Very useful, this poetry class of mine. Not for increasing the quality of my mediocre poetry creations, unfortunately, but for the deeper, more profound ruminations on life. Let's see how well YOU would fit in to my poetry class:
1. Why is finding out that a "fake" fur coat is really made with dog hair so horrifying?
(a) We attribute higher ordered thinking and sentient being status to domesticated animals, such as dogs and cats; therefore, we find their use in things like clothing and soups more inhumane.
(b) It isn't. At least the country of origin is using the whole dog.
(c) Because, like, dogs, they are like soooooooooooooo fake - fer sure!
(d) Um, because they LIED about their product?
2. I would rather kill a...
(a) deer rather than a dog.
(b) mouse rather than a rat.
(c) prairie dog rather than a monkey or a cat.
(d) celery stalk than any of the above, and why are we talking about this anyways.
3. Your above answer is because....
(a) We attribute higher ordered thinking and sentient being status to domesticated animals, therefore making us prefer killing a wild horse or a deer to a cat or a dog or a monkey.
(b) We prefer to kill small beings over large beings, even though sometimes we are more repulsed by/less spiritually connected to the large beings, therefore making us prefer killing mice over rats.
(c) We understand that this is a sick and ridiculous argument and do not engage.
4. Tommy Hilfiger manufactures and distributes their own "fake" Tommy Hilfiger knock-off line of clothing.
(a) True
(b) False
(c) And there goes another few hundred previously useful memory brain cells.
5. When critiquing a poem that contains the line, "Sometimes fingers sever themselves," a REAL MFA poet declares:
(a) The omomatopœia of this poem strikes me.
(b) I am moved by the quiet sadness in this piece.
(c) That shit is sick [and not in the juvenile sense of that word]. Huh. I wonder how that works? [Tilt head and ponder.]
(d) I would like to know more about the choice of the word 'sometimes.'
"FIT INTO CLASS" ANSWERS:
1. a and occasionally b
2. a and c
3. a
4. a
5. a, b, d
"Yours Truly" Answers:
1. c[as a reflexively sarcastic comment], then d
2. weirdly, I declared b... before recovering to d
3. b [More reflexivity problems... please note that those answering b will immediately be labelled a"survivalist" by the rest of our class]. Erase that and in retrospect answer c.
4. c
5. c
Notice any patterns?
2.27.2007
2.22.2007
Smurfer Madness
Unbelievably, I have gotten chastized. Apparently, some people do not fully appreciate being called Smurfs.
Or rather, they don't like it when everyone who meets them elevator-eyes them quizzically and then turns to me and says, "I don't know, Sar. The little person makes sense. I mean I see the Peter Dinklage, but I don't see the smurf." Or rather, they are not totally on-board when this vocalized opinion is followed up by, "Sorry, what is your name? Sar only calls you Smurflette." Which is SO probably not totally true.
But let it be known that the hot toddy formerly known as the wee Smurf aka Smevil = Evil Smurf will now also be known as Whisaac = White + Isaac (Oakland-born Ted Lange), from the Love Boat.
There, now everyone can just chill. Oh, and his name is Adam. And for the record, I think he is just divine, k?
Oh, The Bay
As you may recall, last semester I learned (or was at least informed) that I AM an artist, I AM a healer. And now I receive such lov-e-ly emails:
"If you are a healer and interested in the campaign of Barak Obama
please read on.
I've just started a "Healers For Obama" group because I believe that
it's time for people who care about change on the most fundamental
level to get involved in shaping the political future of this country.
Like many others in Marin I worked very hard on the Howard Dean
campaign and was heartbroken to see how difficult it was for a person
of his moral convictions to get the Democratic nomination. This time
I'm determined to do better.
In this great so-called service economy of ours, it is we healers who
have the services that people most want and need. I believe that this
can make us a force for transformation not just on the personal level
but on the political as well. If you agree - or or just curious about
the possibility of this - please go up on the Obama website
(http://www.barackobama.com/) and join the Healers For Obama group. I
look forward to hearing from you, meeting with you and helping you
change the world - one president at a time."
Gotta heart the Bay; now go warm up those silkscreening machines...
"If you are a healer and interested in the campaign of Barak Obama
please read on.
I've just started a "Healers For Obama" group because I believe that
it's time for people who care about change on the most fundamental
level to get involved in shaping the political future of this country.
Like many others in Marin I worked very hard on the Howard Dean
campaign and was heartbroken to see how difficult it was for a person
of his moral convictions to get the Democratic nomination. This time
I'm determined to do better.
In this great so-called service economy of ours, it is we healers who
have the services that people most want and need. I believe that this
can make us a force for transformation not just on the personal level
but on the political as well. If you agree - or or just curious about
the possibility of this - please go up on the Obama website
(http://www.barackobama.com/) and join the Healers For Obama group. I
look forward to hearing from you, meeting with you and helping you
change the world - one president at a time."
Gotta heart the Bay; now go warm up those silkscreening machines...
2.21.2007
Momisms Go Off to the Airport
And you think your Jewish mother is paranoid?
I picked up my mom at her place to take her to the airport. Before getting in the car, she scanned the street, then started waving frantically at the windows of her place, shouting, "Oh Doug and Sherie, it was great to see you! I had a lovely time!" Shouting. Shouting to a window three floors up. I strained my eyes. Squinted a lot. Looked for some strangers so named. Who are Doug and Sherie? Yes, I asked this question, too. They are
NO ONE.
When my incredulous face greets my mother, she responds with her usual exasperated expression, which somehow I read to be, "Duh. It is so people think there is still someone in my place and I am not going on a trip leaving my abode unoccupied so robbers do not break in." Right, as though any thief is foolhardy enough to want to break into anyone's place who (1) believes the entire world is watching them and knows they are going to an airport and (2) waves her hands like a lunatic shouting at empty windows.
I have no doubt that all criminal minds are offering her a wide berth on this one. I certainly am.
I picked up my mom at her place to take her to the airport. Before getting in the car, she scanned the street, then started waving frantically at the windows of her place, shouting, "Oh Doug and Sherie, it was great to see you! I had a lovely time!" Shouting. Shouting to a window three floors up. I strained my eyes. Squinted a lot. Looked for some strangers so named. Who are Doug and Sherie? Yes, I asked this question, too. They are
NO ONE.
When my incredulous face greets my mother, she responds with her usual exasperated expression, which somehow I read to be, "Duh. It is so people think there is still someone in my place and I am not going on a trip leaving my abode unoccupied so robbers do not break in." Right, as though any thief is foolhardy enough to want to break into anyone's place who (1) believes the entire world is watching them and knows they are going to an airport and (2) waves her hands like a lunatic shouting at empty windows.
I have no doubt that all criminal minds are offering her a wide berth on this one. I certainly am.
2.20.2007
Poems, Poems, Everywhere, Poems, Poems, Up to Your Hair
It is said that the Year of the Golden Pig is the luckiest year around for miles, for EVERYONE (no hyperbole there). It is also said that anytime the year matches your animal, you are screwed. It is also said that the only reason people say the latter is that REALLY the year of "your" animal indicates a year of CHANGE and upheaval for folx and since folx - excepting me, who is all about the chaos whirly-pot - are so transform-a-phobic it gets mislabelled to, "Dude, you are sooooooo hosed this year. Bummer." So, I am a Pig. So what's a gal to believe?
On the one hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
On the other hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to
me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
If I had a third hand, it'd point out that I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
I receive my first clue as we read and reply to someone's poem.
The structure:
One MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with a slight Audre Lorde affectation and stumbles over Latinized pretentious word choices.
Shuffles in embarrassment at their own inadequacies.
Then Another MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with greater affectation.
Then we all silently write notes to the author.
Then we talk about the piece.
Then the writer gets to break their silence and speak.
And as we discuss the poem,
"The Realist" wonders about the feasibility of the poem's metaphor.
"The Jewish Buddhist" illuminates the poem's development as manifesting the interconnection between all humans that is realized through meditation.
"The Wonderer" wants to know why the poem feels a need to end with such a concretely closure focused final line.
"The Play Writer" notes the distinct lack of dialogue in the poem.
"The Environmentalist" adds that the parallels between this piece and the reality of what is happening in the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, while subtle, are distinctly profound.
"I" laugh twice. The poem is funny. I think. "I" also wonder internally whether the misspelling of strawberries is accidental-typo, purposeful, or indicative the presence of a fellow dyslexic in the room.
I receive my mid-clue when it comes to my poem. MFA-candidate poets all scribble thoughts down. My poem is dissected, then awarded more depth, metaphorical meaning, and structural purposeness than it deserves. Finally the class comes to the title, "Seven Strikes Up a Conversation with Eight," which of course has NOTHING to do with the poem, only indicating which two seats on a MUNI 22 Fillmore the characters of this poem would be seated. "The Numerologist" starts us off by finding the numbers BREATHTAKING, as they surely have the deepest of meanings. "The Musicologist" purports the subtle connection of the numbers to the rhythms of a pantoum such as this one. "The Metaphorizer" muses on the Biblical significance of 7 and 8, as the poem is so obviously a religio-political satire. Eventually "The Professor" (I mean, the ACTUAL Professor) says, "I totally don't get the poem's title. Seriously. It means nothing to me." At which point all MFA-candidate poets hmmmmmmmmmmmmm in unison. From vociferous to languid are the noddings of various heads. When I can finally speak, I tell them about the title. The Professor says, "Oh god, I never would have gotten that out of context. Never. That was totally unclear to me. Thanks." Round two of the Choral Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.
All commented-on poem copies are passed back to me for my perusal. 10 of 12 copies have written on them something like, "Fascinating Title" or "Evocative Title!" or "What a perfect title for this piece!" etc. From this activity I learn that "evocative, perfect, fascinating" are all synonyms in Poetry Feedback Diction for "I have no idea WHAT this means." Well, at least when such comments have all been crossed out by their authors just before being passed my way. One copy says, "Title?" That person's name is noted, as they are now in my mind the only trustworthy opinion amongst the crowd.
I receive my final clue as two MFA-candidate poets leave the room:
MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude, have you ever been the Bargain Bank, Duuuuude?"
MFA-candidate poet B: "Dude, I got so WASTED at the Bargain Bank one time. Shiiiit. Duuuuuuude."
MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude."
[Door closes behind them.]
Golden Pig: Lucky or Ill Tidings Ahead for a Pig such as myself? Feel free to weigh in. I take all opinions from non MFA-candidate poets.
P.S. Update -- OK, cranky-pants-friends, here's the damned poem in question. Don't get yer panties all up in a wad...
And yes, I know it's not true to the classic pantoum structure. Get over it.
