Days one two three.

The night before we left, we slept like logs. Anxious, four-hour logs. That's partly because of the grading, but also because we're packing until one a.m. Oh, and also because we had a super awesome flood in our basement. So that took a minute or a million to sort out. Oh, and also, I finished the grades for my English 2010 sections and got a note from a student within, like, minutes. So before midnight, I had already submitted a grade change request to the registrar.

Anyway. We slept those beautiful four hours like it was our job and also like they would be sufficient unto our needs. This may come as a big surprise, but four hours are not sufficient unto our needs, not by a long shot, not when we were to spend hours upon hours upon hours in planes and airports. We landed at the curb of the first of the airports at nine a.m., checked our bags all the way through to Scotland, and I settled in to grade. In the airport.

 


...which, of course, took me only so far. Then we got on a rather tight, squeeze-y airplane with no wireless of course. Luckily, I bought the Esquire with Leonardo Dicaprio on the cover, so that was awesome. No sleep yet, by the way, for those keeping track at home. In Chicago, we (a) ate a pizza, I (b) spoke to my mother, and (c) completed, almost, my grading. Just two stragglers. I was feeling good.

Me: I just finished my grading. High five!

The historian: Yay!

Me: ...just two more stragglers.

The historian: ...wait, two more? Should I withdraw my high five?

Then we got on the long, long, loooong flight to London. That's a long flight, for your înformation. We waited awhile for that flight, because, like all flights in these dark times, this flight had to cope with technical glitches and not having yet been tidied up from the previous flight.

And when we boarded, the flight manager overlords were very brisk and all business. People we still getting their carry-ons hoisted into the overhead bins when the captain was all, "get you seatbelts on, damn you! We've got time to make up from or technical glitches and inadequate tidying!" while the rest of us we tightening out seatbelts and trying to look ready to got, yessir!

I sat next to a man and his two-and-a-half year old child. As I'm sure you have surmised simply from the words "two-and-a-half year old child," this could have gone one of two ways: hellish disaster or medium hellish disaster. But you'll be happy to know it was neither, unless you are a secret and unknown-to-me nemesis, in which case: ha ha, secret nemesis! the kid was charming and a good sleeper, and I didn't have any biggish seat mate elbows or knees or other biggish body parts to cope with.

However, I did not sleep. And that's the truth. A long fight when you are supposed to be sleeping--they turn the lights out and give you a blanky--is no fun when you cannot sleep. There I was, stuck with my own personal attitude, and a charming two-and-a-half-year old on one side of me, the to-all-appearances-sleeping historian in the other, and my iPod doing its job, which was to console me in my hour of need. My not-sleeping hour. Hours. And hours.

Heathrow, baby:

Heathrow is like the ten labors of Hercules, all in one gargantuan, baffling, labyrinthine ordeal. So I always try to allow plenty of time for going to the wrong place, twice, misreading their crazy signs, and what have you. Which, in this case, we did not need, because everything went perfectly. At this point, still no sleep to speak of, although I did have a really great salad at the Pret in concourse 5. I accomplished my final final grades. Well, minus one of the stragglers, so: almost my final grades. In Heathrow. So: international!

After staggering around a little bit and sitting a lot, got on the very last flight. Whereupon, I fell asleep for basically the entire flight, one and one half hours. It was so choice. I highly recommend it.

When we got to my daughter's house, we hung around, ate some sweets,

Played a game,

 

and fell into bed at ten.

"Maybe to reset the insomnia clock, you need to be awake for 30 hours straight," my daughter observed.

That, and a post-lunch nap.

Sleeping well in the U.K., thanks.

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

FAQ.

--and I do mean "F."

Q: How's the grading coming?

A: [*@#!] It's coming along. I'm kind of enjoying it, actually.

Q: You said your grading would be done by commencement time. Are you going to make it?

A: [so     much      talking!] I think I'll be close.

Q: But will you be finished? Finished finished?

A:

 Q: [wait a minute--angry? or homicidal?] [skedaddles.]

Cake.

At or about 11:00 p.m. I'm in the kitchen. My son has just come home from the gym.

Son: What're you making?

Me: Cupcakes. (feeling suddenly sheepish.) For my class.

Son: That's nice of you.

Me: But I bet they don't do stuff like that at the university, do they?

Son: My Chinese teacher brought egg rolls. Twice. Once on Chinese New Year and once on the last day of class. Egg rolls and oranges.

Me: (brightening!) That makes me feel better!

Son: And I have her twice on the same day. So I got to eat it twice.

Tomorrow is the final exam period for my Introduction to Imaginative Writing course, which I taught face to face for the first time in blah blah blah, I know, I told you this already. Anyway, it's been a great class. We are binding our copies of the class chapbook tomorrow, then having a little reading and celebration. Hence: cupcakes.

