Turns out there is usefulness in being a teacher who loses her voice.
NO, it is not staying home, because who would do that for anything short of death?! Rather, it is the whispering.
Try it. Turns out that when you whisper to people, they get shifty eyed, lean in close, and they whisper back. After a spell, they sometimes whisper,
"Why are we whispering?"
To which you rasp,
"Well, I am whispering because I lost my voice and have no choice. I have no idea, really, why you are talking like this."
This generally causes them to snap straight up, "Oh."
And yet they keep whispering. Coooooooool.
Turns out there is also a limit to the usefulness of the lost voice. The limit of people caring about your lost voice is.... 48 hours. Then it is yesterday's news like the Gore-Bush voting problem. Dull. And to be ignored.
Spring Break Spring Break Spring Break. If I whisper it, will it come?
3.20.2007
Slowly pickled in a barrel of poetic monkeys*
(*thanks BW)
The assignment: Write something frivolous and fun and decidedly mediocre
The result: Deeply despairing poets eat too many Samoa cookies and
(1) Concur that this assignment was indeed "the most challenging ever. I declare, I just couldn't do it."
(2) Use the feedback phrase "palindromic tonalities."
(3) Write poems, seemingly all every single one about sex.
(4) Write poems that begin with love and end with kittens being eaten in an effort to get attention, as a snack. A kitten. As a snack.
(5) Scream out, "Laura Bush is a Bitch."
The assignment: Write something frivolous and fun and decidedly mediocre
The result: Deeply despairing poets eat too many Samoa cookies and
(1) Concur that this assignment was indeed "the most challenging ever. I declare, I just couldn't do it."
(2) Use the feedback phrase "palindromic tonalities."
(3) Write poems, seemingly all every single one about sex.
(4) Write poems that begin with love and end with kittens being eaten in an effort to get attention, as a snack. A kitten. As a snack.
(5) Scream out, "Laura Bush is a Bitch."
3.19.2007
Holistic Health, Making Me Feel More Ill Each Day
The invite I received to the departmental open house included this part on the agenda...
430-7: Developing Meaningful Conversations -
Part of National Conversation Week, March 25-31
430-6: Conversation Cafe
And since I could not resist, please enjoy the First Question under the OPENING QUESTIONS right side bar:
Opening Questions
"What do you think is the most important question in the world now?"
If anyone ever asked me that question, it would be the opening and closing question in that conversation, thanks.
430-7: Developing Meaningful Conversations -
Part of National Conversation Week, March 25-31
430-6: Conversation Cafe
And since I could not resist, please enjoy the First Question under the OPENING QUESTIONS right side bar:
Opening Questions
"What do you think is the most important question in the world now?"
If anyone ever asked me that question, it would be the opening and closing question in that conversation, thanks.
3.18.2007
Iʻm just a gal whose intentions are good, oh lord, please donʻt let me be misunderstood
I wonder if those founding father types back in the day of the U.S. said to eachother: "Dude, I'm totally manifesting conquering that group over there. I'm just manifesting my destiny, dude." "Yeah, dude, that is why it is called Manifest Destiny and all." "Dude."
If so, that word? It needs to be retired.
This weekend, I learned that I am tired of the following Weekend Sponsorship words:
* Intention
* Manifest
* Burner, the Burn, The Playa
* Sparkle
I will spare y'all the sordid details of the whole thing, but here's what I will share....
1. I sat in the corner of this party this weekend, listening to the music and staring at the scene with eyes saucer-round, feeling the antennae grow til they wove around me like snail eyes.
2. A fella we'll call Anthony happened upon my corner. I had to bury myself in his coat, it was so furry and lovely. He allowed me. Good guy, pretty chill, dressed up a la Great Gatsby, wearing fer reals golf shoes at a dance-focused party. Interesting.
3. A fella happened upon us, introducing himself as “Hi. I’m Bryan. With a Y.”
Me (S): I’m Sara, with an h.
A: I’m Anthony, with a Y. Otherwise it would be Anthon, which would be weird.
(Pause. B makes first frowny face of the evening)
B: The Y is very important.
S and A: Why?
