This week my assigned reading includes, but is certainly not limited to:
The Book of Job
Faulkner's "Light in August"
Irigaray's "Women on the Market", "When the Goods Get Together", "Women, Money, and the Sacred", "Divine Women" & "On the Maternal Order"
Kant's "On the Miscarriage of All Philosophical Trials in a Theodicy"
AND just for fun (okay, really for my Irigaray final paper) I'm gong to start Morny Joy's new book "Divine Love: Luce Irigaray, Women, Gender and Religion" It's brand, spanking new. The copy I have was loaned to me from my professor who had not yet unwrapped it.
Add to that:
~ the unholy amount of work Craig has done to put together and organize new dressers, bookshelves, and a desk
~ being married to Craigory
~ my snuggly dogs
~ beautiful fall weather
~ coffee
I'm pretty sure it all adds up to me having pretty much the best life ever.
P.S. Last night as I was driving home, I pulled up next to a minivan full of 50ish white men in suits at a red light on McCarter Highway in Newark. I was singing along to Amanda Palmer with my window down and as I turned to see them just happened to caterwaul, "The orange man's got you!" They rolled up their windows and ran the red light almost immediately.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
I've not been here, I don't know where I'm going... but I love
Somehow it's October. I've managed to get through the first month of classes without a stress induced cold sore and if I make it through this weekend it's either divine intervention or apathy. It's a bugger to tell the difference sometimes.
I don't spend much time on the computer anymore. There is a good reason for this, there are also a few bad reasons. The good reason is that I am doing my damnedest to keep my tendonitis from flaring up and making it impossible to write, type, drive, etc. Even with my ergonomic keyboard, too much typing is dangerous. The main bad reason is iGor - my new phone. I use iGor to check email, Facebook, and Twitter. I also use iGor to reward myself for finishing homework by playing a game of solitare. Beyond that - I pretty much just read and walk the dogs. On occasion I remember to eat and interact with Craig, but the fact that when we did grocery shopping this week we only bought dinner for two nights lets you know how well our schedules mesh at the moment.
Often when playing solitare I let my mind wander and have mock conversations with other people. These tend to be arguments and when it becomes apparent I'm really just arguing with myself, I usually stop. Not always because sometimes it's the principle of the thing and a point has to be made... but that's only a couple of times a week.
I wonder if the point of grad school is to prepare you for academia by making it nigh impossible to interact with people outside the academy. That way, by the time you are teaching you will most likely have forgotten that a world exists elsewhere... that the reverberations of your new theory may cross oceans and shake the very foundations of someone else's theory - but they are less than a ripple in that fountain just off campus. It's not that I'm disillusioned, it's that I'm looking for my place.
Academia was always my place, my niche, where I felt at home. In some ways this is still true. I am so comfortable in the classroom, I barely shut up. But as I work on my PhD applications, looking for a department where I will fit, I begin to wonder if such a place exists and if I could even get in anyway. Maybe you'll say it doesn't matter if I fit - but it does. It does to me. I prefer to be happy while undergoing this masochistic endeavor known as a doctral program and it's much easier to be happy with a department that supports you. At least that's what I've been led to believe.
Bah!
The Lit Subject GRE is this weekend. I have no illusions about this exam, I will bomb it. But I will bomb it with grace. I will show up, realize I don't recognize more than 50% of the selections, and plug away at the damn thing for three hours. It won't be the first time I bombed an exam and it probably won't be the last. The fact is I prefer theory and philosophy to poetry. I think historical context is a necessary starting point when discussing literature, but to leave it at that is to treat the text as a one night stand.
It's true that there are plenty of texts that are only good enough for a one night stand. There are texts that you should call your doctor for a prescription of penicillin after you engage with them. But there are so many texts that deserve to be loved unconditionally. I think to love unconditionally, you must find the aporiae. You must know the limits, the inconsistencies, the places where it doesn't quite come together. Not so you can tear it apart, but so you can understand why there is this gap, this slippage.
To believe (or even worse - pretend to believe) that the beloved is perfect is naivety at best and condecension at worst. Just as no person is perfect, no text is perfect. The aporiae are inevitable. To find them one has to read with devotion, with respect, with interest.
Criticism should always be an act of love.