On the one hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
On the other hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to
me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
If I had a third hand, it'd point out that I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
I receive my first clue as we read and reply to someone's poem.
The structure:
One MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with a slight Audre Lorde affectation and stumbles over Latinized pretentious word choices.
Shuffles in embarrassment at their own inadequacies.
Then Another MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with greater affectation.
Then we all silently write notes to the author.
Then we talk about the piece.
Then the writer gets to break their silence and speak.
And as we discuss the poem,
"The Realist" wonders about the feasibility of the poem's metaphor.
"The Jewish Buddhist" illuminates the poem's development as manifesting the interconnection between all humans that is realized through meditation.
"The Wonderer" wants to know why the poem feels a need to end with such a concretely closure focused final line.
"The Play Writer" notes the distinct lack of dialogue in the poem.
"The Environmentalist" adds that the parallels between this piece and the reality of what is happening in the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, while subtle, are distinctly profound.
"I" laugh twice. The poem is funny. I think. "I" also wonder internally whether the misspelling of strawberries is accidental-typo, purposeful, or indicative the presence of a fellow dyslexic in the room.
I receive my mid-clue when it comes to my poem. MFA-candidate poets all scribble thoughts down. My poem is dissected, then awarded more depth, metaphorical meaning, and structural purposeness than it deserves. Finally the class comes to the title, "Seven Strikes Up a Conversation with Eight," which of course has NOTHING to do with the poem, only indicating which two seats on a MUNI 22 Fillmore the characters of this poem would be seated. "The Numerologist" starts us off by finding the numbers BREATHTAKING, as they surely have the deepest of meanings. "The Musicologist" purports the subtle connection of the numbers to the rhythms of a pantoum such as this one. "The Metaphorizer" muses on the Biblical significance of 7 and 8, as the poem is so obviously a religio-political satire. Eventually "The Professor" (I mean, the ACTUAL Professor) says, "I totally don't get the poem's title. Seriously. It means nothing to me." At which point all MFA-candidate poets hmmmmmmmmmmmmm in unison. From vociferous to languid are the noddings of various heads. When I can finally speak, I tell them about the title. The Professor says, "Oh god, I never would have gotten that out of context. Never. That was totally unclear to me. Thanks." Round two of the Choral Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.
All commented-on poem copies are passed back to me for my perusal. 10 of 12 copies have written on them something like, "Fascinating Title" or "Evocative Title!" or "What a perfect title for this piece!" etc. From this activity I learn that "evocative, perfect, fascinating" are all synonyms in Poetry Feedback Diction for "I have no idea WHAT this means." Well, at least when such comments have all been crossed out by their authors just before being passed my way. One copy says, "Title?" That person's name is noted, as they are now in my mind the only trustworthy opinion amongst the crowd.
I receive my final clue as two MFA-candidate poets leave the room:
MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude, have you ever been the Bargain Bank, Duuuuude?"
MFA-candidate poet B: "Dude, I got so WASTED at the Bargain Bank one time. Shiiiit. Duuuuuuude."
MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude."
[Door closes behind them.]
Golden Pig: Lucky or Ill Tidings Ahead for a Pig such as myself? Feel free to weigh in. I take all opinions from non MFA-candidate poets.
P.S. Update -- OK, cranky-pants-friends, here's the damned poem in question. Don't get yer panties all up in a wad...
Seven Strikes up a Conversation With Eight
Fillmore and Broadway
Strangers make a date to skate
Neither of us can stand
Such a faith nation circles make
We’ll wobble to a Hassid and Creed
Neither of us can stand
Adverbs or divine intervention
We’ll wobble to a Hassid and Creed
Our god-obsession talk of a nation
Adverbs or divine intervention
Creative design one man’s intention
Our god-obsession talk of a nation
To steady the world we’ll anchor hands
Creative design one man’s intention
Weakened knees make rough passage rites
To steady the world we’ll anchor hands
Though calloused I newly won’t let go
Weakened knees make rough passage rites
Your eyes opaque I stare to you
Though calloused I newly won’t let go
You’ll look at me I’ll glide right through
Your eyes opaque I stare to you
Seatmates make a date to skate
You’ll look at me I’ll glide right through
Such a faith nation
And yes, I know it's not true to the classic pantoum structure. Get over it.
2.19.2007
The Bear Whisperer... what a peach!
So I described my poetry-project-creation-related plight to my colleague, and while I went off to frolic at the Russian River he wrote this to me:
_______________________________________________________________________
This just came to me. You can do a whole series on the riders of the 22 as the major arcana of the Tarot. These two stanzas are just my initial ideas in a sudden bit of sleepy inspiration. And while it's kinda just a joke and makes my inner (and outer) literary geek chuckle, if I were in your position, this is where'd I'd go. Just for personal entertainment as much as having something done.
First drafty piece:
_____________________________________________________________________
Bless his dear sweet soul. The Bear Whisperer Rides Again.
_______________________________________________________________________
This just came to me. You can do a whole series on the riders of the 22 as the major arcana of the Tarot. These two stanzas are just my initial ideas in a sudden bit of sleepy inspiration. And while it's kinda just a joke and makes my inner (and outer) literary geek chuckle, if I were in your position, this is where'd I'd go. Just for personal entertainment as much as having something done.
First drafty piece:
curved plastic seats
imperial thrones
on the chariot
of the public transportation tarot
The Hanged Man
grips glumly the slightly bent
horizontal metal above
patiently pondering his passive
sacrifice
the seat surrendered
to The Empress
he sways
_____________________________________________________________________
Bless his dear sweet soul. The Bear Whisperer Rides Again.
2.08.2007
Blast From The Past: Photos That Keep Giving
This one goes out to A of A'n'AA, lest she think even for one second that her teaching life could not get worse. Like an apple on the desk, like the droppings of ever-present our nocturnal colleagues the School Mice, these were a little gift left for the teacher (not me) by an SFUSD substitute [thanks PQ for the snaps].
2.06.2007
And They Call This Grad School, Part Two
Yep, I might as well delete last week's posting about classes. Go ahead and VOID all that from your mind. This semester I have a new way to deal with graduate school: Attend a different class each week.
But first, a more general update from the novel Is It Bureaucracy or Is It Technology? You Decide (due out this Spring by SaveMe Press).
Thursday, I was unfrozen by the computer system because, woohoo, against all odds, bets and predictions to the contrary, the Human Subjects Protocol Full-On Committee approved my field research proposal. Depicted as ogres obsessed with minutiae who were going to demand I make 150 changes at least three times, their reputation for meddling was grossly over-exaggerated. They approved me on the first draft, asking that I make three tiny, logical changes.
No problem. Done.
Gig of joy. I could officially sign up for all the classes that I need to take, which of course are now all full and not going to letting me. And then, since Murphy's Law was created by my grad school, it appears:
On Friday, I was REfrozen by the computer system.
Why?
I need a thesis advisor.
Wait a second, didn't you have a thesis advisor?
Rosa. Amazing. Instant bonding. The only person in the whole department I remotely like or respect. Also just a lovely lovely person albeit seemingly flaky, though that could've been the circumstances, and all-around generally a kick-ass spit-fire of a human being. Beautiful soul. Wanted to work with me on my thesis. Wanted to make it PhD work (fuggetaboutit). On leave last semester. To return this semester. Every time I saw her, four hour philosophically based practical discussions and mutual hugging society all around. Adore her.
Turns out she DIED. (This is a great loss, not the least to the weirdly conservative Ed. Dept at this particular institution. R.I.P.)
Yes, so now I need to file paperwork to change advisors... because mine died. And the computer won't let me sign up for classes until I do.
Sigh. On more levels than one of those hampster playground sets, sigh.
So tonight I went back to auditioning for classes.
And attended not Options 1-4 from last Tuesday, but somehow ended up in Option 5, which turns out to be called Advanced Poetry Creation. Not that I have taken Rudimentary, Introductory, Mediocre, or Semi-Competent Poetry Creation classes, some of which I am sure are required. And this is the class, it appears, that all Creative Writing Poetry Grad Students take during their LAST semester before getting their MFA. CW 800,000. Lots of pre-requisites that I blew just left of. Grrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.
Which explains why I spent the whole night looking around like an alien in a guppy costume that found itself trying to look innocent to all the other fish while suspiciously looking in from OUTSIDE of the guppy tank.
Huh?
Yep, now you feel like me.
So this class?
It isn't full.
I love I mean love the poetry of the fella teaching this class.
The fellow teaching this class is a kickass poet, and when I greet him, his hands sweat on both sides, visibly.
He will let me add the class.
There are maybe 8 people in it. They have a lot of opinions though, and perhaps a few more egos, so really it operates like a class of 12-15.
And it went a little something like this:
Prof: Everyone who was here last week [Editor's Note: That means everyone except for me], please pull out the notebooks I gave you to write in.
Everyone pulls out these 1" x 1" Hello Kitty-esque spiral "notebooks." They have all been pregnantly ruffled and written in.
Prof: What was it like to write in these?
Student One: It induced within me different state of mind in my writing because it was so small and definitive.
[Students nod.]
Student Two: I was compelled to write less metaphors for lack of space.
[Students nod.]
Student Three: Constrained by the shape, I was forced to write sideways, despite the lines. This introduced new subject matter for my writing life.
[Students nod.]
Student Four: It freed me from my inner critic. It's diminutive stature opened me up to write anything for I understood that in this little box it would not be judged.
[Students nod.]
Student Five: The nature of this assignment drew my gaze to the details of my life. I found myself often thinking about my ankles as I walked to work.
[Students nod.]
Student Six: I hated it. I hated it. I drew little men in all the corners. I wrote all subsequent poems during this dark period of anger.
Prof: This reminds me of Some Famous Writer who would purposefully not eat for two days and then write while starving to bring about a change in perception in her writing.
[Students nod. I shake my head and think: You make me do that, I will freak the fuck out.]
Prof: Of course, I would not make you all starve for two days to change the vision of your writing. You are MFA students; you most likely don't have enough money to eat anyways, nor will you ever, if you seek to do this professionally. Let's move on to your proposals. You have been asked for this week to bring in your proposal for your final project and its working title. The final project will consist of at least 30 poems and be thematic. Who would like to start?
Student A: My final project proposes a juxtaposition between blah and blech, this and that, blah blah blah blah blah and green will always be indicative of the youth of character J while red will always announce the arrival of character Q, who will always be silent, in the collection. I have been working on this project for the past two years. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis.
[Students nod.]
Student B: My final project is austensibly about the relationship between love, death, politics, and hindsight, with a metaphorical undercurrent of blah blah blah blah blah. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis. The pieces that will be contained within it I have been working on since 2001, when I started this program.
[Students nod.]
