So all my writing efforts have shifted toward the diss, so I thought I'd offer up one my favorite paragraphs so far, from chapter 1. It's exactly the kind of paragraph that might get cut, but I hope it doesn't:
"'Genre,' like 'invention,' also has roots in both science and literature. What words like these give us is not an excuse to do interdisciplinary work, but a directive: if the words we use to categorize idea and things within our separate fields are shared by other fields (genre), and if the words we use to describe our procedures and methodologies are also shared (experiment, invention, etc.), then we must assume that this sharing contains more interest than the kind provoked by etymological kinship. It is not that etymology is not important; rather, the interest provoked by etymological kinship, which is a kind of pleasure in finding origins (and which is supposedly a question for a linguist and not necessarily a literary critic), is a pleasure that threatens to make us forget the serious nature of what is at stake when we search out the genealogy of words. If we assume that language plays a key role in ordering experience, and I certainly do, then we must take the pleasure of etymology very seriously. For when we search out the history of a word, especially a word like invention, and when we track its historical shifts in meaning, we are also tracking the history of an idea, the history of a practice, a whole range of circumstances that both prompts the change of a word’s meaning, and the circumstances produced by that shift. There was never a time when “invention” was more pregnant with meaning than in nineteenth century America; this tells us something about this particular word and this particular nation which we would not understand without understanding them together."
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Still here...
Man, I have been terrible about keeping up with this. The good news is I've been writing my diss at a pretty steady pace, and have been quite happy with the quality as well. I should have the first draft of my first chapter done by late April, at the latest.
My parents are coming in next week. My dad and I will be playing golf on Saturday morning at the Golf Club at Vistoso, which is a beautiful desert course north of town. We'll surely hit up our favorite cigar shop as well. Then a spring training game next Sunday. If Ada is in an ok mood tomorrow, I'm going to take her to watch the M's play the Diamondbacks.
Hopefully I'll have some interesting pictures to post soon. As of now in Tucson, it's warm, we've just picked the last of our fruit, and the orange and grapefruit trees are blossoming, which means bees and hummingbirds, too.
My parents are coming in next week. My dad and I will be playing golf on Saturday morning at the Golf Club at Vistoso, which is a beautiful desert course north of town. We'll surely hit up our favorite cigar shop as well. Then a spring training game next Sunday. If Ada is in an ok mood tomorrow, I'm going to take her to watch the M's play the Diamondbacks.
Hopefully I'll have some interesting pictures to post soon. As of now in Tucson, it's warm, we've just picked the last of our fruit, and the orange and grapefruit trees are blossoming, which means bees and hummingbirds, too.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Welcome Home, #24
Today it was announced that Ken Griffey, Jr. will be returning to Seattle to play for the Mariners. While he is way past his prime, and while he never should have left in the first place, I'm very happy that he's returning, and I'm determined to see him in a Mariners uniform one last time.
Given that he played in the steroid era, and unequivocally took no part in the cheating ways of McGwire, Sosa, Bonds, and now ARod (what a tool he is), his numbers are even more impressive given the fact they're legitimate. If he had stayed healthy, he would seriously be challenging Henry Aaron's all-time home run record. His days in Cincinnati were spotty and his legs eventually gave out under him.
But I've never seen a more beautiful swing, or a more graceful outfielder than Griffey. When I was younger, and cursed with being a Mariners fan, he brought a lot of joy to me as I collected his baseball cards (a hobby which has now ruined itself by becoming way too greedy, exclusive, and expensive), and generally anything that had his name on it. I still have his Fleer, Donruss, and Upperdeck rookie cards. One time my dad drove me all the way down to Seattle because Griffey was there for an autograph session at the Seattle Center, but when we got there the line was ridiculously long. I was extremely disappointed, so when my dad and I arrived back in Bellingham he bought me said Upperdeck rookie card.
My sisters might remember me running around the house like a crazed maniac when Edgar Martinez doubled Griffey home in Game 5 of the opening round of the playoffs versus the Yankees in '95--what is still the best game, and moment, in Mariners history. To see Griffey round those bases, slide hands first into home, his teammates pile on, and the huge Kingdome go absolutely wild. That was incredible.
What I also liked about Griffey was that he idolized his father. When Ken Griffey, Sr. played with him in the outfield for a few games early in Jr.'s career, you could not have witnessed a happier ball player. All smiles and very fun to watch play. As someone who also idolized his father, I really identified with that about him.
Anyway, welcome back Kid. Now I need to go out and get another #24 jersey. And there might be a reason to watch the Mariners this season.
Given that he played in the steroid era, and unequivocally took no part in the cheating ways of McGwire, Sosa, Bonds, and now ARod (what a tool he is), his numbers are even more impressive given the fact they're legitimate. If he had stayed healthy, he would seriously be challenging Henry Aaron's all-time home run record. His days in Cincinnati were spotty and his legs eventually gave out under him.
