surrounding the Clinton/ Obama contest thus far, I am beginning to suspect that our country may be far more sexist than racist. Yes, we are racist, but much of our racism is connected to poverty. With all things being equal in terms of education, class, and political views, I think being female is a bigger stumbling block than being black. (Another NY Times column on this point.) And strangely, much of the sexist response to Clinton has been from highly-educated, liberal women. Recently, there was a whole collection of essays published (can't remember the title) about Hillary by various high-profile feminists. Were they writing about Hillary's politics? Uh, no. They were writing about her as a woman, how she reflects on their identities as women, how her life speaks to their own insecurities. Where's the book about Obama's role as a man? Clinton tends to get far more support from older and working-class women than she does from upper-middle class women. Maybe working class women know that being a woman means both mothering and working--it's not a matter of trying to "have it all"--and they just want someone to help them out a little bit in managing that life. I'm not saying anyone should vote for Clinton because she is a woman, but they certainly shouldn't not vote for her for the same reason. She's a candidate, not the foil for your feminist insecurities.
That's all I have to say--for now. Kumbaya.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
help! need romantic reading suggestions
So, I'm trying to plan a wedding here and we need some readings. You know, some way to flesh out the ceremony, to make everyone weepy, to get our friends/ family involved. The problem is all the love texts I like are either a) too sexy or b) too depressing. I can't have too sexy because I don't want to remind my Mormon father that I've been "living in sin" for the past two years; I just want him to be ecstatic that it's finally legit. And obviously we can't be depressing everyone, but that's what I like!
So, I'm calling on your collective romantic and literary expertise to give me a few ideas. Not too sexy, not depressing, not too cheesy. If you can suggest something that mildly references spirituality or god but not in a heavy-handed way, that would be swell too. ok, thanks
So, I'm calling on your collective romantic and literary expertise to give me a few ideas. Not too sexy, not depressing, not too cheesy. If you can suggest something that mildly references spirituality or god but not in a heavy-handed way, that would be swell too. ok, thanks
Thursday, January 31, 2008
stuff I love
i'm finally answering lisa b's call to declare three things I love. So, for today:
sky: I love watching the sky, any kind of sky (oh, except that gunky yellow mid-winter, SL inversion sky, which luckily we are short on this year). I prefer the daytime sky to the nighttime sky. I want clouds and sun and movement. Yes, sky.
this new cd of underground post-punk music from China: it's called Look Directly Into the Sun. I heard about it on Fresh Air. it rocks and I will be listening to it incessantly for the next few days.
my voice: i am voiceless today, so i am thinking about how much I love to talk and teach and call people on the phone. voices are amazing--the way we can recognize a person by voice, the way we can tell how someone is feeling or maybe even what they are thinking just by slight tonal differences. a couple of years ago, when we canoed the Green River we ran into a group that planned to paddle for seven days in silence. I think that's stupid. Silence is good of course, in some circustances, but seven days without the sound of a voice misses all that's beautiful in the sound of a human voice.
sky: I love watching the sky, any kind of sky (oh, except that gunky yellow mid-winter, SL inversion sky, which luckily we are short on this year). I prefer the daytime sky to the nighttime sky. I want clouds and sun and movement. Yes, sky.
this new cd of underground post-punk music from China: it's called Look Directly Into the Sun. I heard about it on Fresh Air. it rocks and I will be listening to it incessantly for the next few days.
my voice: i am voiceless today, so i am thinking about how much I love to talk and teach and call people on the phone. voices are amazing--the way we can recognize a person by voice, the way we can tell how someone is feeling or maybe even what they are thinking just by slight tonal differences. a couple of years ago, when we canoed the Green River we ran into a group that planned to paddle for seven days in silence. I think that's stupid. Silence is good of course, in some circustances, but seven days without the sound of a voice misses all that's beautiful in the sound of a human voice.
Friday, January 25, 2008
sobering
I spent my morning at the state historical archives trying to find out some information about my great-grandmother. Until recently, I've never thought much about my great-grandmother. Her husband, my great-grandfather, was a guide in southern utah, a teller of tall tales, a folkloric, heroic sort of figure. He's attractive and compelling; I can mention his name to people who know about the southwest and they know him and they're charmed that I belong to him. I have a certain sort of longing for him, wishing I could have known him, wishing I could have accompanied him on a few adventures. I have spent hours researching, reading, writing about him.