Student C: While figuratively about blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda, on a more fundamental level this will utilize creative syntax and imagery to yadda yadda blah blah blah. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis. I have been writing these pieces since I was born.
[Students nod.]
[Students D - K... You get the point]
Professor: Oh, and we have a new student. Please introduce yourself. Any ideas on your Final Class Project? I am sure not, since you only just came here.
Me: Well, I am a teacher, so I am used to talking about things before they are actually formed in my head. Now, I don't know much about poetry, I never write the stuff really, and I am not writing anything related to a creative writing thesis unless you count my urge to make up all my Masters' Field Study research (that unfortunately I end up actually doing for real because I am ethical, sigh) but I am totally fuckin obsessed, I mean deeply, profoundly in love and in fascination, with folks on MUNI. So I guess I would write some pieces showing what I think goes on in the heads of various people on the 22 Fillmore. The folks on the 22? Crazy. Complete madness. I love the 22 Fillmore. Oh and the 19 and 49 Missions. Those buses are HOT. So that could be my project. I have been working on my Project for the last two minutes, when I jotted down this 3x3x3 poem:
The 22 Fillmore
I love I
Mean I looooooooove
The 22 Fillmore
Dramas rushing odorific
Adrenaline junky fixes
Everyone knows someone
Hills to flats
And back Traversing
Old time SF.
[Students stare. Students blink.]
Me: It needs some work.
Professor: Huh. OK, let's take a break.
Well said. Stay Tuned...
But first, a more general update from the novel Is It Bureaucracy or Is It Technology? You Decide (due out this Spring by SaveMe Press).
Thursday, I was unfrozen by the computer system because, woohoo, against all odds, bets and predictions to the contrary, the Human Subjects Protocol Full-On Committee approved my field research proposal. Depicted as ogres obsessed with minutiae who were going to demand I make 150 changes at least three times, their reputation for meddling was grossly over-exaggerated. They approved me on the first draft, asking that I make three tiny, logical changes.
No problem. Done.
Gig of joy. I could officially sign up for all the classes that I need to take, which of course are now all full and not going to letting me. And then, since Murphy's Law was created by my grad school, it appears:
On Friday, I was REfrozen by the computer system.
Why?
I need a thesis advisor.
Wait a second, didn't you have a thesis advisor?
Rosa. Amazing. Instant bonding. The only person in the whole department I remotely like or respect. Also just a lovely lovely person albeit seemingly flaky, though that could've been the circumstances, and all-around generally a kick-ass spit-fire of a human being. Beautiful soul. Wanted to work with me on my thesis. Wanted to make it PhD work (fuggetaboutit). On leave last semester. To return this semester. Every time I saw her, four hour philosophically based practical discussions and mutual hugging society all around. Adore her.
Turns out she DIED. (This is a great loss, not the least to the weirdly conservative Ed. Dept at this particular institution. R.I.P.)
Yes, so now I need to file paperwork to change advisors... because mine died. And the computer won't let me sign up for classes until I do.
Sigh. On more levels than one of those hampster playground sets, sigh.
So tonight I went back to auditioning for classes.
And attended not Options 1-4 from last Tuesday, but somehow ended up in Option 5, which turns out to be called Advanced Poetry Creation. Not that I have taken Rudimentary, Introductory, Mediocre, or Semi-Competent Poetry Creation classes, some of which I am sure are required. And this is the class, it appears, that all Creative Writing Poetry Grad Students take during their LAST semester before getting their MFA. CW 800,000. Lots of pre-requisites that I blew just left of. Grrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.
Which explains why I spent the whole night looking around like an alien in a guppy costume that found itself trying to look innocent to all the other fish while suspiciously looking in from OUTSIDE of the guppy tank.
Huh?
Yep, now you feel like me.
So this class?
It isn't full.
I love I mean love the poetry of the fella teaching this class.
The fellow teaching this class is a kickass poet, and when I greet him, his hands sweat on both sides, visibly.
He will let me add the class.
There are maybe 8 people in it. They have a lot of opinions though, and perhaps a few more egos, so really it operates like a class of 12-15.
And it went a little something like this:
Prof: Everyone who was here last week [Editor's Note: That means everyone except for me], please pull out the notebooks I gave you to write in.
Everyone pulls out these 1" x 1" Hello Kitty-esque spiral "notebooks." They have all been pregnantly ruffled and written in.
Prof: What was it like to write in these?
Student One: It induced within me different state of mind in my writing because it was so small and definitive.
[Students nod.]
Student Two: I was compelled to write less metaphors for lack of space.
[Students nod.]
Student Three: Constrained by the shape, I was forced to write sideways, despite the lines. This introduced new subject matter for my writing life.
[Students nod.]
Student Four: It freed me from my inner critic. It's diminutive stature opened me up to write anything for I understood that in this little box it would not be judged.
[Students nod.]
Student Five: The nature of this assignment drew my gaze to the details of my life. I found myself often thinking about my ankles as I walked to work.
[Students nod.]
Student Six: I hated it. I hated it. I drew little men in all the corners. I wrote all subsequent poems during this dark period of anger.
Prof: This reminds me of Some Famous Writer who would purposefully not eat for two days and then write while starving to bring about a change in perception in her writing.
[Students nod. I shake my head and think: You make me do that, I will freak the fuck out.]
Prof: Of course, I would not make you all starve for two days to change the vision of your writing. You are MFA students; you most likely don't have enough money to eat anyways, nor will you ever, if you seek to do this professionally. Let's move on to your proposals. You have been asked for this week to bring in your proposal for your final project and its working title. The final project will consist of at least 30 poems and be thematic. Who would like to start?
Student A: My final project proposes a juxtaposition between blah and blech, this and that, blah blah blah blah blah and green will always be indicative of the youth of character J while red will always announce the arrival of character Q, who will always be silent, in the collection. I have been working on this project for the past two years. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis.
[Students nod.]
Student B: My final project is austensibly about the relationship between love, death, politics, and hindsight, with a metaphorical undercurrent of blah blah blah blah blah. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis. The pieces that will be contained within it I have been working on since 2001, when I started this program.
[Students nod.]
Student C: While figuratively about blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda, on a more fundamental level this will utilize creative syntax and imagery to yadda yadda blah blah blah. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis. I have been writing these pieces since I was born.
[Students nod.]
[Students D - K... You get the point]
Professor: Oh, and we have a new student. Please introduce yourself. Any ideas on your Final Class Project? I am sure not, since you only just came here.
Me: Well, I am a teacher, so I am used to talking about things before they are actually formed in my head. Now, I don't know much about poetry, I never write the stuff really, and I am not writing anything related to a creative writing thesis unless you count my urge to make up all my Masters' Field Study research (that unfortunately I end up actually doing for real because I am ethical, sigh) but I am totally fuckin obsessed, I mean deeply, profoundly in love and in fascination, with folks on MUNI. So I guess I would write some pieces showing what I think goes on in the heads of various people on the 22 Fillmore. The folks on the 22? Crazy. Complete madness. I love the 22 Fillmore. Oh and the 19 and 49 Missions. Those buses are HOT. So that could be my project. I have been working on my Project for the last two minutes, when I jotted down this 3x3x3 poem:
The 22 Fillmore
I love I
Mean I looooooooove
The 22 Fillmore
Dramas rushing odorific
Adrenaline junky fixes
Everyone knows someone
Hills to flats
And back Traversing
Old time SF.
[Students stare. Students blink.]
Me: It needs some work.
Professor: Huh. OK, let's take a break.
Well said. Stay Tuned...
2.02.2007
You Know You Are Beyond Tired When
You lose your wallet.
More accurately, you lose your wallet and it doesn't even phase you.
You remember putting your fuchsia colored wallet in a black backpack the size of a bread box. So you look in there.
There is nothing in there. Unless you count air.
You put your hand in there. Nothin'.
You turn the backpack inside out. Nothin'.
You dump it upside down. Nothin'.
You think, aw fer gawd's sake fukket.
You go to sleep. 6 whole hours.
You get up the next morning.
Give that backpack one more try.
You unzip the backpack.
Look in.
Air. And a fuchsia wallet.
Sitting on the floor of the backpack. Innocent. Waiting.
You know you are beyond tired when you hallucinate things into NOT being there.
Hmmm.
More accurately, you lose your wallet and it doesn't even phase you.
You remember putting your fuchsia colored wallet in a black backpack the size of a bread box. So you look in there.
There is nothing in there. Unless you count air.
You put your hand in there. Nothin'.
You turn the backpack inside out. Nothin'.
You dump it upside down. Nothin'.
You think, aw fer gawd's sake fukket.
You go to sleep. 6 whole hours.
You get up the next morning.
Give that backpack one more try.
You unzip the backpack.
Look in.
Air. And a fuchsia wallet.
Sitting on the floor of the backpack. Innocent. Waiting.
You know you are beyond tired when you hallucinate things into NOT being there.
Hmmm.
1.31.2007
007: License to Date*
*Blessings to S, of S'n'J, for his ad agent's mind on this one, and just for being an overall doll. Love these two fiercely. Can't help it, won't stop it, don't even want to. It seems right to dedicate this posting to these two, especially since they still told people they were dating maybe 7 or more years into being together. They are my personal heroes.
So, let's be real. Those of you not receiving the play by play in person (and even some of you who do, I suspect) don't want to hear the sordid details my dating life. Well, I know some of you don't. Like my auntie, if she is reading this. As liberal a lady as she may be... I mean, Highlights For Children bug article creation by day/ Soft Porn Romance writer by night? How much more liberal can an auntie get? And yet...
I am keeping it G-Rated. But several have asked about my New Year's Resolutions and so I will comply.
Background: As those with a better memory than me will recall:
2004 = Sar has still never made a new year's resolution. This works out perfectly.
2005 = Sar resolves to make new year's resolutions, beginning with... Sar Doesn't Date in 2005. Much like her ability to comply with Yom Kippur, Sar makes it through 2005 until about the year equivalent of 3pm on a sundown-to-sundown day (that'd be like ... Octoberish). So really you could say Sar Doesn't Date from 1-1-05 through the Lunar New Year through the Fiscal New Year and pretty much through the Jewish New Year.... But any way you slice it, Sar leaps by November into a frenzied dating whirl, which leads to:
2006 = (1) Year of Mediocre Poetry Creation and (2) Originally: Yes: Dating, No: Kissing, but at the behest of EVERYONE this was declared RIDICULOUS and thus was soon revised to become: First Dates Only in 06.
Always the commitment-phobe, this sorta lasted. There were a couple slip-ups in which I went on say... five first dates with the same person. I always ended up regretting it and thus back to the resolution I went. And of course, one thing led to another, which it always does in the living world, and those things eventually led to:
2007 = (1) Finish ONE short story (Check, Done!) and (2) See Posting Title While Simultaneously Avoiding Even Chatting With Married Men, Who It Turns Out, Cannot Be Trusted.