I don't spend much time on the computer anymore. There is a good reason for this, there are also a few bad reasons. The good reason is that I am doing my damnedest to keep my tendonitis from flaring up and making it impossible to write, type, drive, etc. Even with my ergonomic keyboard, too much typing is dangerous. The main bad reason is iGor - my new phone. I use iGor to check email, Facebook, and Twitter. I also use iGor to reward myself for finishing homework by playing a game of solitare. Beyond that - I pretty much just read and walk the dogs. On occasion I remember to eat and interact with Craig, but the fact that when we did grocery shopping this week we only bought dinner for two nights lets you know how well our schedules mesh at the moment.
Often when playing solitare I let my mind wander and have mock conversations with other people. These tend to be arguments and when it becomes apparent I'm really just arguing with myself, I usually stop. Not always because sometimes it's the principle of the thing and a point has to be made... but that's only a couple of times a week.
I wonder if the point of grad school is to prepare you for academia by making it nigh impossible to interact with people outside the academy. That way, by the time you are teaching you will most likely have forgotten that a world exists elsewhere... that the reverberations of your new theory may cross oceans and shake the very foundations of someone else's theory - but they are less than a ripple in that fountain just off campus. It's not that I'm disillusioned, it's that I'm looking for my place.
Academia was always my place, my niche, where I felt at home. In some ways this is still true. I am so comfortable in the classroom, I barely shut up. But as I work on my PhD applications, looking for a department where I will fit, I begin to wonder if such a place exists and if I could even get in anyway. Maybe you'll say it doesn't matter if I fit - but it does. It does to me. I prefer to be happy while undergoing this masochistic endeavor known as a doctral program and it's much easier to be happy with a department that supports you. At least that's what I've been led to believe.
Bah!
The Lit Subject GRE is this weekend. I have no illusions about this exam, I will bomb it. But I will bomb it with grace. I will show up, realize I don't recognize more than 50% of the selections, and plug away at the damn thing for three hours. It won't be the first time I bombed an exam and it probably won't be the last. The fact is I prefer theory and philosophy to poetry. I think historical context is a necessary starting point when discussing literature, but to leave it at that is to treat the text as a one night stand.
It's true that there are plenty of texts that are only good enough for a one night stand. There are texts that you should call your doctor for a prescription of penicillin after you engage with them. But there are so many texts that deserve to be loved unconditionally. I think to love unconditionally, you must find the aporiae. You must know the limits, the inconsistencies, the places where it doesn't quite come together. Not so you can tear it apart, but so you can understand why there is this gap, this slippage.
To believe (or even worse - pretend to believe) that the beloved is perfect is naivety at best and condecension at worst. Just as no person is perfect, no text is perfect. The aporiae are inevitable. To find them one has to read with devotion, with respect, with interest.
Criticism should always be an act of love.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
My Friend, Mr. Palermo
There's an elderly Italian gentleman I often see when I walk the dogs. I say "Hello" or sometimes I wave. He started waving back after a few days. I've started referring to him as "my friend" when I talk to Craig about him. He wears t-shirts tucked into his khaki, knee-length shorts with socks pulled up over his calves, but not quite to his knees. He walks as though his entire torso is one piece, not like a single piece of steel... more like a tree that swayed with the wind as a sapling but has solidified slowly into a slightly bent and twisted hardwood. I think he may have had a stroke or is suffering from Parkinson's. He reminds me of Robert DeNiro in "Awakenings".
A couple of days ago he spoke to me for the first time. He asked if I walk the dogs every day and I told him yes, in fact a few times a day. I said it was good for the dogs. He smiled and said, "Good for you too." I laughed, agreed and went on my way. Today I saw him a little ways off and realized he was coming to meet me. Just then a neighbor's dog escaped and came barreling towards us from another direction. Thea and Max made such a racket the dog hid behind a bush and stared at them until its owner picked it up, apologizing profusely. When Thea and Max finally calmed down I turned around and there was my friend, standing there.
"I wanted to ask you," he began and handed me the box for his Nasonex, "Can you drink ... this?"
"No." I smiled, "It's for your nose. You spray it in your nose."
He looked very confused. "Just yes or no. For drinking?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
He sighed, "Not even wine or beer?"
"Oh! I misunderstood!" I stammered. "Let me see the box."
I read the box and didn't see a thing about alcohol.
"It doesn't say anything - yes or no."
"Oh, what about this?" He shook the Nasonex box and out fell a box for prescription eye drops. "Can I drink with this?"
I looked over the box and replied, "It doesn't say anything."
"Doesn't say anything, for both."
"Correct."
