Hooray no class!

But that means I've got a bunch of time to kill before picking up my new glasses.

1. I probably chose the wrong ones. I usually do. I really wanted plastic frames, but ended up with metal again. Hmmm.

2. Being in two 19th century classes, I'm reading a lot of melodramas and sentimental narratives. They're not as bad as one might fear, but I'm ready to stop hearing the phrase "If she only knew what lay ahead..." and its variants.

3. At the same time that they're not that bad, I kind of wish there were Cliff Notes for these books. It seems like if they're not actually good books, and if you're not going to write about them, it would be just as efficacious to read the first hundred pages or so to get the flavor and then just find out what happens. I should be using this time right now to make some more headway in "A Fool's Errand" by Albion Tourgee, but I just don't want to.

4. The blog book is taking me forever to edit, but I'm getting kind of fond of the author and her quirks. She loves riding her bike around her neighborhood, and smoking out of her hookah, and Allen Ginsberg. She has dreams about Nietzche and RuPaul and prefers them to the men in her waking life. For a while I was working backwards in time, but then I decided to start at the end and go forwards. That means I know things are going to get worse for her, and it's kind of hanging over me. I want to tell her "Stay home! Don't go back to college! You're going to be so lonely!"

Music

After a somewhat strenuous discussion about the origin of notions of right and wrong, my homeschooler used his break to play the piano and, for a self-taught kid, he's really good. I complimented his playing, and he said yeah, but he didn't know how to read music. I said, "Want to learn right now"? (The mother hobbit had authorized me to do this.) So I taught him. Why is music more fun than anything else?

Events

On Friday night, I went to a really cool poetry reading put on by Wave Books. It was way up IN the Space Needle. How cool is that?

A tradition has been started of weekly Sunday brunches, which is nice. Today's was kind of awkward, though, and I felt like I was the only one in mild social agony as we sat around in a big circle punctuating long silences with discussions about how the union should do more to get people involved. Ugh. Also, the organizer seems to believe that you have to decide in advance whether the potluck will be sweet or savory, even though everyone knows that the whole point of brunch is to have both in the same meal.

I'm also a little worried, because when I planned to go away this weekend I forgot that we register for classes here by way of a primitive ritual that involves lining up outside the department office at 6 am. That is happening this Friday, and since I won't be there I offically will just have to take whatever's left over. I'm sorry to speak strongly here, but that is a fucking stupid system. But I can't believe that any prof would let him or herself be bound by it, so I'm just going to send some emails and hope for the best.

On Monday I'm getting an eye exam and new glasses. That's exciting, because my glasses have had only one leg ever since ... well, I'm not exactly sure what happened, but they were a casualty of the rodeo. As a concession to fashion, I have not been wearing them, except to drive, but now, finally, I will be able to see Seattle.

Neighborhood

It's only 12:30 and I've already run into people I know three times today: Wally, the owner of Wannabee Cafe (who slowed down on his bike to talk to me as I walked to the farmer's market), a couple who are friends with my landlords (who were on their way to a thrift store to buy Ziggy Stardust costumes), and Paige, who is in one of my classes and who is now sitting with me in World Cup, where I'm editing the interminable angsty blog. New Slang is on the radio and for some reason that's making me feel some happy/wistful emotion.

More listserv fun

Since I've already set the irresponsible precedent of poaching my classmates' emails, I thought I would share another exchange that amused me. Background: it was dealing with the fact that an MFA reading conflicted with the weekly English grad pub outing. For some reason no one understands, the MFA reading series is called "Castalia."

1. This came from the organizer of the pub event, with the subject heading "EGPG (English Grad Pub Group) supports Castalia!" I think it's very sweet:

"Tomorrow is once again a Thirsty Thursday...

But this week's is a Very Special Blossom Grad Pub...

English Grad Pub Group proudly joins the MFA Castalia for an evening of Drinking With the Stars...

Grad Pub will begin at Castalia at 5:30 PM, Parrington (Hall) Commons...

Then, after you have had your fill of Wit and Wonder, we will adjourn to the College Inn Pub around 7 PM..."