Here's a tip: if you happen to be in the area tomorrow at about 11:30 a.m., and you happen to be a creative writer (here's another tip: I think all writing is creative), and also you happen to have read this blog post (obviously), then you, too, can have a celebratory cupcake, which, since they give out egg rolls at the U, is perfectly okay.

Garden.

My friend Ann has been posting pictures from her garden. I have several friends who are superb gardeners--my friend gilian and my oldest friend in NoCal, and Ann. They're artists and philosophers of gardens. I really admire this.

The past few years, the gardening around here has been catch-as-catch-can--we've gone hither and yon, to Idaho and back, to Scotland. This year, there have been enough work-related things that it's been hard to even recognize that we live on, you know, the earth.

That's probably the point, right? To recognize that we live on the earth and not just in and through screens. Or words or pages or whatever. In the air. Under the sky. With the dirt.

We had family over tonight, and the historian (who finished and sent off an essay last week) worked in the yard while I worked in the kitchen. Cinco de Mayo, so enchiladas. Some of my best ever, if I do say so myself. Then we ate outside.

Our yard at its best is beautiful and untidy. Right now, there's an equal proportion of both the gorgeous and the messy. We're gradually shifting the proportions. But it's May, it's spring, everything is abloom. If I weren't going to spend the next four days grading, I might think about adding some beautiful to the beautiful. But that will have to come later. For now, it's enough to just go out, breathe it in, sit out there in the evening while kids run around playing superheroes, letting the sun sink, under the apple and cherry trees full of flower.

End of the semester rabbit.

END OF THE SEMESTER RABBIT by lisab

Short letters.

Dear Monday,

There was a moment when you were blank with promise. Then a meeting request. And another meeting request, and another. Suddenly, your middle was all full of meetings, and you were thus like any other day.

What was there to do, but succumb to that meeting-ful middle and therefore not do anything else worth mentioning?

Slothfully,

htms

______________

Dear Submissions,

I have just blown you a kiss and sent you off. In this metaphor, you are on a swift-moving boat, wending your manuscript-y way to wherever manuscripts go--hell? an alien land? another planet?--whence editors will hail me from afar in a few months. "Hey!" they'll say. "Hey you! Poet!"

I will cup my hand to my ear so that I can hear them a little better.

"Someone else besides you won the competition! But we value your manuscript highly! Unfortunately we can't publish all the good work we receive!"



I guess it's not really a metaphor, but

Good luck,

htms

_________________

Dear York,

As I understand it, you have a medieval wall. Parts of the wall are Roman, even. And there's a killer minster. And other stuff massively historical, dating back to William the Conqueror and the Vikings.

In the larger region--although I admit, I have little sense of what is "a great way off" or "quite close" or "not likely, not in the same day!"--there is the Yorkshire Dales National Park, where there are dales, apparently, which I am still trying to understand the nature of. There's also the North York Moors National Park, where there are moors, and also historic trains, ruined abbeys, etc.

I like just saying these words: "medieval wall." "minster." "dales." "moors." "ruined abbeys."

York, I want to see you so much it hurts. Even though, as my daughter points out, for people who actually live among them, one ruined abbey or medieval wall is the same as another. I know that you will not disappoint me, because I'm just like that. A medieval wall makes me unreasonably happy. I will take a thousand pictures of you, York and environs.

I hope you are as exciting to my traveling companions. And perhaps that you have an excellent candy shop or bakery or both, to soothe anyone who finds medieval walls and ruined abbeys a little bit of a cliche.

Fervently,

htms

Teeny tiny newsletter.

1 New York Times story on the Bush library dedication. All the living presidents were there. Sue me.

2 "Amour" from Carmen.

This is what I told my students the other day,

and it actually sums up how I feel, pretty much:

--especially if the pencil of doom is the grading pencil of doom, and the documents falling from the sky are student drafts.

Then yes OMG. There is so much to do.

Milestone.

The last few weeks of this particular semester hold a number of milestones for me. After this semester is over, I will no longer be a faculty leader. I will close up my Open Grievance Shop. (<< not a real thing, but it sure felt like it sometimes!). I will not have a giant lecture to prepare for, nor any presentations to give at conferences small or large. And soon, soon, the grading will be over.

the last meeting was like this, sort of.

Today, I attended my last meeting of the Discussion Team. At this meeting, which I've attended for the last four years--the first two years of the four, I co-chaired it--we discussed (none dare call it negotiated!) salary and working conditions issues for the faculty. The very last meeting, as in never again. 

In honor of this last meeting, I did the following:

(last night) Baked a cake and ate a slice at eleven p.m. 

(this morning) Met with a student | Identified another way that Canvas's sneaky ways have wrought havoc upon my carefully designed end-of-the-semester collaborative project | Ate an artisan (so they say) breakfast sandwich from Starbucks.