I know very little about Annetta, my great-grandmother. As with most women of the past, her story is hidden behind the lives of men. Family stories about her mention her apple pie, her penuche fudge, her honey candy. And her mental illness. Her illness is mentioned, but in a hushed way, not out of shame but out of misunderstanding, ignorance. No one really knows what happened to her. Her daughter, my grandmother, had her own battle with mental illness, so I don't think she wanted to talk about the sorrows of her mother's life.
I never gave her much thought because it was Zeke who interested me. The family lore about Zeke and Annetta was that Zeke loved her dearly; she was the mother of his five children. As I researched Zeke's desert adventures, I also learned that Annetta was not Zeke's first wife. I learned that after Annetta, Zeke married three more women (he outlived all but the last). I learned that Zeke divorced Annetta. While she was a patient at the Utah State Hospital. Where she died.
Annetta could have been released from the hospital but no one came for her.
She was a patient at the hospital for seven years, six months, and twenty-five days.
Her diagnosis: manic depression, paranoia, psychosis.
Today, I read reports of conditions at the Utah State Hospital from the Board of Insanity. They categorized patients' likelihood of recovery into three categories: favorable, doubtful, and hopeless. Most patients were either in the "doubtful" and "hopeless" categories. This was not a place to get better. Each patient had approximately 35 square feet of living space, 398 cubic feet of air space, and 52 square feet of bed space. At the time, one of the most popular treatments was hydrotherapy which described a range of procedures: prolonged baths of sometimes days, showers with pressurized water, and wrapping in wet sheets that would dry and shrink around the patient.
There is more to learn.
I feel awkward writing this post--it feels so personal. I am trying to write an essay about Annetta, so I guess this is my beginning. And, beyond that, I guess I want someone to hear her story, to know the life that she lived. Thanks for hearing her story.
I know very little about Annetta, my great-grandmother. As with most women of the past, her story is hidden behind the lives of men. Family stories about her mention her apple pie, her penuche fudge, her honey candy. And her mental illness. Her illness is mentioned, but in a hushed way, not out of shame but out of misunderstanding, ignorance. No one really knows what happened to her. Her daughter, my grandmother, had her own battle with mental illness, so I don't think she wanted to talk about the sorrows of her mother's life.
I never gave her much thought because it was Zeke who interested me. The family lore about Zeke and Annetta was that Zeke loved her dearly; she was the mother of his five children. As I researched Zeke's desert adventures, I also learned that Annetta was not Zeke's first wife. I learned that after Annetta, Zeke married three more women (he outlived all but the last). I learned that Zeke divorced Annetta. While she was a patient at the Utah State Hospital. Where she died.
Annetta could have been released from the hospital but no one came for her.
She was a patient at the hospital for seven years, six months, and twenty-five days.
Her diagnosis: manic depression, paranoia, psychosis.
Today, I read reports of conditions at the Utah State Hospital from the Board of Insanity. They categorized patients' likelihood of recovery into three categories: favorable, doubtful, and hopeless. Most patients were either in the "doubtful" and "hopeless" categories. This was not a place to get better. Each patient had approximately 35 square feet of living space, 398 cubic feet of air space, and 52 square feet of bed space. At the time, one of the most popular treatments was hydrotherapy which described a range of procedures: prolonged baths of sometimes days, showers with pressurized water, and wrapping in wet sheets that would dry and shrink around the patient.
There is more to learn.
I feel awkward writing this post--it feels so personal. I am trying to write an essay about Annetta, so I guess this is my beginning. And, beyond that, I guess I want someone to hear her story, to know the life that she lived. Thanks for hearing her story.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Co-opting Optimism
Last week, at our semesterly professional depression day, I maade the mistake of going to a workshop that was all about positive thinking or something. There were paper crowns and noisemakers and it was supposed to make us all excited to start the new semester. I went to the workshop to support a friend (whom I adore); I should perhaps have considered that friendship demands limits.
Part of the workshop was a pep-talk video from a National Geographic photographer whose key message was to "celebrate what's right with the world." He made a few insightful points and showed a variety of beautiful photographs. But as gorgeous pictures of nature continued to flash on the screen I couldn't help thinking, "what about deforestation, what about the giant heaps of garbage in the ocean, what about the melting glaciers?" I wanted to bring up these issues, but I knew that I would immediately be labeled as a cynic or as a student called me last semester, "a hater."