2. People here don't understand how to reply to a listserv email, so next we have, addressed to the organizer:

"I'm at work, so unfortunately I can't write a long note, but I still check my UW mail and this email "warms the cockles of my heart," as my grandmother would say. I'm so glad the English students and MFA students are starting to hang out more. And you and Jay deserve much of the credit.

How are things? I'll try to write more when I'm not bound to the clock!"


3. Someone overly literal ignores the fact that this was a missent private email, and contributes an utterly pointless comment to the dialogue we're not having:

"MFA and PhD students (be careful with that binary between "English students" and "MFA students"--we're all in the same department...) used to hang out a lot, when I first got here in Fall 2001. I've been trying to put my finger on when and why that changed. Speaking for myself...I know I got a little busier after my first couple of years here, and was simply too pressed for time to go to Castalia. I miss it."


And we wonder why the MFAs don't want to hang out with us.

Shit, I missed a day!

There goes my record!

Just got back from the pub. I have closed it out more than once now. Only had one shot of Jaeger--it was a quiet night. Fun, though.

Went to an MFA reading. No writing I was excited about. One girl read about 15 vilanelles. As Louise would say, oh please! Still, it was nice to be in that scene. And the future is bright: I get to go to a house-party reading with Maurice Manning next week, thanks to EQ.

I don't want to wake up to tutor tomorrow. Goddamn, goddamn.

Britta

I had an unexpected tender moment today in Target when I bought a replica of "our" Britta, Tia's Britta, the official 6523 Verano blue Britta.

I loved that Britta. It always made the water delicious, and I used it every day. It occurs to me that almost everyone reading this has had a glass of water from that Britta.

Now, when I open the refrigerator, things look right.

North and South

I'm reading North and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell. It's a good book. It's about a girl who moves from a warm, southern, clean, quiet town where people take care of each other and she has lots of friends to a cold, foggy, dirty, anonymous northern city where she knows no one. As I said, it's a good book.

Another Late Night

I'm in the middle of putting together my second presentation (for the other class this time). This one's not a "report"; I have to "lead a discussion." I shouldn't be nervous about this at all, since you can't shut me up even when I haven't read the material twice (or even once). But in my head I'm calling it a presentation, and that means I have to be super prepared, including with pictures and things to say about them. I'm an almost religious believer in the visual aid.

Anyway, my plan is to suggest that the secondary reading is wrong (which it is), so I'm hoping to get some points for hubris. I'll let you know how it goes.

I might spend all day looking at the Wall of Wine

I've taken some ribbing for keeping everyone posted about my Seattle coffee shop odyssey, but, as Mary Todd Lincoln says, you might as well get killed for a sheep as a lamb. (Meaning, if you're punished anyway, keep going and steal something bigger, but which makes me think Baaa! Lambie!)

Anyway, this morning I'm trying out World Cup, which is an "espresso and wine shop." Right now I'm typing while looking at the Wall of Wine.



I just finished this bizarre and amazing book by a former slave who became Mary Todd Lincoln's dressmaker and friend. My favorite moment:

"[Mrs. Lincoln]: 'I have a presentiment that he will meet with a sudden and violent end. I pray God to protect my beloved husband from the hands of the assassin.'

Mr. Lincoln was fond of pets. He had two goats that knew the sound of his voice."

Even to someone who likes to "find the animal in everything," that seems like kind of a strange non-sequitur.

Also, this is just weird: in one class, we're reading about this dressmaker, paired with a critical article about fashion (as a way to create a post-slavery identity, blah blah blah). And in my other class, as already discussed, we're reading Sartor Resartus (the Tailor Retailored--also about clothes). Did I accidentally enroll at the Fashion Institute of Technology?

And now for the last random thought of this study break, and then back to work: a syllabus sometimes reads exactly like one of those fancy menus: Truffle Flambe paired with an assertive Reisling, followed by Yeats paired with Foucault.

Sometimes you just have to draw the line

I just looked up from my reading and said, out loud, with no premeditaiton or self-consciousness, "I'm NEVER going to write the word "interpolated." EVER."

How fervently I hope that's true.