 
[THE LAST MEETING]

(after the meeting:) Sat with my colleague in the sun and debriefed | Went back to my office to think about this and that, related to my end-of-the-semester exit plan | Went home | On my way home, stopped at Target and bought a small, many-pocketed backpack for this summer's travels |  Ate some barbeque potato chips. Also a sliver of cake. As you do | And so forth.

Actually, it's sort of shocking how few ceremonies there are to mark the ending of stuff like this. But I am marking it, and how. (--by preparing to grade, at the moment, actually.) And I am feeling pretty good about it, both the having done it and the end of it. 

(balloons  |  parade  |  confetti  |  speeches  |  certificates/plaques | the very, very end.)

dear my blog,

Here are the reasons:

1. because it is mid-April and hence the end of the semester.
2. because of the grading.
3. because of the overdue library book that I had to finish.
4. because when something terrible happens, it seems trivial.
5. because when something terrible happens in the world, it is hard to find the words.
6. because terrible things are happening all the time in the world, how did I ever find a way around that?
7. because almost everything seems trivial when you start to think that
way.
8. because the terrible things and the local challenges and the fact that my house and perhaps, indeed, my life, are all a mess--all this conspires to make it hard to figure out what to do, or say, or write next.
9. because of the many, many consultations.
10. because of the presentations.
11. because of the new and ongoing commitments.
12. because of the vows I have to make and re-make and reiterate and restate with great vehemence that I will not do all of this again, that this will be the very last time.
13. because so much vehemence takes a lot of energy, energy which could be turned to writing.
14. writing, even, a blog post.

Now that all of the above has been said and enumerated, perhaps I will be able soon to write about whatever it is I write about, more regularly and with some gusto. Sorry, my blog, to have neglected you. I will try to do better.

contritely,

htms

On my mind.

This:



My daughter sent it to me (via Design Mom)--read this to have a sense of the context, and of Marina Abramović's work.

I love contemplating rituals, the ways we give shape to experience by repeating gestures. Every summer seems to be a new opportunity for this, so I am also thinking about this little series on Slate about artists' rituals. (I am anxiously awaiting the next piece in the series, which will focus on artists who sleep in, and stay up, late. I want to be a morning person, especially in the summer, but I am not. I am not a morning person, despite my desire.)

Yesterday when my commitments with work were done, I went over to my daughter's house to chat with her, hold the baby, play dominoes and Bananagrams with my grandson, while she folded the laundry. And last Friday, I did the same--went over to my son's, with Creamsicles and fruit snacks, to talk to my son, my daughter-in-law, and my daughter while the children played with and around us. In a few weeks, the historian and I will go to Scotland; my youngest daughter will come home this summer, and I hope all of us will be able to go to Idaho together. All of these moments, repeated, have the feel of ritual to me.

These touch points are so important. I need more of them, just like I need the shape to my day that two walks each day, that making dinner in the evening, that reading a little before sleep give.

I am also thinking about this. I used it in my digital story, and can't get it out of my mind, or heart:

A little story about my data.

It's sort of the same story I have about my shoes, books, music (see: data), photos (see: data), files, tee shirts, and sweaters: too much.

But let me start at the beginning.

Tomorrow, my employer is replacing my current MacBook Pro with a new one, as part of the regime of keeping employee laptops up to date. So: exciting! So happy!

Right now, I am transferring data from said current laptop to an external drive. Here are a few things I have learned about data and me:

1. I do not have a good filing system. Or rather, my filing system works okay, but it is all over the place. Like my shoes, books, music, photos, files, tee shirts and sweaters. And other stuff.

2. I have to retrieve all of it, and copy it to said external drive. This is going to take longer than I thought. Will I be up all night? We'll see.

3. Is there some of that data I don't need? Probably. No doubt. Which data would that be? Who can say? Not me, not right now, not when there's so much data to move, and I don't want to be up all night.

4. Photos. Anyone? Anyone? What should I do, or rather, what should I have done? iPhotos is bossy. I knew this awhile ago, but I never came up with a better solution. Here's one solution: delete bad photos from the camera before importing them. But what if the bad photo is interesting? Who can tell, when you're looking at it on that teeny camera screen?

5. Music, oy. I know I should just stop buying it and only listen to Spotify. But would I then be doing my part to save the music business? Which can barely be bothered to save itself?

I would make a comic about this, but this would involve, maybe, creating more data. I'm nervous about that.

I think I need better data habits, hygiene, and practices. I wish someone would send me some directions about how to do that on my new, fresh laptop. I don't want to besmirch it with my terrible old data regime.

The end of the story about data. I'm sorry it doesn't have a happy ending. Give me advice, so there will at least be hope.

Dear moment of clarity,

Today, I made several lists.

1. Discussions and assignments I need to grade in my online class.
2. Short instructional videos I need to make for my online class.

I have also started reviewing my calendar with very careful attention, not to say great avidity, which has revealed the following to me:

the bunny of clarity.