B: Because if you are Brian with an I, people switch the letters in their heads and call you Brain.
A: Why?
S: (think to myself…. Er… now, I am highly dyslexic, but, er… I would WRITE Brain, but even I would not call a Brian Brain, although I am slightly Tourettic, so now actually I might… at least this Brian)
S: So, um, if you are Bryan with a y, don’t people call you Brany then?
(Pause. Second frowny face of the evening)
A: Oooh, I love that. I am so going to call you Brany. Hi Brany.
(Frowny face becomes creasy)
B: So (throat clearing, body shifting to change conversation and block Anthon with a Y), I believe in creating intentions each time I attend an event. I find it allows me to manifest my desires. I always manifest my intentions.
You, the Reader: (uh-oh)
S: (eyes roll like pinwheels). Howʻs that manifesting going for you right now, Brany? (Blink) What are your intentions at this event? Because you know if you tell someone, it is more written in stone and that might make a person more accountable and less likely to shape-shift their intentions in retrospect at the end of the evening. So it might be easier to test your hypothesis that you manifest every one of your intentions and all. So what are your intentions?
B: What are your intentions? Hmmm?
S: I’m totally anti-the-intentions-and-manifesting. Not to yuck your yum – you keep having those intentional manifestings. Power to you and bye-bye.
B: So you come to a party with no intentions?! And look at you - you are just going to hole up in a corner and no one is ever going to talk with you and nothing will ever happen to you! (Storms off, taking creased brow brooding with him)
S: (Blink) Weird.
1 hour later
4. Passed by Brooding Bryan with a y talking to another female. He sees me, glares at me, and plants a fat kiss on the girl while staring at me. Charming.
5. Confused by the hostile act of kissing, I consult the Great Gatsby Anthon y, who informs that B was flirting and, while I am not a burner, I burned him. I missed all that.
Several hours later
6. Recount tragic boo-boo story to the Smurf, who recognizes the person, which allows me to learn that this particular piece of work has managed to manifest himself a whole agency which gives workshops to men on how to converse with females. Whaaaaaaaat?!
My latest intention? To manifest an infestation to eat those two words alive.
If so, that word? It needs to be retired.
This weekend, I learned that I am tired of the following Weekend Sponsorship words:
* Intention
* Manifest
* Burner, the Burn, The Playa
* Sparkle
I will spare y'all the sordid details of the whole thing, but here's what I will share....
1. I sat in the corner of this party this weekend, listening to the music and staring at the scene with eyes saucer-round, feeling the antennae grow til they wove around me like snail eyes.
2. A fella we'll call Anthony happened upon my corner. I had to bury myself in his coat, it was so furry and lovely. He allowed me. Good guy, pretty chill, dressed up a la Great Gatsby, wearing fer reals golf shoes at a dance-focused party. Interesting.
3. A fella happened upon us, introducing himself as “Hi. I’m Bryan. With a Y.”
Me (S): I’m Sara, with an h.
A: I’m Anthony, with a Y. Otherwise it would be Anthon, which would be weird.
(Pause. B makes first frowny face of the evening)
B: The Y is very important.
S and A: Why?
B: Because if you are Brian with an I, people switch the letters in their heads and call you Brain.
A: Why?
S: (think to myself…. Er… now, I am highly dyslexic, but, er… I would WRITE Brain, but even I would not call a Brian Brain, although I am slightly Tourettic, so now actually I might… at least this Brian)
S: So, um, if you are Bryan with a y, don’t people call you Brany then?
(Pause. Second frowny face of the evening)
A: Oooh, I love that. I am so going to call you Brany. Hi Brany.
(Frowny face becomes creasy)
B: So (throat clearing, body shifting to change conversation and block Anthon with a Y), I believe in creating intentions each time I attend an event. I find it allows me to manifest my desires. I always manifest my intentions.
You, the Reader: (uh-oh)
S: (eyes roll like pinwheels). Howʻs that manifesting going for you right now, Brany? (Blink) What are your intentions at this event? Because you know if you tell someone, it is more written in stone and that might make a person more accountable and less likely to shape-shift their intentions in retrospect at the end of the evening. So it might be easier to test your hypothesis that you manifest every one of your intentions and all. So what are your intentions?