Apparently this one needs further clarification (er... justification?), presently morphing from 'Married Men' into 'Married Men Who Are Not Truly Fer Real Separated And That Includes Who Are Not Separated Just In Their Own Minds as well as Any of Those Who Don't UNEQUIVOCALLY avoid the use such phrases as What Happens in Cabo Stays In Cabo' (Editor's note: Euw. And yeah, especially if nothing happens, fer shur).
There you have it. Puttin' it in writing; the best way to keep an ethical gal honest.
So, let's be real. Those of you not receiving the play by play in person (and even some of you who do, I suspect) don't want to hear the sordid details my dating life. Well, I know some of you don't. Like my auntie, if she is reading this. As liberal a lady as she may be... I mean, Highlights For Children bug article creation by day/ Soft Porn Romance writer by night? How much more liberal can an auntie get? And yet...
I am keeping it G-Rated. But several have asked about my New Year's Resolutions and so I will comply.
Background: As those with a better memory than me will recall:
2004 = Sar has still never made a new year's resolution. This works out perfectly.
2005 = Sar resolves to make new year's resolutions, beginning with... Sar Doesn't Date in 2005. Much like her ability to comply with Yom Kippur, Sar makes it through 2005 until about the year equivalent of 3pm on a sundown-to-sundown day (that'd be like ... Octoberish). So really you could say Sar Doesn't Date from 1-1-05 through the Lunar New Year through the Fiscal New Year and pretty much through the Jewish New Year.... But any way you slice it, Sar leaps by November into a frenzied dating whirl, which leads to:
2006 = (1) Year of Mediocre Poetry Creation and (2) Originally: Yes: Dating, No: Kissing, but at the behest of EVERYONE this was declared RIDICULOUS and thus was soon revised to become: First Dates Only in 06.
Always the commitment-phobe, this sorta lasted. There were a couple slip-ups in which I went on say... five first dates with the same person. I always ended up regretting it and thus back to the resolution I went. And of course, one thing led to another, which it always does in the living world, and those things eventually led to:
2007 = (1) Finish ONE short story (Check, Done!) and (2) See Posting Title While Simultaneously Avoiding Even Chatting With Married Men, Who It Turns Out, Cannot Be Trusted.
Apparently this one needs further clarification (er... justification?), presently morphing from 'Married Men' into 'Married Men Who Are Not Truly Fer Real Separated And That Includes Who Are Not Separated Just In Their Own Minds as well as Any of Those Who Don't UNEQUIVOCALLY avoid the use such phrases as What Happens in Cabo Stays In Cabo' (Editor's note: Euw. And yeah, especially if nothing happens, fer shur).
There you have it. Puttin' it in writing; the best way to keep an ethical gal honest.
1.30.2007
And They Call This Grad School?*
* First, a shoutout to A of A'n'AA, who suggested both a title for this particular diatribe and reminded me, as I stood for an HOUR in a line at Best Buy at 8pm on a Tuesday night to PICK UP the Dance Dance Revolution and PS2 that I'd ordered on-line for my godforsaken classroom in order to avoid lines at Best Buy [Visualize: well-intentioned Best Buy employee repeatedly and quizzically digging through cabinet designated for On-line orders... all 20 of them, while Yours Truly says things in the background to her like... I'm pretty sure it is that PS2 on the shelf. The only PS2 there. That PS2... until she puts her hand on the PS2 box for the 50th time and says, 'Oh hey. I think it is this one. Was it a PS2?' and Yours Truly responds by slowly exhaling and bringing one finger to her eyelid, which has taken to uncontrollably twitching], that the beauty of my f#&@ed up life is that these blogs pretty much write themselves. Ode to joy.
But believe it or not, she was not referring to the particular pain of mass consumerism in the form of Best Buy. She was instead speaking to the commencement of a certain illustrious grad school institution's Spring Semester.
But prior to such unfortunate event recounting, and because I like to pretend to be a positive person for at least one minute every day, allow me to point out what has gone well this week (which is only two days old, really):
(1) I enjoyed the ever-pleasurable dinner company of S and J, and I am still enjoying the residual taste-memory of the sucking down of the most divine, airy, fresh from the oven, steaming lemon pudding cake formed in the hands of J, dinner co-host, former pants-suit wearing 70s housewife extraordinaire, and teacher of such gradient phrases as "girl, girlina, girltressa" and
(2) I survived the first night of class(es) by pondering this same host's livid distain for the phrases "garden vegetables" and "all-new episode," which thankfully caused my brain to pause and even stall.
On the other hand, what's gone less well this week? The start of Spring Semester.
All the classes I am to take all take place on Tuesday. Which could be good, right? Except they actually all take place atop each other like a mosaic, or a slimy mass of paper mache.
And because the Human Subjects Committee has thusfar not approved my field study research topic, I have been frozen from electronically adding classes.... except, weirdly, Ballroom Dancing (a General Ed class which couldn't possibly count towards my Masters, no matter how nuanced my mastery of bullshit is).
Thus I am required by this computer/bureaucracy mayhem to attend all of the "hoped for" classes, in the hopes that eventually, before the end of the Add period, I will be able to Add at least one class that remotely functions for what I need.
And on top of it, it's spring in the Sunset. Which of course means it is really fuckin cold the first night of class(es).
But I am not bitter, mostly because there are only a few things I can be bitter about at once [and I hadn't even gotten to Best Buy yet at that point in the evening]. I never was a great multi-tasker. A beginner but not ender of stuff? Yes. Good at that. But multi-tasker? Not so much. But enough asides.
My Tuesday night options:
1. Creative Short Story Construction One Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10-6:55pm.
My arrival time: 4pm.
Sighting and subsequent ignoring of 19 year old Drunken Ducky Writing Student from last spring's writing class [see previous blog entries on dating avoidance]: 4:15pm.
Arrival time of teacher: 4:25pm.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Various dropping of pens and pencils and books of teacher by teacher from 4:26 - 4:34 pm.
Final name called from roll: 4:50.
Stated Verdict: “There is no fucking way you are going to get in. Good fucking luck."
Departure time: 4:51pm.
2. Stress Management and Relaxation Techniques and Theories Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10-6:55pm.
My arrival time: 4:56pm.
Arrival time of teacher: Unknown.
Final name called from roll: Unknown.
Weird teacher mannerisms [See below]: 4:56pm - 5:11 at least.
PhD [to class]: “Feel free to do all 15 weeks homework, reading, and writing and take the two exams and be done with this class within the next two weeks, email it all to me and we never see you again. I invite you.”
Me: [Chin on Floor]
Another Student: “Can I still get an A like that?”
PhD [to class]: “Yes.”
A third student: "And we wouldn't have to do any group projects?"
PhD [to class]: “You'd become groups of one. You'd email me. No presentation. You'd just do the group project with you to me."
Me: [Chin on Floor]
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER...
PhD [In midst of Power-Point beginning lecture to class]: “Remember, the speed of thought is faster than the speed of life.”
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER...
PhD [to class]: "You will need two textbooks. They each cost approximately $100. They are not available used, nor have I put copies of them on reserve in the library. There is a lot of reading. A lot of worksheets. A lot of quizzes to prove you read. Everything will be on ilearn. There will be no exchanging of paper. There WILL be an overwhelming amount of work. This is a class to learn diverse techniques to reduce and manage stress. Now everyone stand up and extend your left large toe." [PhD proceeds to lead us through a stretch activity that ends in us collectively spiritually and physically hurling our stress out the door of the classroom.]
Me: [Experience backflashes to singing I am an Artist I am a Healer. The PTSD begins to set in, resulting in cold sweats.]
ONE MINUTE THAT FEELS AN ETERNITY LATER...
PhD [to class, prior to returning to Power Pointing the class to less stress]: "People drop this class not because of the work. No. It is because they fear facing themselves."
Me [to self]: Uh-huh. Not because he is very very scary. No comment.
Stated Verdict: ["Danny isn't here anymore, Mrs. Torrance"]
Departure time: 5:11pm.
3. Ballroom Dancing (the ONLY option for an evening dance class, FYI):
Listed time of class: 5pm - 6:55pm.
Arrival time of the 80 students trying to take the class: Unknown.
My arrival time: 5:17pm.
My name called from roll: 5:18pm.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Teacher makes comments that involve showing us moves and then saying, "Well, if you find yourself getting all twisted up in the other person's arms, you can either let go and start over or you can..." and proceeds to give us this convoluted explanation of throwing our legs over eachother's clasped hands in a pair-version of THE HUMAN KNOT teambuilder. Such comments turn out to be jokes, as far as I can tell. Dry Dance Teacher Humor. Which of course results in half the class grinning weakly while shaking their heads while the other half of the class, the Earnest Beginners Circle upon whom Dance Teacher Humor is utterly lost, furtively and continually attempt such unbecoming gymnastics. Sporatically from 5:29 - 6pm, as we hurl each other about like untrained monkeys around the room.
Dismissal of class: 5:54pm.
Sighting of and Chatting with My Own Former Students who turn out to be in this class: 5:55pm.
Stated Verdict: "Can I somehow argue to my advisor that the presence of former students from my work somehow legitimates the connection of this class to my Master's work? Hmmmm. Let me ponder that."
Departure time: 6:02pm.
4. Poetry Creation Two Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10 - 6:55.
My arrival time: 6:18pm.
Arrival time of teacher: Unknown.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Unknown.
Final name called from roll: Unknown.
Stated Verdict:
Prof - "And you are...?"
Me - "The writer of that little yellow note you are holding in your hand." [Which explained my situation rather cryptically and yet in long-hand to her in her mailbox at the Creative Writing Dept. Office the previous week because the dept secretary refused, I mean refused, to cough up an email address or office hours for anyone in the dept.]
Prof - "So you are not a creative writing major, 2006 was your Year of Mediocre Poetry Creation, and though you weedled your way into a creative writing class last year, you have never actually taken Poetry Creation One?"
Me - "I didn't realize that was a prerequisite."
Prof - "Huh. I guess that was not clear. Well, the class is full, but there is no waiting list, so I will contact you if someone drops out." [Subtext: There is no fucking way you are going to get in. Good fucking luck.]
Me - "I will look forward to hearing from you."
Departure time: 6:21pm.
Eating of falafel before heading to stand in line at Best Buy for an hour: 6:24pm.
Welcome back, dear friends. It is going to be a long spring.
But believe it or not, she was not referring to the particular pain of mass consumerism in the form of Best Buy. She was instead speaking to the commencement of a certain illustrious grad school institution's Spring Semester.