3. I have many, many events between now and the end.
4. There are just four weeks left, including finals. Plus a couple days left of this week.
5. Good heavens, I have a lot to do.

Also, and apropos of not very much,

6. I can barely bestir myself to actually cook food. It's pretty bad.

Moment of clarity, I am in a panic. Was it your intention, when you revealed yourself to me, for me to be in a panic? Because I am. I am in a panic.

Thanks, I guess,

htms

Sleep clinic.

The people, I am not sleeping. Not right now, and not lately.

Possible explanations:

• excess of adrenaline from recent projects and regimens?
• character flaw?
• too damn jittery?
• not writing? 

I don't know, but something's gotta give.

I've never been a particularly prodigious or accomplished sleeper. I think there are some people for whom sleeping is a great gift. I'm pretty sure I need to do an overhaul of my sleep process.

[NOTE: the above sentence is one of those indicators that I just need to chill. the. eff. out. Good Lord.]

I remember, returning to my meandering, when I was a high schooler and I had a stereo, which was a thing, kids, with a "tuner" and a "turntable" and, if you were lucky, a "cassette deck" which allowed you to make mix tapes. I used to check records out of the library and if I really liked them, I would tape them, and then I would listen to them over and over until the tape broke. I remember the 120 minute tapes being particularly susceptible to breakage. Anyone else remember that?

Sometimes I would play a record or a tape to help me sleep. I repeatedly checked out this album by a prog-rock/jazz group called Mandrill. Maybe they were geniuses, I don't know. I liked them, and particularly the last track on this one album, which was lovely and--sorry--flute-y, and it, maybe, relaxed me. Or seemed like it should relax me.  I also remember one night, lying in the dark, listening to the Doors, "Rider on the Storm." That song is pretty much just endless. And lulling. And, it must be said, a little tedious. Did it put me to sleep? I really can't say, but it's emblematic to me of music that might be sleep-inducing.

I'm super-hopeful that tonight will be the night I turn this nonsense around. The night I fall asleep without noticing myself not sleeping, and wake up mostly refreshed, and then that will be that. Just in case, I've put together a sleepy playlist. I'm not going to listen to it--hell no. I don't sleep with music anymore--that's just asking for it. (Sometimes on a plane, I can drowse to music. But on a plane, all bets are off, and that's the truth.) Anyway, I put some drowsy songs and some songs with "sleep" in the title, and also "Riders on the Storm" and the Mandrill track. Even if I don't listen to this playlist, I hope that putting it together will be an offering to the gods that regulate sleep. Maybe they'll let me fall in without incident. We'll see.

The Megastore recommends.

ate roasted squash today, and liked it!

1. A little story about the baby. Today, my daughter called me to say that she had made a delicious soup with roasted vegetables, and when she offered a little tiny bit to her little tiny daughter, just four months old, the baby loved it. Loved it! I myself was making dinner when this conversation occurred. I was trimming brussels sprouts and baby artichokes. How lovely, to hear this little anecdote. How lovely to think of the baby tasting maybe her first solid food, and it was butternut squash pureed, and it was so good, she wanted more.

look at their cute long stems!

2. Baby artichokes. In their favor: they are adorable. I bought them in a container of robust size, on a day when I clearly imagined myself in full vegetable trimming mode. Because, on the minus side, baby artichokes are a lot of work. "Baby artichokes are a lot of work," I said to the historian, as I chopped most of the thorny part off with my big knife, then pared away everything but the heart with my little knife, for the kajillionth time. "Maybe big ones aren't as much work. Maybe they're more worth it," he said, which I considered. But the thing about the big ones is, they aren't as adorable. The little ones are cute. And when you roast them with cherry tomatoes, lemon juice, olive oil, and thyme, they are delicious, and that's a fact.

--but with chicken.

3. Making shepherd's pie for someone who will love it. You can insert the dish of your choice into the previous phrase, the dish you would make for one of your beloveds because sometimes, it's just nice to make something delicious for someone else, even when it's a thing you won't be eating yourself. In this case, I made it for my son, and it was really only shepherd's pie-esque, because it was chicken and not beef. I happened to have some chicken in the freezer which I had previously roasted, so assembling the pie was as easy as sauteing some carrots and green onions, mashing a few potatoes, heating some leftover broccoli, layering everything in a pie plate, and baking it. I know, it sounds like more steps than "was as easy as" suggests. But it was easy, and my son loved it, and therefore so did I.

count these, because it's time for sleeping.

4. The end of the day. Whatever else, at the end, it's the end, and it's time for bed. Time for bed is something we highly recommend, here at the Megastore.

Data points.