B: What are your intentions? Hmmm?
S: I’m totally anti-the-intentions-and-manifesting. Not to yuck your yum – you keep having those intentional manifestings. Power to you and bye-bye.
B: So you come to a party with no intentions?! And look at you - you are just going to hole up in a corner and no one is ever going to talk with you and nothing will ever happen to you! (Storms off, taking creased brow brooding with him)
S: (Blink) Weird.
1 hour later
4. Passed by Brooding Bryan with a y talking to another female. He sees me, glares at me, and plants a fat kiss on the girl while staring at me. Charming.
5. Confused by the hostile act of kissing, I consult the Great Gatsby Anthon y, who informs that B was flirting and, while I am not a burner, I burned him. I missed all that.
Several hours later
6. Recount tragic boo-boo story to the Smurf, who recognizes the person, which allows me to learn that this particular piece of work has managed to manifest himself a whole agency which gives workshops to men on how to converse with females. Whaaaaaaaat?!
My latest intention? To manifest an infestation to eat those two words alive.
3.13.2007
At least we aren't taking ourselves too seriously
It's mid-semester, practically, meaning the class honeymoon is over. It is like the Real World in here, right around the time people stop being polite and start being migraine producing. The recent outbreak of Name Drop Syndrome has become an epidemic, resulting in the distinct feeling that though there are technically only 14 of us in the class, it feels like everyone has grown second heads and there are 40 or so voices-opinions present at any given time, more than half of whom are famous poets ... of whom I have never heard. It reminds me a bit of when I didn't have a TV and everyone related things to Brady Bunch episodes. [Yep, I was ignorant then and, well, now .... so be it.] Though I wonder, is it good or bad to have announced each poem as containing cosmic twins in the universe of Apparently Brilliantly Famous Unfamiliar Names? Hard to know, since all such pronouncements are unerringly followed by the omnipresent class choral hmmmmm.
Concerned our class is becoming too big for our britches, the quite adore-worthy Professor Palm-Sweats-On-Both-Sides has us read for our opening poems (kinda the equivalent of the sacrificial poet at a reading - but published and not present, etc.) a selection of amazon.com reviews done by some well-known San Francisco writer Kevin Killian (whom I'd of course never heard of because I apparently came of literary age in a metaphorical cold wet cement tunnel.... refer back to the Brady Bunch childhood 'problem' if I have lost you). So this Kevin Killian fella had had a heart attack and pulled himself back into writing just for the love of it by writing amazon.com reviews, inadvertently (perhaps) building himself some funny cult following for reviews on such things as Alien Green Belly Button Rings or Doctor Zhivago or Khaki Shorts with Yellow Stitching. Deeply unhelpful reviews that seemingly at best 1 out of 1 people found helpful. Which mostly served to show me that Poets should maybe not write reviews and post them and eventually have them bound into a book because (1) those reviews are sometimes not so much buyerly helpful (not that I care so much) as they are aurally interesting and (2) poets lie for the sake of their writing, which is decidedly not helpful in a review and (3) the presence of such work serves to enrage a certain test group of MFA candidates, who become inspired to debate what "constitutes" poetry ad nauseam for an hour or so while I grow hungrier.
And it really didn't help that for our assignment we had to write from a "controversial" piece of art, which turned out to be weirdly specifically interpreted to mean artists seemingly known by everyone in the class but your resident M.Ed. alien, who as usual missed the unspoken subtext of the assignment and wrote from this absolutely grotesque french ceramic piece that really looks like what a midwestern grandma giant would collect as a little porcelain figurine for her living room hutch. It was a poorly glazed life-sized 'one amber glass-eyed goat walking its way up another goat to get tall enough to see whatever it was looking at' item. I was informed that I'd missed the "controversial" part of the project, though I'd argue that such a hideous, neither artist-associated nor functional piece should be controversial in the sense that really should it be called art at all because wasn't that a slap in the face to artists, ceramicists, children who play in clay, sculptors, and goats everywhere or should it just be quietly hurled from a large building in which you could still open the windows?