But prior to such unfortunate event recounting, and because I like to pretend to be a positive person for at least one minute every day, allow me to point out what has gone well this week (which is only two days old, really):
(1) I enjoyed the ever-pleasurable dinner company of S and J, and I am still enjoying the residual taste-memory of the sucking down of the most divine, airy, fresh from the oven, steaming lemon pudding cake formed in the hands of J, dinner co-host, former pants-suit wearing 70s housewife extraordinaire, and teacher of such gradient phrases as "girl, girlina, girltressa" and
(2) I survived the first night of class(es) by pondering this same host's livid distain for the phrases "garden vegetables" and "all-new episode," which thankfully caused my brain to pause and even stall.
On the other hand, what's gone less well this week? The start of Spring Semester.
All the classes I am to take all take place on Tuesday. Which could be good, right? Except they actually all take place atop each other like a mosaic, or a slimy mass of paper mache.
And because the Human Subjects Committee has thusfar not approved my field study research topic, I have been frozen from electronically adding classes.... except, weirdly, Ballroom Dancing (a General Ed class which couldn't possibly count towards my Masters, no matter how nuanced my mastery of bullshit is).
Thus I am required by this computer/bureaucracy mayhem to attend all of the "hoped for" classes, in the hopes that eventually, before the end of the Add period, I will be able to Add at least one class that remotely functions for what I need.
And on top of it, it's spring in the Sunset. Which of course means it is really fuckin cold the first night of class(es).
But I am not bitter, mostly because there are only a few things I can be bitter about at once [and I hadn't even gotten to Best Buy yet at that point in the evening]. I never was a great multi-tasker. A beginner but not ender of stuff? Yes. Good at that. But multi-tasker? Not so much. But enough asides.
My Tuesday night options:
1. Creative Short Story Construction One Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10-6:55pm.
My arrival time: 4pm.
Sighting and subsequent ignoring of 19 year old Drunken Ducky Writing Student from last spring's writing class [see previous blog entries on dating avoidance]: 4:15pm.
Arrival time of teacher: 4:25pm.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Various dropping of pens and pencils and books of teacher by teacher from 4:26 - 4:34 pm.
Final name called from roll: 4:50.
Stated Verdict: “There is no fucking way you are going to get in. Good fucking luck."
Departure time: 4:51pm.
2. Stress Management and Relaxation Techniques and Theories Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10-6:55pm.
My arrival time: 4:56pm.
Arrival time of teacher: Unknown.
Final name called from roll: Unknown.
Weird teacher mannerisms [See below]: 4:56pm - 5:11 at least.
PhD [to class]: “Feel free to do all 15 weeks homework, reading, and writing and take the two exams and be done with this class within the next two weeks, email it all to me and we never see you again. I invite you.”
Me: [Chin on Floor]
Another Student: “Can I still get an A like that?”
PhD [to class]: “Yes.”
A third student: "And we wouldn't have to do any group projects?"
PhD [to class]: “You'd become groups of one. You'd email me. No presentation. You'd just do the group project with you to me."
Me: [Chin on Floor]
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER...
PhD [In midst of Power-Point beginning lecture to class]: “Remember, the speed of thought is faster than the speed of life.”
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER...
PhD [to class]: "You will need two textbooks. They each cost approximately $100. They are not available used, nor have I put copies of them on reserve in the library. There is a lot of reading. A lot of worksheets. A lot of quizzes to prove you read. Everything will be on ilearn. There will be no exchanging of paper. There WILL be an overwhelming amount of work. This is a class to learn diverse techniques to reduce and manage stress. Now everyone stand up and extend your left large toe." [PhD proceeds to lead us through a stretch activity that ends in us collectively spiritually and physically hurling our stress out the door of the classroom.]
Me: [Experience backflashes to singing I am an Artist I am a Healer. The PTSD begins to set in, resulting in cold sweats.]
ONE MINUTE THAT FEELS AN ETERNITY LATER...
PhD [to class, prior to returning to Power Pointing the class to less stress]: "People drop this class not because of the work. No. It is because they fear facing themselves."
Me [to self]: Uh-huh. Not because he is very very scary. No comment.
Stated Verdict: ["Danny isn't here anymore, Mrs. Torrance"]
Departure time: 5:11pm.
3. Ballroom Dancing (the ONLY option for an evening dance class, FYI):
Listed time of class: 5pm - 6:55pm.
Arrival time of the 80 students trying to take the class: Unknown.
My arrival time: 5:17pm.
My name called from roll: 5:18pm.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Teacher makes comments that involve showing us moves and then saying, "Well, if you find yourself getting all twisted up in the other person's arms, you can either let go and start over or you can..." and proceeds to give us this convoluted explanation of throwing our legs over eachother's clasped hands in a pair-version of THE HUMAN KNOT teambuilder. Such comments turn out to be jokes, as far as I can tell. Dry Dance Teacher Humor. Which of course results in half the class grinning weakly while shaking their heads while the other half of the class, the Earnest Beginners Circle upon whom Dance Teacher Humor is utterly lost, furtively and continually attempt such unbecoming gymnastics. Sporatically from 5:29 - 6pm, as we hurl each other about like untrained monkeys around the room.
Dismissal of class: 5:54pm.
Sighting of and Chatting with My Own Former Students who turn out to be in this class: 5:55pm.
Stated Verdict: "Can I somehow argue to my advisor that the presence of former students from my work somehow legitimates the connection of this class to my Master's work? Hmmmm. Let me ponder that."
Departure time: 6:02pm.
4. Poetry Creation Two Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10 - 6:55.
My arrival time: 6:18pm.
Arrival time of teacher: Unknown.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Unknown.
Final name called from roll: Unknown.
Stated Verdict:
Prof - "And you are...?"
Me - "The writer of that little yellow note you are holding in your hand." [Which explained my situation rather cryptically and yet in long-hand to her in her mailbox at the Creative Writing Dept. Office the previous week because the dept secretary refused, I mean refused, to cough up an email address or office hours for anyone in the dept.]
Prof - "So you are not a creative writing major, 2006 was your Year of Mediocre Poetry Creation, and though you weedled your way into a creative writing class last year, you have never actually taken Poetry Creation One?"
Me - "I didn't realize that was a prerequisite."
Prof - "Huh. I guess that was not clear. Well, the class is full, but there is no waiting list, so I will contact you if someone drops out." [Subtext: There is no fucking way you are going to get in. Good fucking luck.]
Me - "I will look forward to hearing from you."
Departure time: 6:21pm.
Eating of falafel before heading to stand in line at Best Buy for an hour: 6:24pm.
Welcome back, dear friends. It is going to be a long spring.
1.24.2007
Umbalakade: Fish or Spice?
Hello long-neglected readers: It's 2007, the Golden Pig is practically nuzzling us for truffles, work is in finals, I am in grading avoidance, school starts Tuesday (look for Season 3 episodes to traumatize us both soon), and I appear to be ridiculously hot for someone who looks like a combo of a Smurf (but not blue) and Peter Dinklage (but not a vegetarian and without achondroplasia). So you can see why it is best for all involved that I take a writing break.
Welcome back.
So last week I was at AA'n'A's seasonal thematic potluck gathering and had many a fabulous conversation with many a delightful person, some of whose names begin with Hal (and some of them began and ended with Hal, which is quite convenient here). And one such conversation with one such Hal led to the vegetarians' love-hate relationship with Asian 'spices' that happen to have been sentient beings at one time. And this particular Hal had me promising to write to you all about it. Now, normally a promise-keeper I am not (and I am certainly not a Promise Keeper, insert skin shudder here), but I had had two divine pieces of cheesecake and couldn't really be held responsible for what came out of my mouth at that point.
So, while lagging, promises will be kept.
The issue at hand.... Is Umbalakade a fish or a spice?
[No, you cannot stay in the middle. This is my game and I am sick of both the fence sitting liberals and all y'all "both... and..." hippy types - even if I am one normally]
Evidence supporting Umbalakade as a SPICE:
(1) It is dry and flaky, crushed with a mortar and pestle, often.
(2) It is a unilateral ingredient used in Sri Lankan food. I mean, it is in everything.
(3) Sri Lanka has quite a few Buddhists, and a ginormous population of vegetarians.
(4) Umbalakade is in every single ounce of vegetarian food eaten by every super venerated and religious Buddhist monk and layperson in Sri Lanka.
(5) Sri Lanka is a small country, but this is still more than one hundred people, making its presence statistically significant, if you ask me.
(6) A vegetarian country is hardly going to stand for a staple ingredient being a fish. Please.
(7) Sri Lankans refer to Umbalakade as a SPICE. Even in English. As in, "Sar, will you grab that SPICE and add it in heaping spoonfuls to this completely vegetarian curry?" OR "Podiy, would you kindly mix the maldivefish spice into your favorite dish ever.... pol sambol?"
Visual A:
Visual B:
Evidence suggesting Umbalakade may be a FISH:
(1) Umbalakade (phonetic translation of Sinhala word) = Hiki-kandu mas (phonetic translation of... um... Japanese, I think) = Maldive Fish (English. Plain ol English.)
(2) Prior to being crushed, beaten, and pounded into a silvery, flaky powder in that mortar and pestle, the 'maldivefish' bears striking resemblance to a desiccated small silver fish, complete with tiny gills and little vacant eyeballs.
(3) Prior to being scooped up by the ton and shorn of all H2O, this spice swam about - perhaps minding hir own business, perhaps makin' trouble - in the Indian Ocean and South China Sea, much like a wee sardine.
(4) It smells like a fish.
(5) It tastes like a fish.
(6) One of its primary roles in Sri Lankan cuisine, besides that providing a certain salty flavour (see #3 above) is that it injects a serious dose of protein. Suspicious.
(7) It is processed in a fish cannery after being caught by fisherfolks.
(8) Some Sri Lankan Buddhists, while not claiming vegetarianism status, justify the eating of fish and meat by noting that the flesh in question "Was already dead" when they bought it. I am sure omnivorous Buddhists all over the world have taken on this particular philosophy, not just Sri Lankans, and so I am not sure this particular argument should even be given a number. Let's strike this as tangential.
SPICE Rebuttle to FISH Argument:
(1) Some U.S. vegetarians have as their full title: "I am a vegetarian who eats fish." Again, I am not sure this particular argument should even be given a number, so let's also strike this as tangential and just a load of crap.
There you have it, folks. If I could figure out how to put a poll up on this site I would. But.... Umbalakade: Fish or Spice - YOU DECIDE.
Welcome back.