He pointed at his right eye and then his left and said, "One in each eye at breakfast?"
I read the directions and told him, "One in each eye at breakfast and dinner." I held up two fingers, "Twice a day."
"Two eyes, twice a day?"
"Yes."
"Doesn't say anything about drinking?"
"Doesn't say anything."
He smirked and said something I didn't understand, but though I heard "good time tonight" in there somewhere. I smiled, said goodbye and went on my way. It was only when I was walking through my front door that I wondered if he was inviting me over for a "good time tonight".
I decided to call him Mr. Palermo, but I should probably learn what his name is if we're going to have drinks. ;)
A couple of days ago he spoke to me for the first time. He asked if I walk the dogs every day and I told him yes, in fact a few times a day. I said it was good for the dogs. He smiled and said, "Good for you too." I laughed, agreed and went on my way. Today I saw him a little ways off and realized he was coming to meet me. Just then a neighbor's dog escaped and came barreling towards us from another direction. Thea and Max made such a racket the dog hid behind a bush and stared at them until its owner picked it up, apologizing profusely. When Thea and Max finally calmed down I turned around and there was my friend, standing there.
"I wanted to ask you," he began and handed me the box for his Nasonex, "Can you drink ... this?"
"No." I smiled, "It's for your nose. You spray it in your nose."
He looked very confused. "Just yes or no. For drinking?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
He sighed, "Not even wine or beer?"
"Oh! I misunderstood!" I stammered. "Let me see the box."
I read the box and didn't see a thing about alcohol.
"It doesn't say anything - yes or no."
"Oh, what about this?" He shook the Nasonex box and out fell a box for prescription eye drops. "Can I drink with this?"
I looked over the box and replied, "It doesn't say anything."
"Doesn't say anything, for both."
"Correct."
He pointed at his right eye and then his left and said, "One in each eye at breakfast?"
I read the directions and told him, "One in each eye at breakfast and dinner." I held up two fingers, "Twice a day."
"Two eyes, twice a day?"
"Yes."
"Doesn't say anything about drinking?"
"Doesn't say anything."
He smirked and said something I didn't understand, but though I heard "good time tonight" in there somewhere. I smiled, said goodbye and went on my way. It was only when I was walking through my front door that I wondered if he was inviting me over for a "good time tonight".
I decided to call him Mr. Palermo, but I should probably learn what his name is if we're going to have drinks. ;)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Eleven
I am planning for the future between eleven year old memories of you on your birthday this year. Last year I was about to start a Master's program and this year I am applying to PhD programs. Last year I knew what the next step I was going to take. This year I am hoping that a bridge will appear across this ravine in front of me like it did for Indian Jones. What hopes do you have for the next year? What wishes do you make as you blow out those candles?
I have been remiss in sending letters and now I don't know where to start. I've written so many that haven't been mailed, I'm not even sure what letters have been sent, what updates I have shared, or what updates I should be sharing. In the beginning it was very clear - make sure you know you have always been loved.
But what can I say to you now? Is it enough to know I still think of you and love you. I miss you, and yet I know so very little about who you have become and are still becoming.
We just moved and your picture is always the first one on display. The most recent picture I have of you is from your first day of kindergarten. You'll be starting your first day of sixth grade soon if you haven't already. There is such distance between who you are and how I remember you.
Sixth grade.
In sixth grade I had Mrs. Harper as a teacher. She introduced me to Tom Lehrer by playing "Be Prepared". I taught the other kids to play Blackjack during recess, until Mrs. Campbell saw us playing and took my cards away. I learned about alliteration and then Melissa Wilde, Amber Jones, and I wrote our own alliterations. We filled an entire page, front and back, with the adventures of Billy and Betty.
Billy and Betty bucked on a billboard.
Billy and Betty bopped in Billy's boxers.
We were going to do the whole alphabet. We even ended the page with "Join us next time when Randy rambunctiously rubs Rhonda's rump." But then we showed some of the kids from the other classes at recess. One of them told Mrs. Campbell and our parents were called. I had to read them out loud to my parents with Mrs. Harper sitting there at a table in the library. I didn't dare look at either of my parents. I remember saying, "See, they weren't that bad!" after I read them. Dad said, "Yes they were." And I was grounded from the phone for a month.