(I mean, obviously right now doesn't count.)

This book I'm editing

(I *love* saying that phrase!) is full of interesting copyediting questions like, does one capitalize WTF? The Ultimate Authority (Josh) says yes. And what about "rhcp"? Capitalized, it looks like that bovine growth hormone thing that organic yogurt claims not to have.

Hen, you will be pleased to know that tomororw, I am invited to a party in honor of a new kitten. "The Kitten Party," we're calling it. I want a kitten too, but I've noticed in myself a distinct lack of certainty that the world will continue in a recognizable form for more than a week or so in the future, and that's no condition in which to get a pet.

I'm a little

embarassed about the last post, maybe just by association with the addled state in which I wrote it. Turns out if you stay at the pub night long enough, people start handing you shots.

This morning I woke up a little before five, drank three glasses of water, took some advil and prepared to hit the hay for another couple of hours before getting up to tutor. But this morning, unusually, I wasn't sleepy, so I lay in bed listening to my ipod (Poddy)for a couple of hours. It was very, very pleasant. I couldn't believe how slowly the time was going, how much of this pleasantness I was being allowed. Finally, around seven, I became conscious that my muscles were relaxing. I opened my eyes at 7:29 and realized I'd been asleep. Then my alarm went off at 7:30 and I slept some more while the radio reported the thrilling fact that underwater welding* equipment has to heat up to 10,000 degrees. It cuts through SOLID STEEL. UNDERWATER. Isn't that amazing?

Anyway, there was no real point to that story, except that it's rare and kind of magical to get the defamiliarization that happens with late-night wakefulness without it feeling like miserable insomnia. And magical experiences are good to share.

*(Didn't your father do this, EQ?)

The Blues Are Still Blue

Public Service Announcement:

If you're going to ask a girl out, don't let your jaw drop when she tells you her age. Also, don't say "How did you know?" when she jokingly guesses your age as 22. Also, if she's a poet, don't refuse to accept the idea of free verse. She will say, no, I don't think we can have coffee, and everyone will feel kinda bad.

Despite (not because of!) this incident, grad pub was fun for the first time. We didn't talk about hey, where are you from, which was nice. Instead, we bitched about our classes.

Also, one of the poetry MFAs (the only one who hangs out with PhDs) has this idea that partisanship is good for poetry, that what you pay for in a journal is the editor's effort in selecting the poems. He uses the analogy of record labels--of course they have individual taste, that's the whole point, and you go with the ones you like. Whereas many, many poetry publications say they just choose "the best."

Also, I was told by a 22 year old UCI undergrad that I was surpsingly "critical" for an MFA, like, "almost one of us." By which she meant (because I asked, thinking she was using critical in the sense of negative) I could talk about literature and was not afraid of ideas. I had to respond, Well, I AM one of you.

Maybe I am, maybe I am.

Blogs: me and not-me

I'm sitting in the coffee shop right now taking a break from working on the blog-memoir I'm editing. It's funny working with the text of someone else's blog, especially when that person is bipolar: you can kind of see the mood disorder playing out in the transitions between entries. I suspect, though, that the real lows were lower than the ones on the blog, which has a kind of whistling-in-the-dark quality to its bitterest moments. I was just talking to Equinoctial about this phenomenon in myself--even when I'm writing about being unhappy, the act of writing itself cheers me up, so the blog isn't a pefect mirror of the mental state. Well, how could it be? [See class discussion this morning during which we talked ourselves into the idea that realism and romanticism are the same. It involved the prof drawing a lot of triangles on the board. It was not a seminar foul; in fact, fun and interesting]

Anyway, it's raining and I don't want to leave, but I have to go running and then go to grad pub or I'll have missed my social life for the week. But I'm sitting near an open door and that's exactly how close to the elements I want to be. Also, I'm going to complain about the cafe after praising it: the barista was mean to me because I wanted regular coffee instead of an espresso drink! It was hardcore; she was audibly making fun of my coffee with her buddies while it was brewing. Plus she smelled. Aren't you glad you know that?