But I've never seen a more beautiful swing, or a more graceful outfielder than Griffey. When I was younger, and cursed with being a Mariners fan, he brought a lot of joy to me as I collected his baseball cards (a hobby which has now ruined itself by becoming way too greedy, exclusive, and expensive), and generally anything that had his name on it. I still have his Fleer, Donruss, and Upperdeck rookie cards. One time my dad drove me all the way down to Seattle because Griffey was there for an autograph session at the Seattle Center, but when we got there the line was ridiculously long. I was extremely disappointed, so when my dad and I arrived back in Bellingham he bought me said Upperdeck rookie card.
My sisters might remember me running around the house like a crazed maniac when Edgar Martinez doubled Griffey home in Game 5 of the opening round of the playoffs versus the Yankees in '95--what is still the best game, and moment, in Mariners history. To see Griffey round those bases, slide hands first into home, his teammates pile on, and the huge Kingdome go absolutely wild. That was incredible.
What I also liked about Griffey was that he idolized his father. When Ken Griffey, Sr. played with him in the outfield for a few games early in Jr.'s career, you could not have witnessed a happier ball player. All smiles and very fun to watch play. As someone who also idolized his father, I really identified with that about him.
Anyway, welcome back Kid. Now I need to go out and get another #24 jersey. And there might be a reason to watch the Mariners this season.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Hot for Teaching
Ugh. Sorry for being away for so long, but there's a good reason: I'm finally writing my diss, really putting words on paper, and I'm excited about the direction it's taking. Which means every other kind of writing seems kind of superfluous right now.
But I don't want to lose the, like, three people who read this blog.
Teaching has been exhilarating lately. Despite having taught various courses and hundreds upon hundreds of students, I've never had a class of around 30, for which I get to teach literature--not freshman composition, not lit and film, just literature--twice a week for majors. What a significant difference it is to have students who want to be in class, and who actually take notes regarding things that I say.
I'm happy for the opportunity to teach every term, mostly because it helps pay for school. I've been in graduate school since 2004 and I do not owe a dime for it--and that's because I've been able to teach. The problem is they usually stick me in Freshman Composition. It's assumed that because we study literature, that we automatically know how to teach writing. Now I probably know better than many grad students in other fields, but I do not consider myself an expert in teaching writing--it is truly a field unto itself. Literary criticism is an entirely different animal than teaching basic composition to students who can hardly write a sentence.
And so in my composition courses I rarely assign literature because what I hate even more is teaching people who don't give a crap about it. Which is why this term has been so great. I literally run out of time every single class, because I have so much to say and so little time to say it. I have to curb the urge to simply lecture the entire time, because it's such an intoxicating feeling. It's in front of a class like this that I realize how much I've learned--how many different ways I can take a lecture depending upon what associations I happen to be making that day with the material we cover. I'm usually quite fluid with my words, but I'm working on overcoming what I think is a monotonous tone when I lecture--and my low voice doesn't help. I like to pace, because it helps me think, but sometimes it prevents me from making eye-contact with students, which I'm also working on.
So far, the students have liked Dickinson the best, and for very good reason. What an amazing poet she is.
But I don't want to lose the, like, three people who read this blog.
Teaching has been exhilarating lately. Despite having taught various courses and hundreds upon hundreds of students, I've never had a class of around 30, for which I get to teach literature--not freshman composition, not lit and film, just literature--twice a week for majors. What a significant difference it is to have students who want to be in class, and who actually take notes regarding things that I say.
I'm happy for the opportunity to teach every term, mostly because it helps pay for school. I've been in graduate school since 2004 and I do not owe a dime for it--and that's because I've been able to teach. The problem is they usually stick me in Freshman Composition. It's assumed that because we study literature, that we automatically know how to teach writing. Now I probably know better than many grad students in other fields, but I do not consider myself an expert in teaching writing--it is truly a field unto itself. Literary criticism is an entirely different animal than teaching basic composition to students who can hardly write a sentence.
And so in my composition courses I rarely assign literature because what I hate even more is teaching people who don't give a crap about it. Which is why this term has been so great. I literally run out of time every single class, because I have so much to say and so little time to say it. I have to curb the urge to simply lecture the entire time, because it's such an intoxicating feeling. It's in front of a class like this that I realize how much I've learned--how many different ways I can take a lecture depending upon what associations I happen to be making that day with the material we cover. I'm usually quite fluid with my words, but I'm working on overcoming what I think is a monotonous tone when I lecture--and my low voice doesn't help. I like to pace, because it helps me think, but sometimes it prevents me from making eye-contact with students, which I'm also working on.