The truth is, I'm not a cynic. I think you should celebrate what's right with the world, but you shouldn't ignore what's wrong with the world. I am enthusiastic about teaching, but I'm also concerned about the pressure to work more for raises that we already deserve. I want to talk about what's right and wrong with the world.
I was stewing after that workshop, but in the end I'm glad I went because it made me realize a few things. Primarily, optimism has been entirely co-opted and redefined as a naive, feel-good approach to life. Optimism has been reduced to the wacko realm of The Secret where you only have to believe to achieve. All of this optimist rhetoric makes me feel like a cynic because I sure as hell don't believe that the universe is just waiting for me to tell it what I want I need.
But I'm not a cynic. I'm truly not. I'm not a feel-good optimist either and sometimes it feels like there isn't an option between the two.
The same night, I finally watched An Inconvenient Truth. Towards the end, Gore mentioned how the trouble with responding to global warming is that people often go from denial to despair without pausing to consider the space between--the space where one might actually do something. There is a lot right with the world, but there is a lot wrong--you don't have to select one view over the other. You can look at what's right as motivation to change what is wrong.
Perhaps this all seems simple, but it was quite a revelation to me. I used to be a fairly naive optimist. My mom once told me that I was only an optimist because I was young and nothing bad had ever happened to me. Yikes. I certainly chafed at that prouncement, which to me just confirmed my mom's role as a cynic. Eventually, I realized that she could have been right and if pressed in the past few years to decide whether I were an optimist or a pessimist I would have chosen the latter. I accepted that fact with a distinct longing for my former optimisim. Now, I am starting to realize that this is a false choice, that it's perfectly possible to be both.
Part of the workshop was a pep-talk video from a National Geographic photographer whose key message was to "celebrate what's right with the world." He made a few insightful points and showed a variety of beautiful photographs. But as gorgeous pictures of nature continued to flash on the screen I couldn't help thinking, "what about deforestation, what about the giant heaps of garbage in the ocean, what about the melting glaciers?" I wanted to bring up these issues, but I knew that I would immediately be labeled as a cynic or as a student called me last semester, "a hater."
The truth is, I'm not a cynic. I think you should celebrate what's right with the world, but you shouldn't ignore what's wrong with the world. I am enthusiastic about teaching, but I'm also concerned about the pressure to work more for raises that we already deserve. I want to talk about what's right and wrong with the world.
I was stewing after that workshop, but in the end I'm glad I went because it made me realize a few things. Primarily, optimism has been entirely co-opted and redefined as a naive, feel-good approach to life. Optimism has been reduced to the wacko realm of The Secret where you only have to believe to achieve. All of this optimist rhetoric makes me feel like a cynic because I sure as hell don't believe that the universe is just waiting for me to tell it what I want I need.
But I'm not a cynic. I'm truly not. I'm not a feel-good optimist either and sometimes it feels like there isn't an option between the two.
The same night, I finally watched An Inconvenient Truth. Towards the end, Gore mentioned how the trouble with responding to global warming is that people often go from denial to despair without pausing to consider the space between--the space where one might actually do something. There is a lot right with the world, but there is a lot wrong--you don't have to select one view over the other. You can look at what's right as motivation to change what is wrong.
Perhaps this all seems simple, but it was quite a revelation to me. I used to be a fairly naive optimist. My mom once told me that I was only an optimist because I was young and nothing bad had ever happened to me. Yikes. I certainly chafed at that prouncement, which to me just confirmed my mom's role as a cynic. Eventually, I realized that she could have been right and if pressed in the past few years to decide whether I were an optimist or a pessimist I would have chosen the latter. I accepted that fact with a distinct longing for my former optimisim. Now, I am starting to realize that this is a false choice, that it's perfectly possible to be both.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
nine reasons I have not been blogging
It's almost been a month--a month people!--since I have blogged. I know that each of you has taken a few moments in your holiday bliss to cry a little about this and for that I am sorry. But I have good reasons.
1. I had to sleep--a lot.
2. I had a lot of things to read. To facilitate this reading, I also had to make several trips to the bookstore and finally pay off my $100 bill for library fines.
3. I had to bake: pumpkin pie, cherry pie, the best chocolate chip cookies ever, linzer cookies, graham crackers, marshmallows, a trifle (which included days of concocting a recipe--it included blood oranges and it tasted like a creamscicle!).