So, in keeping with particular amazon.com reviewers, Teacher Palm Poet has sought to deflate our class by assigning us the task of creating frivolous, fluffy, superficial, and mediocre poems for next week. Flabby, dull poetry with no hidden subtext? No problem! 'Tis, of course, my area of expertise.
Til then...
Concerned our class is becoming too big for our britches, the quite adore-worthy Professor Palm-Sweats-On-Both-Sides has us read for our opening poems (kinda the equivalent of the sacrificial poet at a reading - but published and not present, etc.) a selection of amazon.com reviews done by some well-known San Francisco writer Kevin Killian (whom I'd of course never heard of because I apparently came of literary age in a metaphorical cold wet cement tunnel.... refer back to the Brady Bunch childhood 'problem' if I have lost you). So this Kevin Killian fella had had a heart attack and pulled himself back into writing just for the love of it by writing amazon.com reviews, inadvertently (perhaps) building himself some funny cult following for reviews on such things as Alien Green Belly Button Rings or Doctor Zhivago or Khaki Shorts with Yellow Stitching. Deeply unhelpful reviews that seemingly at best 1 out of 1 people found helpful. Which mostly served to show me that Poets should maybe not write reviews and post them and eventually have them bound into a book because (1) those reviews are sometimes not so much buyerly helpful (not that I care so much) as they are aurally interesting and (2) poets lie for the sake of their writing, which is decidedly not helpful in a review and (3) the presence of such work serves to enrage a certain test group of MFA candidates, who become inspired to debate what "constitutes" poetry ad nauseam for an hour or so while I grow hungrier.
And it really didn't help that for our assignment we had to write from a "controversial" piece of art, which turned out to be weirdly specifically interpreted to mean artists seemingly known by everyone in the class but your resident M.Ed. alien, who as usual missed the unspoken subtext of the assignment and wrote from this absolutely grotesque french ceramic piece that really looks like what a midwestern grandma giant would collect as a little porcelain figurine for her living room hutch. It was a poorly glazed life-sized 'one amber glass-eyed goat walking its way up another goat to get tall enough to see whatever it was looking at' item. I was informed that I'd missed the "controversial" part of the project, though I'd argue that such a hideous, neither artist-associated nor functional piece should be controversial in the sense that really should it be called art at all because wasn't that a slap in the face to artists, ceramicists, children who play in clay, sculptors, and goats everywhere or should it just be quietly hurled from a large building in which you could still open the windows?
So, in keeping with particular amazon.com reviewers, Teacher Palm Poet has sought to deflate our class by assigning us the task of creating frivolous, fluffy, superficial, and mediocre poems for next week. Flabby, dull poetry with no hidden subtext? No problem! 'Tis, of course, my area of expertise.
Til then...
3.07.2007
Once I Loved Velasquez's Venus
How is it that when a fellow who was clearly a cheating lying woman-using pig when he was younger becomes essentially a dirty old man, suddenly everyone has empathy for his character and attributes to him a quiet beautiful power for being the personification of age-stereotype bashing? Isn't that just ageism? Dirty young man becomes lecherous old guy, which somehow makes him sympathetic as a character? Whatever. Yes, the film has its points. But whatever anyways.
And on top of that, I adored that painting.
But alas, another piece of childhood innocence was stripped away tonight by my trust in the Balboa Theater's reliability as the source of All Things Good.
Not even the Bear Whisperer could save me from O'Toole's egomaniacal soft porn Lolita fantasy, so it must really have been a nightmare. Not even a de-pigmentizing full-body-emersion bleach bath + brillo + lye could fade the emotional scarring. Next time, I will at least familiarize myself with the movie's purported overall purpose. Next time.
And on top of that, I adored that painting.
But alas, another piece of childhood innocence was stripped away tonight by my trust in the Balboa Theater's reliability as the source of All Things Good.
Not even the Bear Whisperer could save me from O'Toole's egomaniacal soft porn Lolita fantasy, so it must really have been a nightmare. Not even a de-pigmentizing full-body-emersion bleach bath + brillo + lye could fade the emotional scarring. Next time, I will at least familiarize myself with the movie's purported overall purpose. Next time.