So far, the students have liked Dickinson the best, and for very good reason. What an amazing poet she is.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
43 is the loneliest number
I started this blog as a way to vent about politics when the Democratic primary was capturing most of my attention, and I'm actually surprised I haven't written more lately on that topic. I was planning a kind of farewell to Bush post, but figured I'm not going to say anything that hasn't already been said.
I'm glad he's going back to Texas and I'll at least say this: since Bush insists upon the necessity of justifying each and every one of his actions based upon what happened on September 11th, 2001, I will use that reference point, too.
The terrorists who attacked us that day could not have had a better president for furthering their goals. Jihadists know that they're never going to defeat us militarily. They absolutely know that. What they wanted to do was attack our ideas, our self-confidence as a people and a civilization. The symbolic weight of 9/11 matches, and perhaps surpasses (at least from a historical perspective) the heartbreaking legacy and memory that the dead leave behind. This tactic was not fated to work, however; it worked because we allowed it to work.
Bush and his cronies scared us, lied to us, forced us to hunker down, and made the Constitution into a negotiable document, all in the name of protecting us from terrorists. Illegal wiretaps, the promotion of torture, unchecked executive power--these are all developments that Bush thrust in our faces as if we were some third world country who was beholden to a tyrant. We, as a citizenry, are certainly responsible for letting him do this, as are the myriad Democrats who fell in lock-step with Bush in each and every case of "national security" (they, too, wanted to cover their ass).
But what is supposed to set America apart is the dream of America. I am a realist about what we are as a country, despite the tendency of our collective patriotism to obscure some of our less respectable actions and traits. But what separates America is that our ideals, our vision of ourselves which always forces us to look in the mirror, which is embodied in and by our founding documents, should not be sacrificed for anything--not even our own safety. "Give me liberty, or give me death" should be taken seriously. Because without those ideals we are another Rome waiting to fall. When we sacrifice our ideals (even as we sometimes fail to live up to them), we sacrifice our collective identity.
Bush, I'm sure, did what he thought was right. But surely he was also covering his ass as he led the fight on implementing his Orwellian policies. No president wants to be responsible for the deaths of his/her citizens. And so maybe we'll just wiretap, but just a little bit; or, we'll only torture the really bad guys. When exceptions are made, the rule falls apart. And many things have fallen apart in the last eight years.
I could go on but I'm in a celebratory mood today, and ready to move on.
2 million in Washington! Wow!
I'm glad he's going back to Texas and I'll at least say this: since Bush insists upon the necessity of justifying each and every one of his actions based upon what happened on September 11th, 2001, I will use that reference point, too.
The terrorists who attacked us that day could not have had a better president for furthering their goals. Jihadists know that they're never going to defeat us militarily. They absolutely know that. What they wanted to do was attack our ideas, our self-confidence as a people and a civilization. The symbolic weight of 9/11 matches, and perhaps surpasses (at least from a historical perspective) the heartbreaking legacy and memory that the dead leave behind. This tactic was not fated to work, however; it worked because we allowed it to work.
Bush and his cronies scared us, lied to us, forced us to hunker down, and made the Constitution into a negotiable document, all in the name of protecting us from terrorists. Illegal wiretaps, the promotion of torture, unchecked executive power--these are all developments that Bush thrust in our faces as if we were some third world country who was beholden to a tyrant. We, as a citizenry, are certainly responsible for letting him do this, as are the myriad Democrats who fell in lock-step with Bush in each and every case of "national security" (they, too, wanted to cover their ass).
But what is supposed to set America apart is the dream of America. I am a realist about what we are as a country, despite the tendency of our collective patriotism to obscure some of our less respectable actions and traits. But what separates America is that our ideals, our vision of ourselves which always forces us to look in the mirror, which is embodied in and by our founding documents, should not be sacrificed for anything--not even our own safety. "Give me liberty, or give me death" should be taken seriously. Because without those ideals we are another Rome waiting to fall. When we sacrifice our ideals (even as we sometimes fail to live up to them), we sacrifice our collective identity.
Bush, I'm sure, did what he thought was right. But surely he was also covering his ass as he led the fight on implementing his Orwellian policies. No president wants to be responsible for the deaths of his/her citizens. And so maybe we'll just wiretap, but just a little bit; or, we'll only torture the really bad guys. When exceptions are made, the rule falls apart. And many things have fallen apart in the last eight years.
I could go on but I'm in a celebratory mood today, and ready to move on.
2 million in Washington! Wow!
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Stream-feed: 11:56 p.m.