Study, coffee

No one told me Carlyle was going to be funny. I was expecting Sartor Resartus to be incredibly dry, but so far it's like a wacky 19th century version of Pale Fire, full of lines that, if you'd been with me in the late night tea shop, I would have interrupted your work to read out loud to you.

The tendency to do that is both one of the tragic flaws of social studying and probably my strongest native readerly impulse. I wish there was a kind of criticism you could do that rests on "Isn't this funny? Isn't this WEIRD?"

Speaking of weird, that's how my prof described this book (multiple times, and as a warning, not an inducement). That is more evidence in favor of my suspicion that she is a somewhat plodding, ponderous reader, not very interested in what my high school dropout calls the "deeper meanings." Other evidence (just an example, one of many): reacting to someone's astute point (not mine) about a fascinating moment in the Prelude with "That's very 19th century of Wordsworth."

The tea shop, by the way, doesn't mean I'm not still loyal to my local coffee shop, Cafe Wannabee, described a few posts ago, dreadlocked dog and all:



But it closes at 8:00 every night, so I've had to venture further afield. I was excited to discover a tea shop less than five minutes away that stays open till midnight and which features my ideal white noise: animated talk in Asian languages. I also have high hopes for a coffee shop called "Star Life on the Oasis," but I arrived to discover they are closed on Tuesdays.

you all need to know this

I just did something incredibly stupid: I spent an hour reading the New Yorker. Despite having three or four more hours left of reading to do tonight, I spent a completely unnecessary hour in my reading posture, fighting gravity on the battlefield of my eyelids. Obviously, I have not grasped the nature of my new profession.

The article I fell for, about Christopher Hitchens, wasn't terrible, but it was not as dishy and outrageous as I'd hoped.

Good News from the Hobbit

Tomorrow I get the morning off because my high school student has to "go before a magistrate." I am so happy about this. I have been sleeping about 3 hours a night and it's hard to read in that condition. Plus I need a break from Siddhartha or I'm going to start dwelling on my upcoming reincarnation as a bedbug.

Ode to Gym

Today I was reminiscing about one of my favorite things in Irvine: running into people at the gym. I would never have predicted liking that; in high school, I used to sneak out of the house to go jogging under the cover of darkness because I was self-conscious about being seen by what my mom mercilessly mocked me by calling the "neighborhood toughs." But there was something great about going to the ARC (Anteater Recreation Center) and seeing eight or so friends and acquaintances, all sweating away, privately but together. It was best in the late afternoon or early evening before a big party--everyone getting healthy in preparation for getting unhealthy--and was perfect when a small group would be going out for Vietnamese noodles before the party. So everyone who's still there, enjoy that. Here the gym is nice, but I've yet to run into anyone.

My presentation...

... is actually a "Report." On a book. Therefore.... it's a book report! Yeah grad school.

In fact, putting it together was kind of fun. There's a certain dignity to the task of summarizing a book for others who aren't going to read it, of picking out the important ideas, isolating themes and patterns, understanding what's there well enough to abstract it into bullet points, without trying to possess it through interpretation.

"and they think they are free to overlook this sadness"

Some part of me still isn't sure that I'm really in school again. The result of this is that the work I'm supposed to do for my classes seems at best random and unimportant and at worst (worst for my getting it done and doing a good job, that is) random and optional. I'm also wishing that each prof's standards for good academic work were more clearly articulated. I think people take it for granted that their own intuitive sense of what a work of criticism should do is universally understood and shared--I can be guilty of that at times myself. But as far as I can tell the answer to these questions is pretty much up for grabs; the few people who have the patience to really consider them don't agree. When I use my own most natural approach, I know what I'm trying to accomplish, but if I'm going to try to meet other people's standards I'd like to know what they think is the point of the whole enterprise. And I would not like to suspect that they're not sure what the point is, or if it even has one. Or that they think it's okay not to ask themselves these questions.

So with way too little time left in the day, I'm putting together my presentation on Wordsworth's guidebook, highlights of which include a multi-page rant against the larch. If only we had travel grants here, I would so be all over a killer Lake District proposal. I really want to go ramble around the lakes.