For the weekend:

People in Moab, UT for spring break: a kajillion
People overheard, verbally considering buying a sword: two
Flavors of gelato at the gelato store: a dozen or so
Amount of pizza ordered from Paradox Pizza: two eighteen-inchers
Number of major arches viewed in Arches National Park: two
Joy-to-sore-feet ratio (after hiking): ten-to-one
Degree of certitude that a hot tub would be a good investment: seventy percent
Hours driving: ten
Clothes-I-needed to clothes-I-packed ratio: one-and-one-half to one
Total number of pictures of rocks:  hundreds
Ounces of fine red sand in my shoes: five (per hike)

A few things that I like.

1. saltines.
2. Emergen-C.
3. playing with the grandchildren.
4. episodes of The New Girl and The Mindy Project.
5. a late afternoon nap.
6. a walk in the cool spring evening.
7. yellow skirt, yellow sweater, yellow shirt.
8. yellow sneaks.
9. teaching the stories that Dr. Write gave me.
10. the Thursday New York Times.
11. an unspent gift card from Target.
12. more light more light more light.

feeling good, the people. also: I think you're swell.

Artifacts.

yo yo yo the lecture is o o o ver!

Here's the digital story I made:



shrine from lisab on Vimeo.

And here's a comic:

is it narrative or is it argument? by lisab

and here are some links and stories.

PHEW.

that is all.

Today in famishment.

Today was another long day at work. A good day, but a long day. Eleven and a half hours from when I left home to when I returned.

I changed into comfortable clothes lickety split.

Me (proactively): have you given any thought to dinner?

The historian: No. No, I haven't, except that we should probably go grab something. How about you? Have you given any thought to dinner?

Me: [minutes passed, as I was simultaneously filled with being famished and also despair...o! lord, give me strength in this the hour of my need to figure out where to get something to eat!]...how about if we go get pizza? A pepperoni one for Walker and a cheese one for us?

The historian: does that sound good to you? (possible mild incredulity)

Me: I will pile a lot of arugula on it. (decisive factor.)

So we chose the closest of two not-all-that-close Little Caesars (Pizza of the Lowest Common Denominator) and drove to it.

Me (getting into the car, proactively): do we have any ice? [please say yes please say yes]

The historian: No. No we don't. We'll have to go get some.

We picked up two pizzas. We planned the logistics of the way home, given our need for ice. We figured that if we turned right then turned left, we could pull into the Seven Eleven and pick up ice.

Me:...and we can get a drink.

Here's what I saw at the Seven Eleven in the one minute we were in the joint:

1. At seven p.m., the fountain drink situation is kind of sticky.
2. At the counter area, there are many new tobacco products that I am unfamiliar with.
3. Hella lotta tattoo magazines.

But the checkout guy was cheery and friendly, and I had a Diet Dr. Pepper/Regular Dr. Pepper mix to fortify me until we got home with our pizza, which I heaped arugula on.  And ate three pieces of, and was restored.

That is all.

Dear eleven hour day,

You began in the dark, that's the first thing. I got out of bed when the clock still said six, and was out the door at the beginning of seven. I talked to one two three four students before it was ten.

[Parenthetically, this isn't a story about a heroine, or a person of great fortitude, or a person of great humility and dedication. No, this is about a person who can't resist talking about an eleven hour day. "Eleven hour day," the first time she said the words, sounded irresistibly like a story worth telling. "Eleven hour day," she said to her husband the historian when she came home. And possibly repeated it one two three four times, in every possible legitimate context. And maybe stretching the "legitimate" part, if she's being honest.]

I taught. I taught syntax in a creative writing class. And lo the wonder of it! And ate an apple and met with one two three more students, and then helped two more students learn to use Adobe Premiere Elements 11 so that they could finish their digital stories.

[Parenthetically, the windows in the Publication Center were wide open so the pearly gray damp air could ebb and flow. In a spring-coolish room, it is wonderful to see other people finish a creative project. Parenthetically.]

Eleven hour day, I drove home in the sixes and was both exhausted and famished. I was eloquently exhausted, lovingly and pugnaciously exhausted. Those adverbs, parenthetically, are from the first two sentences of Elmer Gantry, which my students read and admired/parsed today. Eloquently admired, lovingly and pugnaciously parsed. I mean it--I think they might have fought me if I foisted any more syntax on them.

Thank you, eleven hour day, for having so many wonders and dimensions. And thank you for being almost over now. By now, you are even longer--a sixteen hour day and counting. You were, are, and have been long: prodigiously long, not to say excessively, but certainly pronouncedly, long.

Good night,

htms

The ups, the downs, the ins, the outs, the whatnot.

I'll let you do the categorizing:

• the fact that several students told me they appreciated the opportunity to consult with me
• the fact that all my students remembered and attended their conferences
• the fact that I was prepared for all the conferences today
• the fact that I completely forgot a meeting that I had at 3 p.m.
• the fact that I ate an apple with cheese for lunch
• the fact that I ate Starbucks oatmeal AGAIN for breakfast because I am obsesssssed with it
• the fact that my colleague said I looked tired today
• the fact that I did, in fact, look tired today
• the fact that I am grading, still, at 11:25 p.m., in bed
• the fact that the historian gave a great lecture at the downtown library tonight
• the fact that we got french fries on the way home
• the fact that the Jazz won, but it won't matter

The fact that there was sun. The fact that there was no snow. The fact that I'm in bed, even if grading. The fact that I'll be getting up before the sun for more conferences. The fact that I will be eating Starbucks oatmeal again for breakfast, because I am obsessssssssed with it.