3. I had to travel to Virginia for a job interview in a city where we eventually decided not to move.
4. I had to contemplate my future life in the cold, cold north of Canadia.
5. I had to go shopping for new pants, because all of my pants started falling apart or mysteriously started shrinking.
6. I had to think about how to pull off a wedding without doing any actual planning.
7. I had to write syllabi (which I still haven't finished--why am I blogging?)
8. I had to watch movies, both in the theater and at home: Golden Compass, Walk Hard, Sweeney Todd, Midnight Cowboy, Once, Purple Rain, Hot Fuzz (again!), Super Bad.
9. I had to go to Montana where I had to eat a lot and sleep and play clue and go skiing.
1. I had to sleep--a lot.
2. I had a lot of things to read. To facilitate this reading, I also had to make several trips to the bookstore and finally pay off my $100 bill for library fines.
3. I had to bake: pumpkin pie, cherry pie, the best chocolate chip cookies ever, linzer cookies, graham crackers, marshmallows, a trifle (which included days of concocting a recipe--it included blood oranges and it tasted like a creamscicle!).
3. I had to travel to Virginia for a job interview in a city where we eventually decided not to move.
4. I had to contemplate my future life in the cold, cold north of Canadia.
5. I had to go shopping for new pants, because all of my pants started falling apart or mysteriously started shrinking.
6. I had to think about how to pull off a wedding without doing any actual planning.
7. I had to write syllabi (which I still haven't finished--why am I blogging?)
8. I had to watch movies, both in the theater and at home: Golden Compass, Walk Hard, Sweeney Todd, Midnight Cowboy, Once, Purple Rain, Hot Fuzz (again!), Super Bad.
9. I had to go to Montana where I had to eat a lot and sleep and play clue and go skiing.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
a few questions I need answers to
1. When will it stop snowing?
2. Will the Golden Compass be as good a movie as I want it to be?
3. Is it a good sign that Canadian bills include pictures of people playing hockey, ice skating, and sledding?
4. Should I buy the oh-so-cute and sexy dress that is totally impractical?
5. Why am I so delighted that I've finally been rated on PickaProf?
6. If I run for political office on a scrooge platform, where I promise to outlaw all public playing of Christmas music until a week before Christmas, will I win?
7. When will I finally be rated on RateMyProfessor?
8. Will I get a chili pepper?
9. Will 30 Rock be on forever?
10. Will I be able to survive if it does go off the air?
11. Do I know how to count?
12. Why didn't Martha Stewart do a holiday issue this year?
13. Is it wrong that I've worn the same pair of socks three days in a row without washing them? I can't help it! They're so stripey, so woolly and so warm.
2. Will the Golden Compass be as good a movie as I want it to be?
3. Is it a good sign that Canadian bills include pictures of people playing hockey, ice skating, and sledding?
4. Should I buy the oh-so-cute and sexy dress that is totally impractical?
5. Why am I so delighted that I've finally been rated on PickaProf?
6. If I run for political office on a scrooge platform, where I promise to outlaw all public playing of Christmas music until a week before Christmas, will I win?
7. When will I finally be rated on RateMyProfessor?
8. Will I get a chili pepper?
9. Will 30 Rock be on forever?
10. Will I be able to survive if it does go off the air?
11. Do I know how to count?
12. Why didn't Martha Stewart do a holiday issue this year?
13. Is it wrong that I've worn the same pair of socks three days in a row without washing them? I can't help it! They're so stripey, so woolly and so warm.
Monday, November 19, 2007
the best spam ever
I got this in my mailbox over the weekend, and I think it is definitely the most entertaining spam I've ever received:
I am working in a detective agency. I can't say my name. I want to warn you that i'm going to overhear your telephone line. Do you want to know who is the payer? Wait for my next letter.
P.S. I'm sure, you don't believe me. But i think that the attached record of your yesterday's telephone conversation will assure you that everything is real. The record is in archive. The password is 123qwe
I bet this guy is really successful. I mean, I have to admit that part of me is anxiously awaiting his next letter. Of course, I'm not too worried about what he might hear over my phone line. I recently gave up my lead-tainted dinner plate smuggling business, so I'm completely wholesome now. Even though I haven't read much detective fiction, I feel like the guy gets the voice just right here. The clipped sentences. The commands. I nearly had to restrain myself so I wouldn't click on that attachment.