I'll be passing out syllabi tomorrow, and I'm kind of nervous since I've never really taught an actual literature course before. There was English 300, lit & film, but that was four weeks during summer, and we mostly watched movies. There was that 400-level post-Joyce Irish lit class I co-taught with another professor, but that wasn't really my class. There's the surveys I've TA-ed for and of course the myriad composition classes. But nothing like this one and it makes me anxious because being a literary critic and teaching literary criticism are two totally different things. What do I teach a sophomore or junior about literary criticism; even more importantly, what do I leave out? Where to begin? Do I start all sentimental and get all teary-eyed about how much I love words, language, and stories, and hope they pick up on my enthusiasm? Or do I go in there like a cold practitioner? I've made certain choices, I've chosen my texts, thought about the ideas, terms, theories, techniques, etc., I've learned and practiced over the years, but what is the best way to communicate these things other than just assigning readings and "discussing" the readings. It's not the little, detailed questions they'll ask me that make me anxious, but the big ones that are much more difficult to answer...why study literature? why is something good or bad? does goodness or badness even matter? what distinguishes literature from other pursuits of knowledge, truth, pleasure, love....I have answers for these questions but some of them are so tenuous. I change my mind about the answers to these questions constantly. I know that I know a lot more than they do, and I'm confident in what I know, but getting a PhD also means that yes, I have some answers, but it also means I have many more questions...more questions than my class will ask...anyway, I'm excited, at least, that I'll be able to teach the texts and authors that I love for reasons that extend beyond their capacity to receive literary analysis...I always appreciated enthusiastic teachers--ones whose lectures were living evidence of an extended love affair with what they study. I'm not exactly ebullient in front of a class, but I'm pretty fluid and sometimes I surprise myself when I utter a phrase and I'm not sure where it came from. Lecturing helps me to realize how much I've learned....but I also hope to engage with students more than I usually do this term. That will be easier given the fact that I want to be teaching the course, and am not being forced to teach the course..........Took care of Ada today. She began the day next to me in bed and played with my eyebrows with her index finger. She played, ate, swung in her...swinging chair? (don't know what else to call it)....rocker I guess...crapped twice, fell asleep while I watched Big Love, awoke hungry, laughed at me, played some more, waited for mom to come home...a pretty typical day but wonderful for its normality--a normality I like and can live with. It's amazing how much she smiles, as if Wordsworth were right--that children are purer and closer to wisdom than adults who become corrupted in their age and more distant from the simple truths that children know. I don't believe that sh#@ but sometimes I think Ada's living in a completely different realm than me and her smile is the only bridge between where I'm at and where she happens to be floating. I'm fine with that. I fully plan on communicating the standard cliche to Ada that she should stay young as long as she can because youth is full of illusions but aren't illusions so comforting, so necessary? Art is of course illusion, even the gritty kind intent on exposing our illusions, which is a kind of art whose intent is to replace one illusion with the illusion that complaining about the illusions isn't in fact an illusion, when in fact it really is. M. Arnold said, aptly, that literature is a criticism of life. I agree, but that criticism is no less an illusion than the illusions its intent upon correcting...perhaps a better illusion though...an illusion of one's own making, enjoyed consciously for its artifice...and not because one is ignorant that it's an illusion in the first place.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Back from Break; New Year's Resolutions
I'm finally back to a semblance of a routine after being in Oregon for two weeks. It was a great trip but coming home is always refreshing, and given that it's the new year, I have a list of resolutions I'll share, and what I've already done, or not done, to accomplish them.
1) Maintain a disciplined writing schedule
I have already canceled our satellite service, and we are going to pay for an extra day of baby-sitting every week so I can have more time to myself. Do you understand the magnitude of what I just wrote. I. shut. off. the. T.V. Granted, it's a little easier since football season's almost over, and most of the shows I like I can watch online anyway. But still, that's pretty big.
2) Remember family birthdays and important occasions, and send a card. Family, please hold me accountable if a significant event passes by and you have not received at least a card.
3) Lose some weight. Probably not going to happen, but always a new year's resolution classic.
4) Be a better husband. I'm a good husband but one can always be a better husband, especially if you love your wife. I've fallen short at times last year.
5) Make this a dynamic blog that people want to read. Looking back at the last six months or so, my most commented on posts relate to popular culture and politics. My least commented on: literature. I'll work on that.
1) Maintain a disciplined writing schedule
I have already canceled our satellite service, and we are going to pay for an extra day of baby-sitting every week so I can have more time to myself. Do you understand the magnitude of what I just wrote. I. shut. off. the. T.V. Granted, it's a little easier since football season's almost over, and most of the shows I like I can watch online anyway. But still, that's pretty big.
2) Remember family birthdays and important occasions, and send a card. Family, please hold me accountable if a significant event passes by and you have not received at least a card.
3) Lose some weight. Probably not going to happen, but always a new year's resolution classic.
4) Be a better husband. I'm a good husband but one can always be a better husband, especially if you love your wife. I've fallen short at times last year.
5) Make this a dynamic blog that people want to read. Looking back at the last six months or so, my most commented on posts relate to popular culture and politics. My least commented on: literature. I'll work on that.
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