Party report: people sat on my couch (and admired your craftsmanship, Gillmar!) so that was nice. But it wasn't one of my best hosting efforts. Sometimes I can feel a party getting away from me; I start to lose faith that it will be transcendently fun, and once that faith is lost, I'm just going through the motions. The landlord/housemates' friends were nice but they are *all* married, and there's something about sitting on a couch next to a primly knee-touching couple that is just not as good a time as a roomful of free agents.

Things I appreciated today: the gym, my apartment, Trader Joe and his low-priced avocados, rain, and my local coffee shop (meaning the one 45 seconds from my house, rather than the 10 or so within a five-minute radius) at which I'm becoming a regular and getting to know the main barista (who used to live in Cambridge), the owner, and the owner's huge, 3-legged, dreadlocked sheepdog. It's a funny place; they don't have drip coffee (they have to make a whole French press for you, which I never have time to wait for in the morning), and I once ordered a cup of tea there and it took the barista literally ten minutes to make it, but that's all part of the homey charm.

Second thoughts

I guess I can only feel aggressively cranky for 15 minutes or so. But anyone who read about the gloom party is still invited.

This post originally contained six instances of the word "totally"

Yesterday I wrote a long, meditative post about how I would blog all day if I didn't still hold out some hope of not being a complete dork. But the computer ate it, and today, although I composed several posts in my head, I didn't write any down. How about some bullet points?

Bullet 1: Long talk with Josh. That was nice.

Bullet 2: Siddhartha by Herman Hesse, which I am reading with my high school dropout, is a ridiculous novel. But while we were discussing eastern thought (what is one supposed to talk about in a high school English class, anyway? Especially a class of one?) I realized that moving is just like reincarnation. If I could reach Enlightenment, and not have to be reborn any more into new cities, that would be good. I would strive for that.

Bullet 3: Our housewarming party is tomorrow night. I don't think anyone in Seattle reads this, but if you do, you should definitely come. Just ask me for the info. I was expounding to Josh the joys of hosting, but actually I am a bit nervous, and as usual, I'm dealing with party nervousness by not getting ready--and without the good influence of Tia, I'm afraid the apartment may not be at quite its best. Although...

...I guess this should be a new bullet, so Bullet 4: At grad pub night last night we were talking about all the weird dynamics of being new to a place. For instance, having awkward, self-censorious conversations that can only be (but inevitably will be) understood as such in retrospect; feeling compelled not to turn down any invitations; and having one's living space feel uninaugurated and weirdly private. (Classmate: "After my boyfriend visited, I said to my housemates 'Ha ha, I'm the only one who's had sex in our house!' But I still haven't had a friend over.")

Bullet 5: Shitload of work to do, presentation to prepare, emails to return, angsty blog book to edit, new book about slavery to buy and read and write a paper on, etc, etc.

Bullet 6: Nice rejection today! The first of a batch sent August 14th. I saw a folded 8 1/2 by 11 sheet through the envelope and had hopes (because it wasn't a rejection slip) and then there was an awful uncanny moment when I started to recognize my own cover letter staring back at me. But "These were close" was written on it, so I was happy. I wonder how many nice rejections equals a publication, and can I mix and match?

Dangers to the soul

There is an amazing flamewar going on on the English listserv right now. It's now reached the meta stage, where people are flaming about the flamewar, which probably means it won't last much longer, but it is the most unhinged set of emails I've ever seen. It was started off by a reference to a "cult of Leninist vampires," and continued, several volleys later:

>> Do you realize what an ethnocentric term [diatribe] is ... especially considering the fact that you invoke it to firmly separate and distinguish "rational" conversations from so-called "savage" attacks? In the future, why not simply call it dia-tribalism ?

and in response to that:

>> frankly, I can't remember why I thought graduate school was ever a good idea in the first place anymore; what a fucking soul-killing endeavor (I used to be strong, now I'm just very, very tired

Don't Touch That Dial!

I've decided I love that expression, which I heard on the radio this morning. It's so cheerful in the face of the fact that the speaker has no actual ability to command the listener's attention, and instead has to win it over and over again, moment to moment.