So last week I was at AA'n'A's seasonal thematic potluck gathering and had many a fabulous conversation with many a delightful person, some of whose names begin with Hal (and some of them began and ended with Hal, which is quite convenient here). And one such conversation with one such Hal led to the vegetarians' love-hate relationship with Asian 'spices' that happen to have been sentient beings at one time. And this particular Hal had me promising to write to you all about it. Now, normally a promise-keeper I am not (and I am certainly not a Promise Keeper, insert skin shudder here), but I had had two divine pieces of cheesecake and couldn't really be held responsible for what came out of my mouth at that point.
So, while lagging, promises will be kept.
The issue at hand.... Is Umbalakade a fish or a spice?
[No, you cannot stay in the middle. This is my game and I am sick of both the fence sitting liberals and all y'all "both... and..." hippy types - even if I am one normally]
Evidence supporting Umbalakade as a SPICE:
(1) It is dry and flaky, crushed with a mortar and pestle, often.
(2) It is a unilateral ingredient used in Sri Lankan food. I mean, it is in everything.
(3) Sri Lanka has quite a few Buddhists, and a ginormous population of vegetarians.
(4) Umbalakade is in every single ounce of vegetarian food eaten by every super venerated and religious Buddhist monk and layperson in Sri Lanka.
(5) Sri Lanka is a small country, but this is still more than one hundred people, making its presence statistically significant, if you ask me.
(6) A vegetarian country is hardly going to stand for a staple ingredient being a fish. Please.
(7) Sri Lankans refer to Umbalakade as a SPICE. Even in English. As in, "Sar, will you grab that SPICE and add it in heaping spoonfuls to this completely vegetarian curry?" OR "Podiy, would you kindly mix the maldivefish spice into your favorite dish ever.... pol sambol?"
Visual A:
Visual B:
Evidence suggesting Umbalakade may be a FISH:
(1) Umbalakade (phonetic translation of Sinhala word) = Hiki-kandu mas (phonetic translation of... um... Japanese, I think) = Maldive Fish (English. Plain ol English.)
(2) Prior to being crushed, beaten, and pounded into a silvery, flaky powder in that mortar and pestle, the 'maldivefish' bears striking resemblance to a desiccated small silver fish, complete with tiny gills and little vacant eyeballs.
(3) Prior to being scooped up by the ton and shorn of all H2O, this spice swam about - perhaps minding hir own business, perhaps makin' trouble - in the Indian Ocean and South China Sea, much like a wee sardine.
(4) It smells like a fish.
(5) It tastes like a fish.
(6) One of its primary roles in Sri Lankan cuisine, besides that providing a certain salty flavour (see #3 above) is that it injects a serious dose of protein. Suspicious.
(7) It is processed in a fish cannery after being caught by fisherfolks.
(8) Some Sri Lankan Buddhists, while not claiming vegetarianism status, justify the eating of fish and meat by noting that the flesh in question "Was already dead" when they bought it. I am sure omnivorous Buddhists all over the world have taken on this particular philosophy, not just Sri Lankans, and so I am not sure this particular argument should even be given a number. Let's strike this as tangential.
SPICE Rebuttle to FISH Argument:
(1) Some U.S. vegetarians have as their full title: "I am a vegetarian who eats fish." Again, I am not sure this particular argument should even be given a number, so let's also strike this as tangential and just a load of crap.
There you have it, folks. If I could figure out how to put a poll up on this site I would. But.... Umbalakade: Fish or Spice - YOU DECIDE.
12.25.2006
Because One Round of Elfin Anarchy Isn't Sufficient
Santarchy: In New York, the Saturday Night before Xmas. Drunken yuppies dress up as Xmas-related figurines and lose their collective mind publicly.
In San Francisco, seemingly any Saturday night after Thankstaking because of course no one can simply agree on doing something collective just once, so every little posse's gotta take matters into their own damned Bay Area hands.
So my first conscious brush with Santarchy was quite accidental last year. It went a little something like this:
I was innocently walking home. I was stone cold sober. A piss-poor bone chillingly cold Saturday night before Xmas. December 17,2005. When I suddenly realized:
Something is afoot in San Francisco.
And it looks like a goddamned drunken santa/elf convention out there.
I am telling you, the streets are scary tonight. There are santas in every crevice. Not just your run of the mill bell ringing salvation army santas either. Not the homeless fellow trying to get a buck in a santa cap, which completely and utterly sucks on 8 million levels.
I'm talking a santa/elf paramilitary takeover. I'm talking santas in stilettos, santas in fishnets, santas who pull down their beards to swill beer. Groups of santas in the street, shaking fists and cursing cars as they get nearly mowed down. Gaggles of elves fighting with other elves. Cold santas hopping foot to foot awaiting the bus. Frat-culture-stereotype santas. Santas waving bells screaming Merry Christmas, just shy of taking off your cheek off by their sheer proximity. Elves calmly in line to take 20s from ATMs. I started to count them. They are everywhere. In the four blocks near my house, I counted no shit over 39 santa/elves in just under 4 minutes. And I am not even counting the santa/elves who were all at Zeitgeist (a big ol ol-school-turned-pro hipster biker bar place a block or so from me) because such attire won you a free drink in which to completely drown your dignity.
I helped three santas either readjust their beards and/or find their cars. (Elfin Man: "Dude. I parked it on Valencia and 14th. Where IS Valencia and 14th? Where AM I?" Response: "Physically, you are on 14th and Guerrero. Does that help you at all? Because if you cannot find your car, it is perhaps a sign from Santa and his elves you should maybe not be driving.")
It's like community theater and I never got the flyer. It's like loud, furry, red white green roach swarms. It's like an epidemic. It's like the Castro during Halloween. It's like Fantasia, part 2: the LSD Really Kicks In. It's also like... a little annoying.
And let me tell you it is DUMPING rain and friggin freezing (ok, freezing for me, not freezing for you new york types, I know....). But does that keep the skimpily clad santas and the elven eared folks at home? Noooooooooooooooo. They are taking over.
One block 'til my house I passed a slower moving gang of santa/elves on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, on my right, I saw a crew of 6 santa/elves chowing down sausage sandwiches together. The restaurant bunch, sitting in the window, sees the sidewalk crew and starts banging on the window. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, Santa Kin! Santa Kin! And the crew on the sidewalk starts hoopin and hollerin back and clanking those crazy bells. And as I tried to maneuver my way through the madness, a third batch of elf-santas saw me and started "merry xmas"ing me like popcorn. Like this (imagine high-pitched helium-esque Alvin and Chipmunks voices): Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! (Just keep going as they pile up in your ear.)
And I stopped and said:
Seriously, what the hell is going on around here? Where did you all come from?
And they giggled and smiled and cackled and grinned and said in those 90 rmp sped up record voices, "Ooooooh, isn't it wooooooonderful?" and "It's like a christmas miracle!" (I kid you not - verbatim) and popcorned "Merry Xmas" me more. And I stopped. And I looked at them. And I said:
Actually, I find all y'all deeply deeply disturbing.
And though I admit to the creepings of a maniacal and somewhat incredulous grin making its way to my face by the time I passed the puking-in-the-median-and-on their pointy-curled-up-shoes santas, just imagine if I were some christmas-adoring 3 year old who still believed in santa. Were I then on the street around my place, on so many levels, I would be fucked up for life.
So....
My friend M-Pants, who is worldly and wise about anything related to costume dressing, Burning Man, and other rituals that scare me, heard my rant the next day and responded.... oh, Santarchy. That was Santarchy, Granny (Aside: she calls me granny. You may not, but she can).
She's all calm. Like I should feel better because that freakiness has a name. Right. But she told me the history and all. Like anything with a history makes it ok. Like the Spanish Inquisition? OK? Lots of history. Right.
So my really long-winded point? One of the things she told me was that it takes place all over the world the Saturday night before Xmas. There were hundreds of thousands on debaucherous Santas in Moscow this year, apparently. Look it up. But did you get M-Pants' wording, people? THE. THE = ONE specific.
But somehow, in its transmoglification over time, the THE got lost. Which means that the two Saturdays of December I was in San Francisco, neither of which were THE Saturday before Xmas, little spouts of Santamas-Santacon-Santarchy arose. And wove singing and blathering down my street in bunches. Veeeeeeery anarchist. Hats off to y'all, but it unfortunately means I have to hunker down and hide under the covers up to THREE Saturday nights before a holiday I otherwise ignore anyways. Sigh.
Here is what I have to say about that:
Go Elf Yourself
Happy best-day-to-take-a-walk-in-San-Francisco-except-Thankstaking-Day....
Smooch.
In San Francisco, seemingly any Saturday night after Thankstaking because of course no one can simply agree on doing something collective just once, so every little posse's gotta take matters into their own damned Bay Area hands.
So my first conscious brush with Santarchy was quite accidental last year. It went a little something like this:
I was innocently walking home. I was stone cold sober. A piss-poor bone chillingly cold Saturday night before Xmas. December 17,2005. When I suddenly realized:
Something is afoot in San Francisco.
And it looks like a goddamned drunken santa/elf convention out there.
I am telling you, the streets are scary tonight. There are santas in every crevice. Not just your run of the mill bell ringing salvation army santas either. Not the homeless fellow trying to get a buck in a santa cap, which completely and utterly sucks on 8 million levels.
I'm talking a santa/elf paramilitary takeover. I'm talking santas in stilettos, santas in fishnets, santas who pull down their beards to swill beer. Groups of santas in the street, shaking fists and cursing cars as they get nearly mowed down. Gaggles of elves fighting with other elves. Cold santas hopping foot to foot awaiting the bus. Frat-culture-stereotype santas. Santas waving bells screaming Merry Christmas, just shy of taking off your cheek off by their sheer proximity. Elves calmly in line to take 20s from ATMs. I started to count them. They are everywhere. In the four blocks near my house, I counted no shit over 39 santa/elves in just under 4 minutes. And I am not even counting the santa/elves who were all at Zeitgeist (a big ol ol-school-turned-pro hipster biker bar place a block or so from me) because such attire won you a free drink in which to completely drown your dignity.
I helped three santas either readjust their beards and/or find their cars. (Elfin Man: "Dude. I parked it on Valencia and 14th. Where IS Valencia and 14th? Where AM I?" Response: "Physically, you are on 14th and Guerrero. Does that help you at all? Because if you cannot find your car, it is perhaps a sign from Santa and his elves you should maybe not be driving.")
It's like community theater and I never got the flyer. It's like loud, furry, red white green roach swarms. It's like an epidemic. It's like the Castro during Halloween. It's like Fantasia, part 2: the LSD Really Kicks In. It's also like... a little annoying.
And let me tell you it is DUMPING rain and friggin freezing (ok, freezing for me, not freezing for you new york types, I know....). But does that keep the skimpily clad santas and the elven eared folks at home? Noooooooooooooooo. They are taking over.