3.06.2007
Really, I am Learning So Much
Tonight, I learned how to write a poem. And not a mediocre poem (although, luckily for you, the poem I wrote is still decidedly mediocre). A deep poem. A poem so deep the bends are gotten. A poem so profound it is, well, unintelligible.
And since I am a sharer, you get to learn, too.
The Assignment: Write a Poem Using 'Found' Language
MFA Candidate Approach:
1. Select the first paragraph of a short story you have written in your 7,000 years identifying as a writer. It doesn't have to be any good. No plot is necessary. Don't worry about all that.
2. Copy and paste it into on-line translation service.
3. Turn it into a Romance Language.
4. Turn that into Japanese.
5. Then maybe German.
6. Then back to English.
7. Preferably repeat process with Swedish, etc. until it has become almost isotope-like in its instability, even in the 'bizarre and nonsensical' world of words strung together.
8. Cut and paste result into a word document.
9. Pinky-finger-tap that Return or Tab key with abandon to visually shape paragraph into a poem.
10. Make 15 copies to bring to class.
11. Pass out to colleagues. Listen as other MFA candidates focus on the power of image twisting and rhythmic vibrations. Ignore the non-MFA candidate as she attempts to quietly massage the "huh?!!!" headache throb out of her temples and replace her confusion with her happy place.
12. Receive 14 painstakingly critiqued copies back.
Example [Minus the ever-essential formatting, because I am too computer illiterate to format a poem to be justified, centered, right-justified, etc. on the blog...]
And this one actually makes comparative sense. Sorta.
What's funny is that THAT is apparently the standard way of creating a found language poem. It is almost anti-private-writers-club/egalitarian.
So I missed learning that whole technique, as usual. Maybe I was late for the previous class or something. Or maybe I missed an entire CW class prerequisite known as the MFA-Candidate Brainwashing. But, left to my own devices, I found my language from the titles of Craigslist missed connections. Because anyone who knows me knows that, true to my polyamorous nature, second to my profound love affair with the 22, I have a fatty crush on CL's MC section. I could eat that for breakfast with saag paneer and die a happy girl.
So, minus of course the actual poem layout, here's the SB-MEd-candidate approach to found language poetry writing:
1. Panic that class is coming and homework as usual as a concept has only just begun to be a scratch on the brain.
2. Take refuge in the tear-producing hilarity of the MC section of Craigslist because secretly you are a romantic of sorts.
3. Cute and paste every title from one day, preferable some morning-after weekend day, into a word document.
4. Shuffle them about for nine minutes into some internal logic mediocre poem shape before falling asleep with the computer open.
5. Wake up, wipe chin, print poem, work all day.
6. Pass out 14 copies to class.
7. Get told, "Well, this clearly is from her project rather than her found language piece, because the narrative is clear and the opening conversation purposeful in its tone."
8. Get told, "This piece is just SO reminiscent of O'Hare."
9. Wonder and eventually get to ask, "Um... who's O'Hare?"
10. Realize after saying this how interesting it is that MFA candidate eyes can both bulge and roll at the same time. [As if proving my ignorance for having grown up literarily in the equivalent of cement tubing, it has since been brought to my attention that the fellaʻs name is OʻHara.]
11. Get no feedback about image twisting and rhythmic vibrations.
12. Get passionate and diametrically opposed feedback that must have come out through an MFA candidate on-line translation machine because it is lyrical and rhythmic and makes no sense.
13. [NOTE: THIS IS AN ADD-ON ACTIVITY TO FURTHER YOUR LEARNING, BUT NOT NECESSARY] Laugh and laugh at break at the level of disdain in the room as classmates kvetch about how bourgeoisie a certain private school's writing program is, how COMFORTABLE their facilities are, what with couches and heat and coffee and copies provided and private writing rooms overlooking nature, because really WHO could possibly WRITE anything of value under such comfortable conditions. [Good thing we public schoolers are not snobs.]
14. Laugh at own poem because really this alternate universe is ultimately at least entertaining and not the worst way to spend three hours a week.
15. Despite a little embarassment, post own poem on blog so as not to protect yourself or pretend that you think you are better than these folks (truth be told, actually some of their found poetry was really quite interesting. Uh-oh, maybe the class thing is wearing off.)