Then I was back in it.

The War was on.

Well, not a war, exactly. The closing movement of the semester. We have just concluded the Andante movement, and now we stand, just before the Presto con Fuoco movement begins. The pianist's hands are about the hit the keys. The rubber is about to hit the road.

What I'm trying to say is that I will be consulting with students for the next week and a half.

Here's where I'm going to go ahead and say that when half your students tell you they can't use the Scheduler tool in Canvas (I use the word "tool" with care) to set their consultation appointments, it's frustrating. Sure, frustrating to them too, sure. But to me. It's frustrating to me. I'm frustrated, is what I'm saying, because the kids can't use the tool. Or half of them can't. It's a quandary. It's a dilemma. It's a big fat quandary and a dilemma and a pain in the ass. Sure, a pain in their asses too, sure. But mine. My ass is pained.

This is leaving out the downloading of their million and one files. You know, the files containing the assignments that I gave them.

The good thing is: when the consultations are done, I will have talked with all the students, and their stuff will be read and graded, by me--I'll have read and graded their stuff, personally!--and things will be much much better. So much better that the semester can just slide on down the greased chute that leads from tomorrow to the end, putting on some speed and getting a little dangerous on the turns, but it will be okay. Because I will have talked with all the students, the reading and grading will be done, or done-ish. And that, my friends--THAT, the people--that smells like the end, or as we like to call it at the community college, "summer."

The Writing Life Report.

This past week, I have been researching and writing my upcoming lecture, about which I'll say no more. Only that, I hope it turns out like my best projected version of it. We'll see.

But anyway, yesterday morning I went to have breakfast with my sister. The morning was unexpectedly super snowy, so I drove along the Bangerter Highway very, very slowly and listened to this interview with Philip Roth, who, as you probably know, has retired from writing. He had this to say about the nature of the work:

"Solving the problem of the book you're writing always remains hard work, and your progress is snail-like. Even if you write a book in two years, sometimes you get a page a day, sometimes you get no pages ... every sentence raises a problem, and essentially what you're doing is connecting one sentence to the next. And you write a sentence and you have to figure out what comes next or what doesn't come next."

While I was driving in the snow, I tried on the thought of doing what Roth had done--realizing that I wasn't really writing poems anymore, and so giving the writing of poems up. Periodically I wonder about this, although really, it's mostly a hypothetical exercise. You should really listen to the interview, because he has trenchant remarks about naps, which is his new vocation.

I got to my destination, had delicious French toast and a soul-nourishing conversation with my sister, and came home.

Later that day, the historian and I went to The King's English for a reading and book-signing by David McGlynn, whom I had the good fortune to meet at AWP. Dr. Write (whose friend Mr. McGlynn is) recommended his book A Door in the Ocean to me. Listening to him read from the book, a memoir, reminded me that I am a writer, that writing is and should be a focus of my life. Listening to him read made me want to write, write about all kinds of things.

I am very satisfied to report that in between the French toast and the reading, I picked up and revised a poem that I have been incompetently flailing at for quite awhile now. I attribute this combination of resolve and insight to the fact that I have been writing all week long. All week long, I have been outlining and reading and note-taking and summarizing and framing arguments and drafting remarks. And even this kind of writing, which only appears to be completely unrelated to poetry, helped me to think more intelligently and more pointedly about my poem.

A Night at the Theater.

I have a complicated relationship with the theater, unless we're talking about a movie theater, in which case I love that theater, no complications whatsoever. I have seen some pretty awesome plays, and while I was at them, I was rapt and moved and totally engaged. But on the whole, and who can say why, a movie seems like an altogether more reliable bet. I know I have friends who are theater people who are reading this, so let me just concede: yes, this is probably an indication of my slouchy character, and yes, it's possibly intellectually and culturally lazy. Yes yes yes to any charge you'd care to make: I'm guilty. That doesn't mean I won't choose the movie over the play 99.9% of the time.

However: my college has a theater, and that theater puts on plays. We keep hearing good things. Our good friend is the director of the theater. When we had dinner with him and his wife a few months ago, he told us that the theater would be doing Death of a Salesman, and he'd be playing Willy Loman.

The historian put his foot down--not that he had to put it down very hard. We agreed, okay? that we would go to the play. Tonight was the night (note for those paying attention: Thursday = not a movie night).