One block 'til my house I passed a slower moving gang of santa/elves on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, on my right, I saw a crew of 6 santa/elves chowing down sausage sandwiches together. The restaurant bunch, sitting in the window, sees the sidewalk crew and starts banging on the window. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, Santa Kin! Santa Kin! And the crew on the sidewalk starts hoopin and hollerin back and clanking those crazy bells. And as I tried to maneuver my way through the madness, a third batch of elf-santas saw me and started "merry xmas"ing me like popcorn. Like this (imagine high-pitched helium-esque Alvin and Chipmunks voices): Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! (Just keep going as they pile up in your ear.)
And I stopped and said:
Seriously, what the hell is going on around here? Where did you all come from?
And they giggled and smiled and cackled and grinned and said in those 90 rmp sped up record voices, "Ooooooh, isn't it wooooooonderful?" and "It's like a christmas miracle!" (I kid you not - verbatim) and popcorned "Merry Xmas" me more. And I stopped. And I looked at them. And I said:
Actually, I find all y'all deeply deeply disturbing.
And though I admit to the creepings of a maniacal and somewhat incredulous grin making its way to my face by the time I passed the puking-in-the-median-and-on their pointy-curled-up-shoes santas, just imagine if I were some christmas-adoring 3 year old who still believed in santa. Were I then on the street around my place, on so many levels, I would be fucked up for life.
So....
My friend M-Pants, who is worldly and wise about anything related to costume dressing, Burning Man, and other rituals that scare me, heard my rant the next day and responded.... oh, Santarchy. That was Santarchy, Granny (Aside: she calls me granny. You may not, but she can).
She's all calm. Like I should feel better because that freakiness has a name. Right. But she told me the history and all. Like anything with a history makes it ok. Like the Spanish Inquisition? OK? Lots of history. Right.
So my really long-winded point? One of the things she told me was that it takes place all over the world the Saturday night before Xmas. There were hundreds of thousands on debaucherous Santas in Moscow this year, apparently. Look it up. But did you get M-Pants' wording, people? THE. THE = ONE specific.
But somehow, in its transmoglification over time, the THE got lost. Which means that the two Saturdays of December I was in San Francisco, neither of which were THE Saturday before Xmas, little spouts of Santamas-Santacon-Santarchy arose. And wove singing and blathering down my street in bunches. Veeeeeeery anarchist. Hats off to y'all, but it unfortunately means I have to hunker down and hide under the covers up to THREE Saturday nights before a holiday I otherwise ignore anyways. Sigh.
Here is what I have to say about that:
Go Elf Yourself
Happy best-day-to-take-a-walk-in-San-Francisco-except-Thankstaking-Day....
Smooch.
12.10.2006
How to Wear Down People Who Have Vowed to Hate You
1. The 'Kill them; kill them with kindness' approach.
I take sweet pleasure in picking away at the petrified toxic armor of the scads of rude sarcastic unhappy sourpuss depressed angry and depressing adults (and youth, but really there are many less youth) who flock to spend their day within the walls of our most esteemed school district. It's hard to tell which came first, the chicken or the egg on this one, since the school district does appear to cause grumbliness in the most well-adjusted happy souls. Caustic spreaders of blanket negativity, these folks require a slow but steady regiment of someone like me: grinning, laughing, happy in spite of them me. It makes them insane. They resist. They fight back. They up the ante. They say some seriously stupid, nasty shit. And I grin. I smile at them all the time. No matter what. Even when I am telling them what they said is bullshit. Which I do. A lot. But I don't engage. I just keep breathing and smile, and I say something really, really nice and yet truthful. I smile for real, the kind of smile that includes your eyes and results in what folks call "laugh lines" or "crows feet," depending on your gender and outlook on life. And it takes them a while to catch up with what just happened, by which time I am singing my way down the hall. And meanwhile, I let their poison run down my back and shake it off my legs with a twitch. Because these people? They have not met my family. So they have no idea what I can stand and what I can dish out.
I would say it takes an average of six months to have them saying hello to me, smiling and talking with me. And then I know I have broken them. I have done it so far with three adults at my school this past year alone. The Grin Approach - it leaves no visible bruises.
2. The 'Torture them; torture them like a pebble in their shoe' approach.
Equally effective, this technique involves some serious hunkering down and digging in of the heels. Luckily, my Capricorn sun/Scorpio rising origins leaves me scarily stubborn. This is an effective approach with people whose first instinct is to reject anything or anyone new or that they cannot control or don't understand.
This is the approach I have chosen to use with the professor who attempted to block my admittance into this piece of crap Masters program I am currently so disgruntled about. She first tried to ensure that I was not admitted, even though her reasoning just made their department look ridiculous (which turns out to be accurate, but nevermind). She argued that grief and loss had nothing to do with education, and I should get a counseling degree. I laid it out for her one track at a time, schooled her ass and then essentially forced my way in over her protests, basically by refusing to hear her. I call this the Insert-Fingers-in-Ears Ignore 'Em, Keep Moving, and Explain Later (widely-practiced in this good ol teaching district) while Killin'em with Kindness approach (with some logic and threatening mixed in -- it was a bit of a blended approach).
But she really didn't realize how bad it would be until she became my professor. Yes, the one who makes us highlight bullshit. Like that is a surprise. She certainly made it clear she was not having me. And yet, for the last four months, I have been wearing her down while ignoring her attempts to Alpha Male me. Again, she has clearly never met my family.
At first she tried to argue with me, push me around, discourage me, question me, get me to leave. She almost won. But slowly, she started to get it. Well, she both started to get what I wanted to do and why I wanted to do it, and she started to give up the fight. And then tonight, she sent me back a paper, saying in her most eloquent way (she is an English Teacher professor, by the way): 'I am being impressed by your good writing, Sarah. You got the talent, girl!'
Huh? OK, so she needs an editor. Whatever - we will ignore that. The point is.... She now loves me. It's actually a little disturbing. She cares infinitely more about my thesis and my completion of a masters at this point than I do. But in your face, Masters in Navel-Gazing and Piece of Shit Education. Bite me.
The long and the short of it? Don't mess with me. I got all sorts of patience and I get biblical on people, just like my name.
I take sweet pleasure in picking away at the petrified toxic armor of the scads of rude sarcastic unhappy sourpuss depressed angry and depressing adults (and youth, but really there are many less youth) who flock to spend their day within the walls of our most esteemed school district. It's hard to tell which came first, the chicken or the egg on this one, since the school district does appear to cause grumbliness in the most well-adjusted happy souls. Caustic spreaders of blanket negativity, these folks require a slow but steady regiment of someone like me: grinning, laughing, happy in spite of them me. It makes them insane. They resist. They fight back. They up the ante. They say some seriously stupid, nasty shit. And I grin. I smile at them all the time. No matter what. Even when I am telling them what they said is bullshit. Which I do. A lot. But I don't engage. I just keep breathing and smile, and I say something really, really nice and yet truthful. I smile for real, the kind of smile that includes your eyes and results in what folks call "laugh lines" or "crows feet," depending on your gender and outlook on life. And it takes them a while to catch up with what just happened, by which time I am singing my way down the hall. And meanwhile, I let their poison run down my back and shake it off my legs with a twitch. Because these people? They have not met my family. So they have no idea what I can stand and what I can dish out.
I would say it takes an average of six months to have them saying hello to me, smiling and talking with me. And then I know I have broken them. I have done it so far with three adults at my school this past year alone. The Grin Approach - it leaves no visible bruises.
2. The 'Torture them; torture them like a pebble in their shoe' approach.
Equally effective, this technique involves some serious hunkering down and digging in of the heels. Luckily, my Capricorn sun/Scorpio rising origins leaves me scarily stubborn. This is an effective approach with people whose first instinct is to reject anything or anyone new or that they cannot control or don't understand.
This is the approach I have chosen to use with the professor who attempted to block my admittance into this piece of crap Masters program I am currently so disgruntled about. She first tried to ensure that I was not admitted, even though her reasoning just made their department look ridiculous (which turns out to be accurate, but nevermind). She argued that grief and loss had nothing to do with education, and I should get a counseling degree. I laid it out for her one track at a time, schooled her ass and then essentially forced my way in over her protests, basically by refusing to hear her. I call this the Insert-Fingers-in-Ears Ignore 'Em, Keep Moving, and Explain Later (widely-practiced in this good ol teaching district) while Killin'em with Kindness approach (with some logic and threatening mixed in -- it was a bit of a blended approach).
But she really didn't realize how bad it would be until she became my professor. Yes, the one who makes us highlight bullshit. Like that is a surprise. She certainly made it clear she was not having me. And yet, for the last four months, I have been wearing her down while ignoring her attempts to Alpha Male me. Again, she has clearly never met my family.
At first she tried to argue with me, push me around, discourage me, question me, get me to leave. She almost won. But slowly, she started to get it. Well, she both started to get what I wanted to do and why I wanted to do it, and she started to give up the fight. And then tonight, she sent me back a paper, saying in her most eloquent way (she is an English Teacher professor, by the way): 'I am being impressed by your good writing, Sarah. You got the talent, girl!'
Huh? OK, so she needs an editor. Whatever - we will ignore that. The point is.... She now loves me. It's actually a little disturbing. She cares infinitely more about my thesis and my completion of a masters at this point than I do. But in your face, Masters in Navel-Gazing and Piece of Shit Education. Bite me.
The long and the short of it? Don't mess with me. I got all sorts of patience and I get biblical on people, just like my name.
Officially Pronounced Healed, I am Set Free
But not before the usual mind-numbing pain.
Daily Deep Quote: "Without getting sick, there is no transformation. Without darkness, there is no healing." I have pleeeeeeeenty of replies to that, but I will abstain (enjoy that you have avoided diatribes #76-84).
And now for our class agenda... Short but deep.
Maybe so deep I get the bends. And yes, that does say:
Please don't ask me what that means.
Daily Deep Quote: "Without getting sick, there is no transformation. Without darkness, there is no healing." I have pleeeeeeeenty of replies to that, but I will abstain (enjoy that you have avoided diatribes #76-84).
And now for our class agenda... Short but deep.
Maybe so deep I get the bends. And yes, that does say:
Closing
Houston
Thanks beauty
Closing
Please don't ask me what that means.
12.09.2006
It's Survival of the Fittest... But How Fit Am I, Really?
We are all about circles today. Circles of tangelos. Circles of paintings. Circles of pain. Today is brought to you by the following object: the Circle. Our Medicine Wheel has never been more edible.
Capturing a rare glimpse of the very offical Circle Hug Healing technique in action, shortly before being enveloped in it. Now imagine me sighing, putting the camera down, finding a couple backs on the outskirts, opening my arms and leaning in to those backs, eyeballs rolled up, trying to touch nothing but pressing just my fingertips against the shaking arms of people hugging other people's backs as though their very lives depended on it. Another very long sigh while somewhere muffled in the center, the Object Of the Circle Hug Healing (the OOCHH) sobs uncontrollably, ostensibly in relief.