(enjoy more of S's mediocre poetry):
And since I am a sharer, you get to learn, too.
The Assignment: Write a Poem Using 'Found' Language
MFA Candidate Approach:
1. Select the first paragraph of a short story you have written in your 7,000 years identifying as a writer. It doesn't have to be any good. No plot is necessary. Don't worry about all that.
2. Copy and paste it into on-line translation service.
3. Turn it into a Romance Language.
4. Turn that into Japanese.
5. Then maybe German.
6. Then back to English.
7. Preferably repeat process with Swedish, etc. until it has become almost isotope-like in its instability, even in the 'bizarre and nonsensical' world of words strung together.
8. Cut and paste result into a word document.
9. Pinky-finger-tap that Return or Tab key with abandon to visually shape paragraph into a poem.
10. Make 15 copies to bring to class.
11. Pass out to colleagues. Listen as other MFA candidates focus on the power of image twisting and rhythmic vibrations. Ignore the non-MFA candidate as she attempts to quietly massage the "huh?!!!" headache throb out of her temples and replace her confusion with her happy place.
12. Receive 14 painstakingly critiqued copies back.
Example [Minus the ever-essential formatting, because I am too computer illiterate to format a poem to be justified, centered, right-justified, etc. on the blog...]
Behind the breaks[Total time from conception to birth: 13 minutes. Original paragraph: See #11.]
external to colleagues
to truck others, candidates
of the AMF
of her
concentrated , the vrillage
of the illustration
of the energy
the shocks
of the rhythmatics
hear itself
MFA of the candidate
as its inconsciemment
that does not try, calm, collect
them "huh?!!!"headaches
beat to the breaks
external one, his one, his handsful
its disturbance with being happy
the place I replaced.
And this one actually makes comparative sense. Sorta.
What's funny is that THAT is apparently the standard way of creating a found language poem. It is almost anti-private-writers-club/egalitarian.
So I missed learning that whole technique, as usual. Maybe I was late for the previous class or something. Or maybe I missed an entire CW class prerequisite known as the MFA-Candidate Brainwashing. But, left to my own devices, I found my language from the titles of Craigslist missed connections. Because anyone who knows me knows that, true to my polyamorous nature, second to my profound love affair with the 22, I have a fatty crush on CL's MC section. I could eat that for breakfast with saag paneer and die a happy girl.
So, minus of course the actual poem layout, here's the SB-MEd-candidate approach to found language poetry writing:
1. Panic that class is coming and homework as usual as a concept has only just begun to be a scratch on the brain.
2. Take refuge in the tear-producing hilarity of the MC section of Craigslist because secretly you are a romantic of sorts.
3. Cute and paste every title from one day, preferable some morning-after weekend day, into a word document.
4. Shuffle them about for nine minutes into some internal logic mediocre poem shape before falling asleep with the computer open.
5. Wake up, wipe chin, print poem, work all day.
6. Pass out 14 copies to class.
7. Get told, "Well, this clearly is from her project rather than her found language piece, because the narrative is clear and the opening conversation purposeful in its tone."
8. Get told, "This piece is just SO reminiscent of O'Hare."
9. Wonder and eventually get to ask, "Um... who's O'Hare?"
10. Realize after saying this how interesting it is that MFA candidate eyes can both bulge and roll at the same time. [As if proving my ignorance for having grown up literarily in the equivalent of cement tubing, it has since been brought to my attention that the fellaʻs name is OʻHara.]
11. Get no feedback about image twisting and rhythmic vibrations.
12. Get passionate and diametrically opposed feedback that must have come out through an MFA candidate on-line translation machine because it is lyrical and rhythmic and makes no sense.
13. [NOTE: THIS IS AN ADD-ON ACTIVITY TO FURTHER YOUR LEARNING, BUT NOT NECESSARY] Laugh and laugh at break at the level of disdain in the room as classmates kvetch about how bourgeoisie a certain private school's writing program is, how COMFORTABLE their facilities are, what with couches and heat and coffee and copies provided and private writing rooms overlooking nature, because really WHO could possibly WRITE anything of value under such comfortable conditions. [Good thing we public schoolers are not snobs.]