In three acts, here are a few scenes from our evening:

__________
 
Dinner. We're eating burgers--Boca for us, regular beef for running son:

The historian (to running son): So we're going to see Death of a Salesman tonight. Maybe you should come with us, because maybe it would confirm your feelings about selling.

Running Son: ...or maybe it would just confirm my feelings about plays.

__________

The production is quite good. Our friend is superb. At intermission:

Me (turning to the historian): This is a great play, one. Two, everyone is really good. Three: it's so depressing.

___________

After the play. We're walking the dog:

The historian: I can't wait till tomorrow when I see [our friend] so I can tell him how good we thought the production was, and how good he was.

Me: He was really wonderful, wasn't he?

The historian: Really good. I'm going to buy a copy of the play and read it.

[we reflect on the overall excellence of the theatrical experience. Bruiser moseys. We follow his lead.]
The historian: So--tomorrow we're going to see that one movie, what's it called?

Me (reading his mind): Admissions? Or something like that. [we both pause, and think of Tina Fey, God bless her.]

The historian: Right--it's supposed to be funny, isn't it?

Me: We can only hope.

_______________


In conclusion: the play was excellent. It's a masterpiece, and the production is entirely worthy. It's open for two more nights, and if you can make it, you should go. Aaaand tomorrow night, we'll be at the (hopefully funny) movies.
 

Okay, spring break,

it's now time to show us your hidden passageway that will take us to the secret wing where you're keeping your extra week. Because I need that extra week right about now.

Sigh.

Well, here's my progress report so far:

• massively behind, still, in my online grading.
• making progress on my lecture/presentation.
• dramatically over-writing the script for one of my digital stories.
• reading reading reading lots of interesting stuff re the above.

In addition, I have

• watched two thirds of House of Cards with the historian.
• eaten pancakes for breakfast and an omelet for breakfast and leftover buttermilk blueberry muffins* for breakfast.
• and leftover enchiladas for lunch.
• taken many restorative walks with the historian and the big bad Bruiser.
• gone to the library with a couple of grandsons and my daughter-in-law.
• done piles of laundry.
• sorted through lots of stuff and put lots of it away and culled out lots of things to give away.

I feel that, in the interests of science, I should report that I felt considerably more relaxed on Saturday last than I do tonight, Wednesday, at 11:07. Also in the interests of science: I woke up this morning at 5:45 a.m., thinking about all the stuff I have to do. And also, I had a dream about mice.

Tomorrow will be the attainment of the digital story and the further embellishment of the presentation/lecture notes. And Friday, more of the same. Plus grading, I guess. Who can say?

*Buttermilk Blueberry Muffins.

I read a recipe that I adapted. These were sublime, so don't hesitate to try them. They made an unbelievably lovely Sunday breakfast.

1 1/4 c. white wheat flour
1 1/4 c. unbleached flour
2 t. baking soda
3/4 t. salt
1/4 c. raw sugar

Mix the above ingredients together.

1/2 c. butter, melted
2 eggs, beaten
1 c. buttermilk
1 ripe banana, mashed

Mix the above ingredients together and pour all at once into the dry ingredients. Mix until the dry ingredients are just moistened--as always with muffins, you shouldn't beat the batter until it's smooth. The banana adds sweetness that's not sugar, but it doesn't overwhelm with its bananarama.

Add one cup of blueberries (you can use frozen ones if you're like that) and stir them through. Dole the batter evenly into twelve muffin cups. Sprinkle the tops with cinnamon sugar. Bake at 400 degrees for about 20 minutes, or until the tops are golden.

So. Good.

Me vs. my library, round 1.

Ever since, I don't know, it seemed like there was more light, and the weather wasn't so grim, and it turned from February to March, probably, I have been on a mission to go through my stuff and give things away. And this afternoon, when I was sitting in my study, aka den of squalor, I thought, I am going to give away one third of my books.

Digression: one third seems to be the figure, the proportion, the fraction and the requisite amount that comes to my mind when I think about getting rid of the excess of my stuff. Why one third? I could not tell you. It is a sizable amount. It is not a paltry ten percent nor a paltry twenty percent. It is a third, thirty three percent, and the wind could whistle through the branches, metaphorically speaking, of my library. If my library were a tree and I had just pruned it. I think you catch my drift.

I warmed up by going through my sweaters. Actually just my cardigans. I did not so much go through my sweaters and cull one third of them to give away. I did, however, put some of my more wintry sweaters with the other wintry sweaters (in another location), so that all my sweaters could go in their appropriate container. I plan to do the same with my pullovers and then my scarves next.

Thus in the sorting-and-culling groove, I moved back into my study. My eyes raked ruthlessly over the shelves. I began with poetry. I have a lot of poetry. Some of my books of poetry I have obtained by losing book competitions. I'll start with those, I thought.

Digression #2: The spines of books of poetry are so skinny. This means that, on a given shelf of books of poetry, there are a lot of spines standing side-by-side. It's like a battalion of poetry, organized in ranks. Such a battalion might organized to defeat me in my purpose of thinning the ranks!