I am working in a detective agency. I can't say my name. I want to warn you that i'm going to overhear your telephone line. Do you want to know who is the payer? Wait for my next letter.
P.S. I'm sure, you don't believe me. But i think that the attached record of your yesterday's telephone conversation will assure you that everything is real. The record is in archive. The password is 123qwe
I bet this guy is really successful. I mean, I have to admit that part of me is anxiously awaiting his next letter. Of course, I'm not too worried about what he might hear over my phone line. I recently gave up my lead-tainted dinner plate smuggling business, so I'm completely wholesome now. Even though I haven't read much detective fiction, I feel like the guy gets the voice just right here. The clipped sentences. The commands. I nearly had to restrain myself so I wouldn't click on that attachment.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
the dreaded day when brides acknowledge wedding gifts by e-mail
The title for this post is thanks to Newsweek's article on the much-discussed Vanderbilt study that found that the "majority of primary-school teachers believe that students with fluent handwriting" produced more and better writing. I haven't been able to track down Steve Graham's actual study (if anyone knows where to find it, let me know) but every summary I've seen of it includes that important distinction "believe"--which suggests perception more than the reality of some impending writing apocalypse. And if all the apocalypse brings is brides sending thank-you notes by email, then I think we can all rest easy.
I imagine that the study probably cast handwriting in terms of a larger discussion of writing fluency; obviously one's ability with writing technologies (whether a pen or a keyboard) are important. I composed a very elaborate post on this subject while laying in bed a few nights ago, but because I was too lazy to grab a pen most of those ideas have been lost. However, in yet another version of the Johnny can't write hysteria, reporters are emphasizing the importance of handwriting over all else. When the codex was introduced, writers lamented the loss of the scroll; when keyboarding becomes the norm, we lament the loss of handwriting. Will we ever learn that shifting writing technologies will signal the end of all thought and knowledge.
I think the most interesting aspect of the reported study, the part that deserves scrutiny is that teachers believe that good handwriting equals better writing. Perhaps we should focus on encouraging teachers to critique their assumptions? I had endless troubles with handwriting in school. I taught myself how to write before school (well, my version of writing anyway) so I held the pencil with my fist. I could write quickly, but my first grade teacher was worried I wouldn't be able to learn cursive, so she made me write with one of those rubber grips to learn the appropriate finger placement. In third grade, I can remember getting berated in for not being able to scribe perfectly slanted cursive r's. Luckily I was tenacious and kept writing, eventually giving up my flat-topped r's altogether for a print/ cursive hybrid. If my teacher had given me a little more flexibility with those r's, maybe I could have spent more time crafting my stories and poems. I'm not saying we should give up handwriting instruction, but couldn't we give kids who struggle with the process other options, like say keyboarding?
Several years ago, I would have thought the link between handwriting skill and composing fluency even more suspect, but through my work at the Literacy Action Center I have realized that there is some relation. I've been lectured in handwriting technique because some members of the writing group couldn't translate my letterforms. I've also brought in books that no one could read because the typefaces used weren't standard or tried to mimic handwriting. For the writers very early in their writing development, an "a" was a very specific thing and the tiniest of alterations led to confusion. However, if handwriting were made a key component to composing, if they had to first master their letterforms, these writers would never get anywhere.
So, we look for options for them. We transcripe stories that they dictate. Even if they aren't technically "writing" they are learning about content, structure, characterization, chronology--all the things that make writing writing. Many writers have also jumped immediately to keyboarding. One of the writers has severe cerebral palsy and can't even feed herself. She lived a life of desperately wanting to learn and no one teaching her because she didn't seem to have the capacity. She can't do any type of handwriting (other than being able to marginally sign her name), but she can write. She's an incredible storyteller. She began by dictating her stories and then typing up what she had dictated. In the process, she gained fairly solid keyboarding skills and now she is beginning to compose her stories directly on computer.
Rather than bemoaning the loss of handwriting skills, perhaps we should consider how to use new technologies so that teachers no longer believe that the students with good handwriting are the ones composing well.
I imagine that the study probably cast handwriting in terms of a larger discussion of writing fluency; obviously one's ability with writing technologies (whether a pen or a keyboard) are important. I composed a very elaborate post on this subject while laying in bed a few nights ago, but because I was too lazy to grab a pen most of those ideas have been lost. However, in yet another version of the Johnny can't write hysteria, reporters are emphasizing the importance of handwriting over all else. When the codex was introduced, writers lamented the loss of the scroll; when keyboarding becomes the norm, we lament the loss of handwriting. Will we ever learn that shifting writing technologies will signal the end of all thought and knowledge.