Unfortunately, there are people who are NOT in the center who are also weeping. They are called Healing Hounds. The Owlette? Let's call her a healing hound, ya know, one of those people who always wants to be the person in the center, being healed?
The venerable CHH is not to be confused with the Required Individual Closing Hugs Offerings (RICHO). Both happened. I survived both.
12.03.2006
I Heart Locally Owned Movie Houses
Bless the Balboa Theater.
Only 5, count 'em 5, independently run theaters left in "lefty" s.f.
And the Balboa Theater is one of them. And even though they are way the fuck out on the avenues, as inconvenient by bicyle, walking, MUNI, or car as possible from my house or most of your houses, I suspect, I am still going there. Why?
10, count 'em 10, reasons to hightail it over to the Balboa Theater:
10. Meem-ami live right there. OK, that is a bonus special to me. So you might want to substitute in the following... Some seriously good food lives right there. All around that theater. Even on the same block. And we all know that kick ass food in sf? Hard to find (yeah, right). OK, so let's go back to the part where MeeAmi live over in those there parts. Hmmmm.
10 (revised). The Balboa Theater is actually located on Balboa Street, unlike Balboa High School, which is located as far from Balboa Street as humanly possible, or Washington High School, which is equally far from Washington Street, or really the plethora of other SFUSD schools named the same names as streets but located not even a little near those streets. Which somehow makes sense but confuses people anyways. The point? Ah yes, the Balboa Theater is both sensical AND not confusing. Good times.
9. They run first-run movies.
8. They serve veggie dogs.
7. They run shorts before the main flick movie.
6. They serve spicy popcorn.
5. You can buy passes and use them even on the weekends.
4. On your way out of the theater is a board with index cards and pencils and tacks. Here you are encouraged to write and post up your reactionary view of the movie you saw not even 10 minutes before, which makes them doubly funny since of course people are all emo (for better or for worse) right after movies and say things like: "If you want to dip your cup deep in OLD LADY, see THE QUEEN." Thanks people. Really. Cheers.
3. They let you in free on your birthday. Awwwwww.
2. They are not so crowded (so do your duty to keep them alive, people).
1. They sponsor some weird-ass contests on their website
http://www.balboamovies.com/
and the guy who won the last one was at our screening and he won a .... Making an Oscar Acceptance Speech. So that is what he got up and did, wearing a tux type item, clutching an Oscar statue, to us, the viewing audience, just before the movie started. Cute. And kinda weird. And cute.
So despite their rock-hard, sciatic-nerve crushing dirty ass seats, questionable sound system, and sky high baby screens, I am there. And you should be, too.
Only 5, count 'em 5, independently run theaters left in "lefty" s.f.
And the Balboa Theater is one of them. And even though they are way the fuck out on the avenues, as inconvenient by bicyle, walking, MUNI, or car as possible from my house or most of your houses, I suspect, I am still going there. Why?
10, count 'em 10, reasons to hightail it over to the Balboa Theater:
10. Meem-ami live right there. OK, that is a bonus special to me. So you might want to substitute in the following... Some seriously good food lives right there. All around that theater. Even on the same block. And we all know that kick ass food in sf? Hard to find (yeah, right). OK, so let's go back to the part where MeeAmi live over in those there parts. Hmmmm.
10 (revised). The Balboa Theater is actually located on Balboa Street, unlike Balboa High School, which is located as far from Balboa Street as humanly possible, or Washington High School, which is equally far from Washington Street, or really the plethora of other SFUSD schools named the same names as streets but located not even a little near those streets. Which somehow makes sense but confuses people anyways. The point? Ah yes, the Balboa Theater is both sensical AND not confusing. Good times.
9. They run first-run movies.
8. They serve veggie dogs.
7. They run shorts before the main flick movie.
6. They serve spicy popcorn.
5. You can buy passes and use them even on the weekends.
4. On your way out of the theater is a board with index cards and pencils and tacks. Here you are encouraged to write and post up your reactionary view of the movie you saw not even 10 minutes before, which makes them doubly funny since of course people are all emo (for better or for worse) right after movies and say things like: "If you want to dip your cup deep in OLD LADY, see THE QUEEN." Thanks people. Really. Cheers.
3. They let you in free on your birthday. Awwwwww.
2. They are not so crowded (so do your duty to keep them alive, people).
1. They sponsor some weird-ass contests on their website
http://www.balboamovies.com/
and the guy who won the last one was at our screening and he won a .... Making an Oscar Acceptance Speech. So that is what he got up and did, wearing a tux type item, clutching an Oscar statue, to us, the viewing audience, just before the movie started. Cute. And kinda weird. And cute.
So despite their rock-hard, sciatic-nerve crushing dirty ass seats, questionable sound system, and sky high baby screens, I am there. And you should be, too.
11.25.2006
How to Really F@#k with Yourself in Just 2 Steps
Step One:
1. See the Last King of Scotland.
Step Two:
2. Rush from there onto BART to cross the Bay to get to the Punchline to see Meem's baby sister, whom you've known since she was such a wee munchkin in lil' diapers, host a stand-up show.
3. Wish you had a brillo pad for your ears-brain as she talks extensively about the fishy smell of poon, oral sex, and so many other things you instantly block from entering even your short-term memory.
4. Move the brillo pad to your eyes as she gesticulates extensively as well.
5. Blink. A lot.
6. Laugh at the rest because she is really hella funny.
7. Through the brillo, hear Meem say, "The first time is really the most shocking."
8. Nod your head. Sigh. And get so excited for how fuckin fab aliwong has become!
Wanna see her yourself? Check her out:
http://www.aliwong.com/
1. See the Last King of Scotland.
Step Two:
2. Rush from there onto BART to cross the Bay to get to the Punchline to see Meem's baby sister, whom you've known since she was such a wee munchkin in lil' diapers, host a stand-up show.
3. Wish you had a brillo pad for your ears-brain as she talks extensively about the fishy smell of poon, oral sex, and so many other things you instantly block from entering even your short-term memory.
4. Move the brillo pad to your eyes as she gesticulates extensively as well.
5. Blink. A lot.
6. Laugh at the rest because she is really hella funny.
7. Through the brillo, hear Meem say, "The first time is really the most shocking."
8. Nod your head. Sigh. And get so excited for how fuckin fab aliwong has become!
Wanna see her yourself? Check her out:
http://www.aliwong.com/
11.22.2006
Destani Wolfe? She Rocked.
So I took Meem to the Independent to bask in the CD drop of Destani Wolfe (formerly of O'Maya fame) and I must say, she is supahfly. Her album is mature and she's a great performer. I am sure it is somewhere on myspace. Feel free to go dig around there for it. Lord knows Rupert Murdoch will love ya for it.
But on top of her music being dope, the cd release was just hilarious. She brought along her capoeira folks, her family, the O'Maya crowd came out, her Berkeley High buddies - it was just super multigenerational, with presumably her abuelita leaning up against the stage tapping a hand on the set and beaming up at Destani, all manner of Berkeley parents grinning ear to ear, drunk drunk drunk and dancing their little hearts out, predictably embarassing their children, particularly Destani's sister, Kelly, whose debut it was as stage backup singer.... I probably could have guessed that even without a whole series of Berkeley parent-friends-of-family sloshing wine down my shirt as they one by one leaned in conspiratorily and then yelled in my ear, "Oh honey, that is Baby Kelly's first time!" before turning back and screaming "Keeeeeeeellllllllllyyyyyyyy! Keeelllllllllllyyyyy! Do you see me? Keeeeeelllllllllyyyyyy!" and waving at her.
And we knew the set was over when suddenly anyone over 40 had vanished from crowding the stage and moved to the back, wine glasses in hand, and then melted into the night before the next band came up. So go out and buy the girl's album. She deserves to blow up.
11.19.2006
How to Take Teachers At Their Word, or How WALC Saved My Ass
Enabling quote of the day: "About your final projects: You don't need to explain them. They don't even need to make sense or mean anything."
This works out well for my final project. In fact, this comment is said specifically in reference TO my final project. I feel just so special.
Part A: Outwardly, I pontificate on my utterly obsessive love for the coolness that is Tannic Acid... and Redwood Trees in general ... while inwardly offering thanks to my equal obsession with using pastels as note-taking devices as well as Mr. G, Mr. B, and Ms. T for their love of all things Hendy Woods.
Having received essentially a visual biology-lesson-as-healing lecture, the circle of students stares at me. Even the teacher-child cocks his head like a confused dog. So sighing, onward I plod.
Part B: Reveal... a quilt. Tie it to the Gee Bend exhibit at the MOAD/De Young and a woman's voice saying, "After he died, [my mom] quilted his overalls all together, wanting him to keep her warm through the winter, covered in his love."
More tilting of heads. Time to bring out the big guns of Part C:
Read student writing and poems. It always makes 'em cry. And crying people? No longer critical thinkers. Good stuff. And doubly fortunate for me, since I couldn't create a connection if I tried, these 30 criers ultimately turn out to be great at forging healing art and healing connections between redwood trees and quilted sheets, and poetry honoring people, places, concepts and things.
And so they all nod at last. Sigh a collective sigh. And we are off to the next project. And I am free. Don't understand it? Me neither, but please re-read quote of the day.
This works out well for my final project. In fact, this comment is said specifically in reference TO my final project. I feel just so special.
Part A: Outwardly, I pontificate on my utterly obsessive love for the coolness that is Tannic Acid... and Redwood Trees in general ... while inwardly offering thanks to my equal obsession with using pastels as note-taking devices as well as Mr. G, Mr. B, and Ms. T for their love of all things Hendy Woods.
Having received essentially a visual biology-lesson-as-healing lecture, the circle of students stares at me. Even the teacher-child cocks his head like a confused dog. So sighing, onward I plod.
Part B: Reveal... a quilt. Tie it to the Gee Bend exhibit at the MOAD/De Young and a woman's voice saying, "After he died, [my mom] quilted his overalls all together, wanting him to keep her warm through the winter, covered in his love."
More tilting of heads. Time to bring out the big guns of Part C:
Read student writing and poems. It always makes 'em cry. And crying people? No longer critical thinkers. Good stuff. And doubly fortunate for me, since I couldn't create a connection if I tried, these 30 criers ultimately turn out to be great at forging healing art and healing connections between redwood trees and quilted sheets, and poetry honoring people, places, concepts and things.
And so they all nod at last. Sigh a collective sigh. And we are off to the next project. And I am free. Don't understand it? Me neither, but please re-read quote of the day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)