Sixth grade felt so grown up at the time. I wonder if you feel grown up, if you try and carry the world on your shoulders as I did back then. I hope not. I hope you don't feel responsible for things beyond your control like I did. I sometimes look back at younger me and wish I could have told her that the world will keep spinning even if she's not standing there turning it like a prayer wheel. I hope your shoulders aren't straining under the burdens of the world that you have claimed as yours alone.
I wonder if you've read all the books I gave you yet. Sixth grade is a good year for Edgar Allan Poe, although I gave Poe for Children so maybe you've read them all already. I wonder if you've read To Kill a Mockingbird yet. I hope you follow the advice I wrote on the inside and read it before they make you read it for school. Somehow being assigned a book can make it hard to love it. I wish I could keep sending you books, but since I can't I pray you discover them on your own.
Sixth grade.
Eleven years old.
I hope you will have a wonderful year, that you'll dream dangerously and outrageously, that you'll make something that didn't exist before you made it, that you will be loved and that you will be liked, and that you will have people to love and to like in return. And, most importantly (because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now), that you will, when you need to be, be wise, and that you will always be kind. (Written by Neil Gaiman, but exactly what I wanted to say.)
Happy Birthday Corey.
All My Love,
Mama Liz
I have been remiss in sending letters and now I don't know where to start. I've written so many that haven't been mailed, I'm not even sure what letters have been sent, what updates I have shared, or what updates I should be sharing. In the beginning it was very clear - make sure you know you have always been loved.
But what can I say to you now? Is it enough to know I still think of you and love you. I miss you, and yet I know so very little about who you have become and are still becoming.
We just moved and your picture is always the first one on display. The most recent picture I have of you is from your first day of kindergarten. You'll be starting your first day of sixth grade soon if you haven't already. There is such distance between who you are and how I remember you.
Sixth grade.
In sixth grade I had Mrs. Harper as a teacher. She introduced me to Tom Lehrer by playing "Be Prepared". I taught the other kids to play Blackjack during recess, until Mrs. Campbell saw us playing and took my cards away. I learned about alliteration and then Melissa Wilde, Amber Jones, and I wrote our own alliterations. We filled an entire page, front and back, with the adventures of Billy and Betty.
Billy and Betty bucked on a billboard.
Billy and Betty bopped in Billy's boxers.
We were going to do the whole alphabet. We even ended the page with "Join us next time when Randy rambunctiously rubs Rhonda's rump." But then we showed some of the kids from the other classes at recess. One of them told Mrs. Campbell and our parents were called. I had to read them out loud to my parents with Mrs. Harper sitting there at a table in the library. I didn't dare look at either of my parents. I remember saying, "See, they weren't that bad!" after I read them. Dad said, "Yes they were." And I was grounded from the phone for a month.
Sixth grade felt so grown up at the time. I wonder if you feel grown up, if you try and carry the world on your shoulders as I did back then. I hope not. I hope you don't feel responsible for things beyond your control like I did. I sometimes look back at younger me and wish I could have told her that the world will keep spinning even if she's not standing there turning it like a prayer wheel. I hope your shoulders aren't straining under the burdens of the world that you have claimed as yours alone.
I wonder if you've read all the books I gave you yet. Sixth grade is a good year for Edgar Allan Poe, although I gave Poe for Children so maybe you've read them all already. I wonder if you've read To Kill a Mockingbird yet. I hope you follow the advice I wrote on the inside and read it before they make you read it for school. Somehow being assigned a book can make it hard to love it. I wish I could keep sending you books, but since I can't I pray you discover them on your own.
Sixth grade.
Eleven years old.
I hope you will have a wonderful year, that you'll dream dangerously and outrageously, that you'll make something that didn't exist before you made it, that you will be loved and that you will be liked, and that you will have people to love and to like in return. And, most importantly (because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now), that you will, when you need to be, be wise, and that you will always be kind. (Written by Neil Gaiman, but exactly what I wanted to say.)
Happy Birthday Corey.
All My Love,
Mama Liz
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
End of semester thoughts...
This semester was really rough. I was not happy with anything I produced, not any of it. I am not accustomed to that. I realized today that a large part of the problem was that I didn't write much of anything until the last couple of months. Writing is like using chopsticks for me - I know I'm pretty decent at it, but every time I do it I need some time to remember how it works. I don't know why, and maybe that's something I should explore at some point, but for now I'm glad to have come to this realizaton.