One book of poems, plucked from the ranks. Into the giveaway bag it went.

Digression #3: I have a lot of literary journals. Many of these literary journals I subscribe to by virtue of having submitted my manuscript to a book competition, sponsored by the journal. Why do I still have them? Couldn't someone make better use of them?

One literary journal, plucked from the ranks. Into the giveaway bag it went.

At this rate, I don't know what. And don't get me started on literary theory and criticism. Or rhetorical theory and criticism. Who knows what I might need? In the future? for my scholarly projects?

On the plus side, I did throw away and recycle a bunch of miscellaneous other stuff.

Books: Go ahead, sleep the sleep of the innocent tonight. But I am coming back for you tomorrow.

Happy belated birthday to my blog!

I only just now realized that last week was my blog's birthday. On March 4, 2005, I wrote my very first blog post, and thus a highly unremunerative yet also highly satisfying endeavor was born.

I really didn't plan anything, but if we consider today my blog's birthday party, here's what we did to celebrate:

Alexander Johnson, "A press gang seizing a waterman"

• wrote a proposal for a book chapter. After the sweat was dry, I
• went to breakfast with my son and had an omelet and toast. Thus fortified, I
• met with one of my all-time favorite students to discuss digital storytelling, etc., and then I
• met with one of my all-time favorite colleagues to discuss how to press-gang someone into taking his place as a faculty leader next year, and who that someone might be (look out, people! I will be e-mailing YOU!). Having assembled that list of names, I
• took a bunch of notes and turned them into a table in preparation for my
• next meeting, which involved developing a work plan so that we could have fewer meetings--genius! After that,
• I met with my colleague to finalize the proposal and send it off. Feeling free as a professor on spring break, I
• went to Target and bought pretzels, Perrier, shampoo, almond M&Ms in Easter colors, and a pair of white jeans. And a couple of spring break magazines.

My trip to Target. For my blog's birthday, obviously.

 I drove home then, to

• submit my manuscript to two competitions and to
• decide our evening plans, which were 
• to eat Indian food and 
• watch House of Cards.

That's quite a party, don't you think?

Dearest blog, I am sorry there was no cake, but happy eighth birthday anyway--over spring break, I hope to spend a little more time with you.

My lecture library.

Today while I was slinking around the internet, trying to find out if Kate Bernheimer's book of new myths is out yet (it's not--this fall, apparently), I found this: an account of her current bookshelves, from the Sonora Review.

Here are some books on my shelves at the moment:

Metahistory
Hayden White


"In this theory I treat the historical work as what it most manifestly is: a verbal structure in the form of a narrative prose discourse." (Preface)





The Truth About Stories
Thomas King

"But don't say in the years to come that you would have lived your life differently if only you had heard this story. You've heard it now."

Routledge Encyclopedia of Narrative Theory
David Herman et al

"...the disnarrated comprises those elements in a narrative which explicitly consider and refer to what does not take place (but could have)."

Stranger Magic: Charmed States and the Arabian Nights

Marina Warner

"The power of stories to forge destinies has never been so memorably and sharply put as it is in this cycle, in which the blade of the executioner's sword lies on the storyteller's neck: the Arabian Nights present the supreme case for storytelling because Shahrahzad wins her life through her art."

The Silent History
Eli Horowitz, Russell Quinn, Matthew Derby, and Kevin Moffett

"I guess the first element was that I wanted to create a novel that you could somehow explore."






 
In conclusion, I think we can all agree I need a detective novel to read, and not a moment too soon.

The final countdown (notes on metaphor).

...or whatever other hair metal song from the 80s you'd like to be the theme song of this post.

In just three weeks I am giving a lecture that I have been preparing for several months. If by "preparing" we mean "ordering books from Amazon" and "thinking about it." Also, doing desultory internet research and saving the links on Delicious.

I'm pretty excited about it, though. Over spring break, it will all come together. Just you wait. I am going to give periodic updates as to this coming together progress. I will be

1. weaving the threads of my argument together into a brilliant tapestry (note to self: perhaps textile metaphor will be key?)

2. assembling the pieces of my research into a brilliant mosaic (note to self: artisanal/craft metaphors abound. are there other metaphoric regions from which to draw?)

there *may* be a modern dance component.

3. welding the components of my metaphor into a sturdy and brilliant structure (note to self: welding. good one!)

4. cooking the ingredients of my lecture into a savory and delicious and--yes, it must be said--brilliant concoction. of which we will all eat, and be filled. (note to self: recipe. perhaps a visual?)

I could go on. I will go on, hells yes I will go on, I only have three weeks.

When I envision this lecture, I see, like, the best TED talk ever. And bonus--refreshments afterward.
Three words: brilliant. multimedia. extravaganza. BAM.  (four words.)