I think the most interesting aspect of the reported study, the part that deserves scrutiny is that teachers believe that good handwriting equals better writing. Perhaps we should focus on encouraging teachers to critique their assumptions? I had endless troubles with handwriting in school. I taught myself how to write before school (well, my version of writing anyway) so I held the pencil with my fist. I could write quickly, but my first grade teacher was worried I wouldn't be able to learn cursive, so she made me write with one of those rubber grips to learn the appropriate finger placement. In third grade, I can remember getting berated in for not being able to scribe perfectly slanted cursive r's. Luckily I was tenacious and kept writing, eventually giving up my flat-topped r's altogether for a print/ cursive hybrid. If my teacher had given me a little more flexibility with those r's, maybe I could have spent more time crafting my stories and poems. I'm not saying we should give up handwriting instruction, but couldn't we give kids who struggle with the process other options, like say keyboarding?
Several years ago, I would have thought the link between handwriting skill and composing fluency even more suspect, but through my work at the Literacy Action Center I have realized that there is some relation. I've been lectured in handwriting technique because some members of the writing group couldn't translate my letterforms. I've also brought in books that no one could read because the typefaces used weren't standard or tried to mimic handwriting. For the writers very early in their writing development, an "a" was a very specific thing and the tiniest of alterations led to confusion. However, if handwriting were made a key component to composing, if they had to first master their letterforms, these writers would never get anywhere.
So, we look for options for them. We transcripe stories that they dictate. Even if they aren't technically "writing" they are learning about content, structure, characterization, chronology--all the things that make writing writing. Many writers have also jumped immediately to keyboarding. One of the writers has severe cerebral palsy and can't even feed herself. She lived a life of desperately wanting to learn and no one teaching her because she didn't seem to have the capacity. She can't do any type of handwriting (other than being able to marginally sign her name), but she can write. She's an incredible storyteller. She began by dictating her stories and then typing up what she had dictated. In the process, she gained fairly solid keyboarding skills and now she is beginning to compose her stories directly on computer.
Rather than bemoaning the loss of handwriting skills, perhaps we should consider how to use new technologies so that teachers no longer believe that the students with good handwriting are the ones composing well.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
I am a doorknob
The other night, I was made my niece and nephew write a story with me. I was the scribe and I alternated between the two of them for sentences. I think it turned out pretty well. I think I might take this down to Cup of Joe's for the big poetry slam. I could kick some literary asses.
Untitled
I am a ninja turtle. I am really tough. I am a princess. I'm not really a ninja turtle but I always wanted to be one. I'm not really a princess, but I really want to be one. I am really nice and a really tough girl. Yesterday, I got a costume. I help people when they drop something--even if they don't ask me to I still help them. Help others. I will be really kindd to people. I am a bad guy. I am the bad queen. I am a door. I am a doorbell. I am a doorknob.
Untitled
I am a ninja turtle. I am really tough. I am a princess. I'm not really a ninja turtle but I always wanted to be one. I'm not really a princess, but I really want to be one. I am really nice and a really tough girl. Yesterday, I got a costume. I help people when they drop something--even if they don't ask me to I still help them. Help others. I will be really kindd to people. I am a bad guy. I am the bad queen. I am a door. I am a doorbell. I am a doorknob.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
7 fab, fresh things about me
This is my attempt to join the Nanoblopo? thing with all my slcc'ers. Hightouchmegastore tagged me to list seven things about myself. I'm supposed to pass it on, but I have to stop the madness! That and, as Middlebrow says, she already tagged pretty much everyone I know (seven people--that's a lot!) So here are the seven things you might not know about me:
1. I was born on Thanksgiving. My mom cooked the entire meal while in labor, then went to the hospital. I weighed 10 lbs, 11 oz. and everyone called me the Butterball. My birthday is on Thanksgiving again this year, so feel free to bake me a pie.
2. I don't have a middle name, so when I was little I gave myself one: Crazy Cat. It was also sometimes Crazy Cat Cookie--and a long, continually changing list of other things I liked. (although I should clarify that I don't like cats)
3. I love sugar, any kind. When I was little I ate half-eaten candy that I found on the street and mistakenly ate comet to get my sugar fix.