14. Laugh at own poem because really this alternate universe is ultimately at least entertaining and not the worst way to spend three hours a week.
15. Despite a little embarassment, post own poem on blog so as not to protect yourself or pretend that you think you are better than these folks (truth be told, actually some of their found poetry was really quite interesting. Uh-oh, maybe the class thing is wearing off.)
(enjoy more of S's mediocre poetry):
My Craigslist MC
I was eating cake when I met you
I was eating a late lunch and I think you were too
I am in love with you
That sounds creepy
I think
grey girl silver Chevy
our eyes lock across Canvas Café
bicycle Bell Lady
off rack of Geary’s Goodwill
hammocks and hot tubs
paganbeautyjew
hushed next to you
by the sea
you turn to me, say
it’s ok to use the bridge
Dreamy Ms. Margo
small drip please
crosswalk compliment
fell peets KT
You wore a short curly red haired lady
I cannot remember your unusual name
This is a serious question:
Why am I so afraid of you
3.04.2007
Screw the Ides of March: Truncated Diatribe #2789
Honestly, I don't know why everyone hates March so much. Now, February? I understand that. Even in a leap-year, February has a short-guy complex of Napoleonic proportions. There are some kerjillion potential Holiday Mondays in February that could further chisel away at this Farcockteh February that's farshlepteh krenk, but to no avail. Might as well end of Daylight Savings Time during February while you're at it and take away one more hour of February. S.F. was bone-cold damp, teachers looked like the cast of Shawn of the Dead, whippersnappers were snarkier and more V-Day sugared-up than ever, the honeymoon was over, and poor lunar new year was really just starting to crawl backwards, so it could not defend itself. Thus it is my political position that at least north of the equator, we should make some changes:
1. There should be 11 principal months, all with 33 days in them. No prime numbers, no musical-learner rhymes or knuckle counting to figure out when to manually roll-forward your old watch's date function into the next month, no more variations in answers to extra credit math problems such as, "LeRoy bought 17 oranges to ensure he got the same dose of Vitamin C every day. If he wants the pile of oranges to last three month, how many oranges can he eat each day and how many should he refrigerate until he is ready?" And the system would take care of 363 days of the year.
2. Then there would be 1-2 days of February. Any day that falls in February would be a holiday. February would become Festive February. People would be disappointed if it was a "short" February rather than a "long" one. This change in February's self image would be healthy, despite the unfortunate caveat of "excluding the month of February" from any and all math word problems remotely resembling the aforementioned example.
In the meantime, I wriggle in delight at the balmy sunshine of S.F's March arrival and embrace the Ides with open arms while such a thing still exists.
Post-It Note: My friend Mistry pointed out that I could push my agenda on the various candidates running for particular federal offices and see who will take it on, offering the promise of my vote in return. Why not? Issue focused voters are all the rage these days.
1. There should be 11 principal months, all with 33 days in them. No prime numbers, no musical-learner rhymes or knuckle counting to figure out when to manually roll-forward your old watch's date function into the next month, no more variations in answers to extra credit math problems such as, "LeRoy bought 17 oranges to ensure he got the same dose of Vitamin C every day. If he wants the pile of oranges to last three month, how many oranges can he eat each day and how many should he refrigerate until he is ready?" And the system would take care of 363 days of the year.
2. Then there would be 1-2 days of February. Any day that falls in February would be a holiday. February would become Festive February. People would be disappointed if it was a "short" February rather than a "long" one. This change in February's self image would be healthy, despite the unfortunate caveat of "excluding the month of February" from any and all math word problems remotely resembling the aforementioned example.
In the meantime, I wriggle in delight at the balmy sunshine of S.F's March arrival and embrace the Ides with open arms while such a thing still exists.
Post-It Note: My friend Mistry pointed out that I could push my agenda on the various candidates running for particular federal offices and see who will take it on, offering the promise of my vote in return. Why not? Issue focused voters are all the rage these days.
2.27.2007
What I Learned in Class Today
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?
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?
2.22.2007
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.
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