I tried really hard to organize and plan out this semester so I wouldn't get as overwhelmed as I did last semester. Instead this semester was a lesson in letting go of control. The research class completely fucked me up. Last minute changes on an almost weekly basis scramble me, probably more than they should. I chose due dates (when I had the option) that would have resulted in an assignment due every two weeks. But all that got screwed up - the research class was a royal mess, nothing could be completed without approvals, approvals were not granted, blah, blah, blah. Everything became due between April 24th and May 13th. It was way too much work to squish into that amount of time.
On top of that, I was dissatisfied with two of my three classes. By the time assignments became due, I was burned out. I felt like I had been on the end of a rope and people decided to swing it around to see if I could hang on.
I had a slow leak from the first week of class, when a professor changed class day at the last minute and then showed up 30 minutes late to class. I was deflated not long after mid-term and THEN it was time to start producing. Which resulted in poor quality work from me.
I know I need to be the one who makes this work for me, but I feel let down this semester. I only feel like one class challenged me mentally and the others wore me out so I couldn't focus on that one class that meant something.
I will take the next 6 weeks to rejuvenate. I have way too much school left to burn out now.
I tried really hard to organize and plan out this semester so I wouldn't get as overwhelmed as I did last semester. Instead this semester was a lesson in letting go of control. The research class completely fucked me up. Last minute changes on an almost weekly basis scramble me, probably more than they should. I chose due dates (when I had the option) that would have resulted in an assignment due every two weeks. But all that got screwed up - the research class was a royal mess, nothing could be completed without approvals, approvals were not granted, blah, blah, blah. Everything became due between April 24th and May 13th. It was way too much work to squish into that amount of time.
On top of that, I was dissatisfied with two of my three classes. By the time assignments became due, I was burned out. I felt like I had been on the end of a rope and people decided to swing it around to see if I could hang on.
I had a slow leak from the first week of class, when a professor changed class day at the last minute and then showed up 30 minutes late to class. I was deflated not long after mid-term and THEN it was time to start producing. Which resulted in poor quality work from me.
I know I need to be the one who makes this work for me, but I feel let down this semester. I only feel like one class challenged me mentally and the others wore me out so I couldn't focus on that one class that meant something.
I will take the next 6 weeks to rejuvenate. I have way too much school left to burn out now.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Dreaming about my husband
I had a dream last night that Craig and I went to pick up our first veggie share from the Community Supported Garden we joined. We get 19 lbs of veggies each pick up and I was so excited to see many things I had never seen before.
There were Italian rolled eggplants (picutre large eggplants that spilt apart at the bottom and roll up), capped moles (these were small rodents wearing paper hats), and many other things. Just as I started to pile my treasure on the scale, Craig came running with the ONE thing he wanted... a 17 lbs pumpkin. He said it would match the two other pumplins he had and he could chop them up and put them in the compost.
I asked if it was from the sharing table - since it's not really pumpkin season it might have been left over and then it wouldn't count against our veggie share. But no, it wasn't.
I said, "Honey it's 17 pounds! That means we only get 2 more pounds of veggies." He looked at me, all bright eyed and excited and said, "17 pounds! Think of all the dirt that will make!"
I sighed, picked up my Italian rolled eggplant and some pomegrante seeds. (I had to put the capped mole back, it weighed too much.) Then we walked out to the car. Him bouncing along carrying this huge pumpkin and me just shaking my head and giggling at the absurdity of it all.
I married a man who gets really excited about dirt. At least I know there will always be joy in our lives ... as long as there is dirt.
There were Italian rolled eggplants (picutre large eggplants that spilt apart at the bottom and roll up), capped moles (these were small rodents wearing paper hats), and many other things. Just as I started to pile my treasure on the scale, Craig came running with the ONE thing he wanted... a 17 lbs pumpkin. He said it would match the two other pumplins he had and he could chop them up and put them in the compost.
I asked if it was from the sharing table - since it's not really pumpkin season it might have been left over and then it wouldn't count against our veggie share. But no, it wasn't.
I said, "Honey it's 17 pounds! That means we only get 2 more pounds of veggies." He looked at me, all bright eyed and excited and said, "17 pounds! Think of all the dirt that will make!"
I sighed, picked up my Italian rolled eggplant and some pomegrante seeds. (I had to put the capped mole back, it weighed too much.) Then we walked out to the car. Him bouncing along carrying this huge pumpkin and me just shaking my head and giggling at the absurdity of it all.
I married a man who gets really excited about dirt. At least I know there will always be joy in our lives ... as long as there is dirt.
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