4. I once dj'd a radio show called "Lost in the Supermarket"; I only played 80's new wave and punk. I also think it would be a good idea to have a radio show that is all Jackson 5, all the time.
5. I came in second at my school spelling bee when I was in fifth grade--lost to my academic nemisis, no less. I don't think I've ever gotten over it. My word: "lichenafied."
6. Before deciding on my current career, I wanted to be a botanist, an astronomer, and a journalist. My decision to abandon each of those career options had to do with math. Now I am marrying a mathematician.
7. I am the seventh child and nearly every address I've lived at has had the number 7 in it.
1. I was born on Thanksgiving. My mom cooked the entire meal while in labor, then went to the hospital. I weighed 10 lbs, 11 oz. and everyone called me the Butterball. My birthday is on Thanksgiving again this year, so feel free to bake me a pie.
2. I don't have a middle name, so when I was little I gave myself one: Crazy Cat. It was also sometimes Crazy Cat Cookie--and a long, continually changing list of other things I liked. (although I should clarify that I don't like cats)
3. I love sugar, any kind. When I was little I ate half-eaten candy that I found on the street and mistakenly ate comet to get my sugar fix.
4. I once dj'd a radio show called "Lost in the Supermarket"; I only played 80's new wave and punk. I also think it would be a good idea to have a radio show that is all Jackson 5, all the time.
5. I came in second at my school spelling bee when I was in fifth grade--lost to my academic nemisis, no less. I don't think I've ever gotten over it. My word: "lichenafied."
6. Before deciding on my current career, I wanted to be a botanist, an astronomer, and a journalist. My decision to abandon each of those career options had to do with math. Now I am marrying a mathematician.
7. I am the seventh child and nearly every address I've lived at has had the number 7 in it.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Give me some candy!
When I was a kid, I used to dream about Halloween. I wasn't that excited about dressing up--it was the candy. Weeks before Halloween, my sister and I would draw up maps of our neighborhood and plan our route, readrafting it several times to make sure that we could maximize our time. As soon as I got home, we'd dump out our candy on the floor and sort it: chocolates, caramels, hard candy, gummy candy. There were always some tough calls: does a blow pop go in the gum or sucker pile? After sorting and counting our haul, I'd tuck my bag of candy by the side of my bed. Somehow I just slept better having that candy to gaze at. It was pretty sad to grow up and have to leave that trick-or-treating behind.
Last year, friend T. and I came up with a plan to take her kid trick-or-treating. He would be two, so old enough to be a legitimate trick-or-treater, but young enough to not notice when we stole all of his candy. We had pretty elaborate plans about what neighborhoods and what costumes would get us the most candy. T. almost backed out on me when Halloween finally arrived, but I wouldn't let her. So we arranged to have dinner and go trick-or-treating with our colleague A and her son.
A's son was an ace at trick-or-treating. He was very polite and made sure to tell everyone "Happy Halloween" at least three times. He made sure to let us know that we should only say "trick or treat" and never, never "smell my feet." He was very charming. T's son, not so much. It took him a few houses to figure out what trick-or-treating was all about, but once he figured out the game he was committed. There was nothing shy about this kid. When the door opened, he just demanded, "Candy!" Once he'd been given a piece, he demanded "More!" He needed a little training. At the beginning of the night, I had to remind him not to pick the smarties, but by the end he was picking the chocolate.
This neighborhood was the shangri-la I never found as a child, where nearly everyone gave out chocolate and one house even gave the much-rumored, but never discovered full-size bar. One house was even giving hot, homemade donuts to the adults.
Since T's son is not allowed to be a sugar fiend, I got to take home the stash. I'll be sleeping well tonight.
Last year, friend T. and I came up with a plan to take her kid trick-or-treating. He would be two, so old enough to be a legitimate trick-or-treater, but young enough to not notice when we stole all of his candy. We had pretty elaborate plans about what neighborhoods and what costumes would get us the most candy. T. almost backed out on me when Halloween finally arrived, but I wouldn't let her. So we arranged to have dinner and go trick-or-treating with our colleague A and her son.