Seattle has some amazing little sparrows: you throw them a crumb, and they will fly up and catch it in midair. They don't always get it, but they do enough of the time to make the sport worth watching--much like staying on for 8 seconds in bullriding, now that I think of it.

In a resurgence of old habits, I sent the first party invite to my new department listserv today; my landlords are having a housewarming, and I promised to try to drum up some business. I wrote that people should come even if we haven't met yet--I felt like I had to say that, because I really haven't met all that many people so far, but it does mark an absurd new frontier in party hosting. I mean, I've met plenty of people at parties at my house, but I think they were always brought by people I knew. But onward and upward with the adventuring spirit... that's my motto.

I'm at the gym, procrastinating on the actual exercise, which is why this entry keeps growing. I have been lazy, lazy, lazy over the past few days, but now I am getting back on the horse. I will be a new healthy, well-adjusted stove. Oh yes. I will.

Will I Ever Transcend the Personal? Probably Not.

I think I saw my high school student on the street today. He didn't acknowledge me, but I think that was probably because he was smoking a cigarette. Or maybe he didn't recognize me because I wasn't wearing my required "business casual."

I have no clue what I'm going to try to teach this kid tomorrow. Perhaps a long period of silent reading followed by a cocktail. It worked for [insert author's name here, I can't choose among so many].

It's amazing how quickly one can go from totally caught up on one's reading to totally behind. On the up side, I now have four or five ... let's call them proto-friends. People where there's been some separation from the herd. And lots more people in the herd with whom I'd enjoy a friendly chat.

What I learned...

from reading A Romance of the Republic: there are only 20-30 people in the world, so you should always check the next room to see if the person there is your long-lost sister, Rosabella. It's quite a cozy vision of things, really.

Seminar foul: I don't know if I committed it or if it was the prof, but someone was giving someone else a very puzzled look when what was being said was *clearly* completely lucid, and the rest of the class was nodding.

This home-schooling thing means I am teaching again, with all the distraction that entails, but it'll be nice at paper time to have 1 to read instead of 20. Also, I have to remind myself that my stack of books is not for the quarter, but for the year.

Wordsworth is reminding me of many people I know, including Kugelmass and T. Jefferson Parker.

Misplacements

The last post doesn't count toward my daily quota, because, as everyone knows, the weather in this blog is "cranky." That post was just a cheerful anomoly.

I'm not really that cranky, but I'm starting to realize that this tutoring gig will be a LOT of work. I mean, even if it's just to one student, I'm teaching a goddamn high school English class. It's going to require some thought. And seriously, an observation on the first day, when my explicit task is to establish "rapport"? Could anyone think that's a good idea? Well, evidently, yes.

Tonight Equinoctial made me laugh through my stress when she suggested that someone was helping a friend who had "misplaced his oeuvre."

Gainfully Employed!

It turns out Dr. Mom is good cop (she has a nose ring), so Interview #2 was way more pleasant, and I got the job! Basically, I am teaching 11th grade English to a kid who is being home-schooled by this tutoring service. Would you like to know what we are reading? Of course you would!

Brave New World
1984
All the King's Men
The Dharma Bums
Life of Pi
Julius Caeser
Siddhartha

Not precisely the list I would have chosen, but novelicious nonetheless. There's something so pure and refreshing about high school English--no one will even remark on the fact that the list includes no Theory. Plus, I've never taught novels before--I've never even exactly taught a literature class before--so I'm excited for that. Ooh, also, I successfully negotiated for a higher salary.

On the downside, I have to start tomorrow at 9 am, with hobbit oversight.

Very Exciting Entry

Notice how I have been good about blogging every day? I'm not sure why that constitutes "good," but it does.

Today I read some Wordsworth and part of a novel about quadroons, and attempted to get my guitar calluses back. From when I read the Prelude in college, I remembered it as a slog, but this time around I'm liking it: "Fair seed-time had my soul and I grew up / fostered alike by beauty and by fear." Isn't that nice?

I also didn't remember that Wordsworth spends most of the first book talking about how he has writer's block, how he has these vague big ambitions but then gets overwhelmed and decides to tool around the countryside instead of writing, but then not writing makes him miserable. I was like, Hi, Poet Friend.

I'm more nervous than I should be about my interview with Dr. Mom tomorrow. At a party last night, I had occasion to sum up my reaction to the company's apparent management style as "Don't put me in the fucking Panopticon, hobbit!"

You know what I hate?

I hate applying for jobs. Today I was interviewed for a tutoring service by a hobbit who calls his mother Doctor. When I asked if I should bring anything particular to a follow-up interview (with Dr. Mom), he told me that my outfit had been "perfect."

And speaking of weird: many times since I've been here I've caught myself wondering if the big earthquake is about to happen--and then I have to remind myself that I'm not in California anymore. That makes me pay attention to this little mental transaction, so now I wonder how often I semi-consciously did the same thing when I did live on a fault line so the thought didn't require a self-correction. Here I've noticed I do it at least once a day... so what was it doing to my mental state?

I'm going to a housewarming party for which, according to the invite, I was supposed to produce pumpkin ale or some other seasonal foodstuff. Well, 2 Buck Chuck is always in season, right?

Okay...

Has some kind of blog fog descended over Irvine? Where are you guys? I need my tales of OC hijinx!

I think I just got a freelance job editing a blog about teenage angst into a book. Woo-hoo! It actually sounds like fun. However, I have a problem. I said that my rate was $20, and I think she misheard me and heard $28, and readily agreed. Which is of course my rate, in that case. What to do?!?

Unexpected

I'm sure there will be times in the near future when I won't want to be quoted on this, but right now... I like school! My brain feels nice and limber. I could go on (Walt Whitman, anyone?) but I will spare you.

In other news, I brought a houseplant inside because it's starting to get cold, and a few hours later I found five snails on the carpet a couple inches from the pot, all pointing in slightly different versions of "toward the door." Five snails in my bedroom! I still can't decide if it was cute or gross, but anyway, I gave them a ride back outside on a copy of The New Yorker.

Seminar Foul II

Shades of Toast edition

Asking grad students to do group work is always dicey, but at 9:30 am it is NEVER OKAY.

Good Morning!

I'll bet no one has read the last post yet, so I know I'm just telling this story to myself, but the paper is done (or as good as it's gonna get tonight, at least). 631 words, about 3 hours. Not a fantastic rate, but the thing is... I think inaccurately that I write fast because the time goes fast while I'm writing. Which is basically just as good, considering that my time is not money (shut up, Adam Smith).

We have to hand out copies of our papers, and I am so sure that I will be the only one who wrote a paper remotely like the one I wrote. There were several choices of texts, so probably no one else wrote on the poems, and if they did, they probably didn't do a close reading. Whatever--I kind of like being that girl who reads differently.

The thing is, this is a basic question but one that needs to be answered and often isn't, what is it we are trying to accomplish when we're writing and talking about these texts? In seminar today, what we seemed to be trying to accomplish was to demonstrate that we understood what Adam Smith was saying. But I'm pretty sure that's not the point.

Speaking of Adam Smith, I'm trying to write a poem about him.

Famous thinker, very ugly man. Plus, "In conversation 'he was scarcely ever known to start a topic himself,' and if he did succeed in falling in with the common dialogue of conversation, 'he was somewhat apt to convey his own ideas in the form of a lecture.'"

Goddamn, Goddamn

It's been a distracting and disappointing day, and hence I have not yet started my paper due tomorrow, nor have I finished the reading. It will be fine, it always is, but still... I'm hoping writing this blog post will be the magical action that will allow me to open my course reader and start thinking of something to say about "Drum Taps."

Two Seattle questions:
1. Does anyone know any good part time jobs?
2. Please come to our housewarming party!

I have this line from a song in my head. It goes "Goddamn, goddamn."

Welcome to "Seminar Foul"

This may become a recurring feature. Today's episode is brought to you by inappropriate levity, and stars

The "I'm so erudite" joke: Ha ha! I guess Adam Smith didn't read his Hegel!

and

The "Thank God I'm here to set you all straight" giggle: Ha ha! But of course, The Wealth of Nations isn't really about money at all!