A's son was an ace at trick-or-treating. He was very polite and made sure to tell everyone "Happy Halloween" at least three times. He made sure to let us know that we should only say "trick or treat" and never, never "smell my feet." He was very charming. T's son, not so much. It took him a few houses to figure out what trick-or-treating was all about, but once he figured out the game he was committed. There was nothing shy about this kid. When the door opened, he just demanded, "Candy!" Once he'd been given a piece, he demanded "More!" He needed a little training. At the beginning of the night, I had to remind him not to pick the smarties, but by the end he was picking the chocolate.
This neighborhood was the shangri-la I never found as a child, where nearly everyone gave out chocolate and one house even gave the much-rumored, but never discovered full-size bar. One house was even giving hot, homemade donuts to the adults.
Since T's son is not allowed to be a sugar fiend, I got to take home the stash. I'll be sleeping well tonight.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Readering
Yesterday, I finally received my Best American Essays anthology which is my favorite reading of the year. I love the essay, in all its permutations, more than any other type of writing. I was too tired last night to read much of it, but I did manage to read David Foster Wallace's preface and some other essay which I was too drowsy to make any sense of. I'm never sure whether I like DFW. Footnotes of any kind annoy me, so his that are meandering and excessively long drive me crazy. And yet. He seems quite aware of his inability to write concisely (he speaks to this in his essay), so I have to forgive him and I find "Consider the Lobster" one of the most ingenious pieces of food writing. And yet. His intro. to the collection was delightfully strange. He argued that his role is not really as an editor but as the Decider. He then riffs on the word (in honor of GWB): Deciderization, Decidering. The latter is my favorite new noun form. One could argue that "decidering" is just a clunky synonym for "deciding," but no. It evokes something else--not just the act of deciding, but the act of being the decider. Not just reading, but acting as a reader--and those are certainly different. Reading involves turning pages and processing words. Readering involves ordering books weeks before they are released, tracking packages, and blogging about reading.
I'm not sure if I will like DWF's choices, but I already know I'll like the collection better than last year's: Lauren Slater's "Best American Essays About Death." The only light-hearted essay in the thing was Adam Gopnik's "Death of a Fish," which is a lovely thing that explores the death of his child's fish with an analysis of Hitchcock's Vertigo. If you haven't read it, you should.
Ok, back to readering. Happy bloggering.
I'm not sure if I will like DWF's choices, but I already know I'll like the collection better than last year's: Lauren Slater's "Best American Essays About Death." The only light-hearted essay in the thing was Adam Gopnik's "Death of a Fish," which is a lovely thing that explores the death of his child's fish with an analysis of Hitchcock's Vertigo. If you haven't read it, you should.
Ok, back to readering. Happy bloggering.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I need new shoes!
I know women are supposed to love shoes or something like that, but not me. I'd rather not wear shoes at all. When I go into a shoe store I usually leave crying. There are no shoes that I like. They are all too high or too shimmery or adorned with too much frippery. Or they are too frumpy. Can't there be something in between? I hate buying shoes so much that I usually just keep wearing the same pair until they fall apart, which happened today.
At some point during my day, I felt a flip, flip on the side of my foot and looked down to find the sole of my shoe falling off. I went barefoot (well, I was wearing tights) for my afternoon class and tossed the shoes into the garbage. I have other shoes, but they are all falling apart in some way or another. I have a pair of boots that I've had for 10 years. The soles are falling off, even though I've had them "repaired" at least twice. I love them, though, and will never get rid of them. I have a pair of too-big flip flops that belonged to Will's ex-girlfriend. It's a desperate situation.
So if anyone knows where I can get a pair of shoes that are decent looking, but not too girly or flashy please let me know. Maybe we can schedule a group shoe-buying excursion like we had in Chicago for Jason. I need help too! Please, it's almost winter.
At some point during my day, I felt a flip, flip on the side of my foot and looked down to find the sole of my shoe falling off. I went barefoot (well, I was wearing tights) for my afternoon class and tossed the shoes into the garbage. I have other shoes, but they are all falling apart in some way or another. I have a pair of boots that I've had for 10 years. The soles are falling off, even though I've had them "repaired" at least twice. I love them, though, and will never get rid of them. I have a pair of too-big flip flops that belonged to Will's ex-girlfriend. It's a desperate situation.
So if anyone knows where I can get a pair of shoes that are decent looking, but not too girly or flashy please let me know. Maybe we can schedule a group shoe-buying excursion like we had in Chicago for Jason. I need help too! Please, it's almost winter.
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