Snow, Snow, Snow

So we gots some snow in Knoxville, TN. Not sure how much, but definitely enough to make me readily agree to reschedule a meeting I was supposed to have today and spend the next twelve hours or so huddled next to a space heater writing, grading, and maybe taking a nap.

Anyway, I got all inspired by the snow to hook up some snow-themed references. I posted this link on facebook to share a little Christmas cheer (and latent racial othering: note the extremely black barman's hand brought in to contrast nicely with the snowy drinks and white people free to roam about the car...) as I was saying, to share some cheer from the 1954 classic White Christmas starring Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, and Rosemary Clooney. Of course, I could never get why Rosemary Clooney was the lead female when my childhood self was so much more easily taken by Vera-Ellen. Maybe Hollywood figured it would get the best out of its female roles and balance Clooney's prestige and acting creds. with Vera-Ellen's sexy legs, pretty face, and solid dancing chops. Say, whatever happened to dancing and singing in film anyway? Not complaining, just wondering what shifted in our preferences (and consciousness?) to cause musicals and dance films to loose their appeal.

Regardless, here's a guy who died the year after that film was produced and apparently isn't too concerned with Dickensian ebullience. That's right! It's Wallace Stevens's...

"The Snow Man"


One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.


So whaddaya say: Nihilist? Spiritual disciple of the via negativa? Mere writer of confusing sentences parading as poetry? Something completely different?

I report. You decide. Or rather, don't decide, but posit your best response in a public forum of constantly developing conversation.

(Man, that would make a horrible Network tagline)

Peace of Mind

These weeks I've been lamenting the lack of musical variety in my life.

My iTunes is about played out and I haven't been quite ready to flip the switch on Christmas music--especially since the Winter Wonderland has been a little delayed in arriving (sweaty days at last week's end). As I drove to school this morning, it fell in some fuller force with the whitey flashmob that blew across my windshield.

Which is why I started this post in the first place: not to say anything long-winded. Just to register my own little Hosanna in Excelsis: all because of Boston.

Well, Boston and the 8 bucks it cost me to pick up their greatest hits in the checkout line at Walgreen's yesterday (I also got CCR's Cosmo's Factory for $4!). I've been getting dangerous around stores. Since I like to cultivate this general feeling that I'm ludicrously busy (I'm really only stupid-busy: big difference)--anyway, since I cultivate this feeling, I put things like cooking, laundry, and grocery shopping off for pretty non-existent reasons. So when I do get to a commercial center of any sort, something primal that senses the need to hunt, gather, and accouter my camp with all necessary provisions sort of freaks out.

Last week I went to Kroger for Cereal and left with $67 worth of stuff--about half of which was edible product. Of course, the only reason I even made it over to the Krog was because I had decided to stop in at Taco Bell for some reading instead of using the drive through. That's how I have to do it: self-entrapment. I have to juke out my own tendency to avoid the simple and necessary deed that should be done, and done quickly. Approaching the car after my fresco fit tacos and 4,000 calorie soda I reason...

Oh? Look at that! You're like forty-three steps away from the store. That store that has the stuff you need to continue the whole cell growth and production thing. 

I turn towards the store.


Dude. What are you doing--you're way too busy (didn't I just spend forty minutes eating tacos and reading a non-assigned book?) busy busy busy! Besides, you've got like--half a shaker of pepper, and a jar of peanut butter left in the pantry. 

I turn towards the car.


Yeah, but the mayo is almost gone! 


Forty-five minutes later I walk out of Kroger. I don't even know what I've bought. I have three or four bags. There are edible things in some of them I am pretty sure. I'm almost certain that I got at least two more cans of the weird sirloin and shrimp canned soup I've never actually eaten. Bewildered I lurch to the car, throw in the bags and drive home.

Fast forward.

By the time I got to the counter in Walgreen's, I'd lost track of what exactly was in my hands. I remember eyeing a foam device that spaces out your toes.


That might come in handy some time (Dude, the photo expressly illustrates these are designed for people who wear dress shoes). Man, I should get my black dress shoes out of that locker in the aquatics center...they've been there for like--two months. I'd like to be able to wear black slacks again: all my khaki and earth tone pants are dirty...so are my jeans (Dude, I think you should just do some laundry: wait, stop. Focus. Put that toe-foam shit back.) Man, I bet these feel cool (Don't you see the pointed open-toe design in the picture? And the elevated heel? N/A: Not applicable.) Oh, look, there's that foot cream I came here for...


Some inner wisdom turns me away from the seasonal isle.

Notice I said lost track of what was in my hands. Because I didn't get a basket: I'm only here for two toiletry items. That's it. What the hell is all this junk. Snazzy socks for a buck a piece: oh yeah, clean socks and no need to do laundry for a couple more days. What else? I'm not sure. Before I can register all the crap my provisioning mania has left me holding (is that triple antibiotic ointment?) I spot the discount CDs.


Oooo: only $2?

Somewhere in the mix I hit the jackpot. I couldn't make out the CCR album as such at first. When I read the label on the side I was suspect. The first title on the back wasn't that impressive (Really? "Ramble Tamble?" I can probably count the amount of radio plays that one got on the fingers I'm not using to tote all this crap around the store) But wait! "Travelin' Band"? I've heard of that one... "Lookin' Out My Back Door"! Then they kept coming, "Who'll Stop the Rain," "I Heard it Through the Grapevine."

What a score.

Then, as I shuffled through the backwards angled stack with one hand, the storejunk shifted over to the crook of my left arm (by now I'm on one knee directly in front of the register, I have to reposition the junk and myself to let a guy get past me), I thumb upon a Spaceship emblazoned case and register certainty simultaneous with my disbelief. Yes: this does bear the trademark of the covers that have passed many a time on my Pandora feed. This is, in fact, a collection of the greatest hits of Boston. "Peace of Mind" is there. So is "More Than a Feeling." I can't believe my good fortune (when you don't download songs and rarely get around to buying albums since Pandora plays most of what you want, a good CD is kind of a big deal. Then again, a lot of things are kind of a big deal in my world).  "Long Time" "Amanda" and "Rock and Roll Band" (Classic!!) are all there as well.

It's a short trip back to the house. I don't listen to the CD till this morning. Which felt like Christmas morning for more reasons than the flurries. It's really rather strange that I haven't taken the five to fifteen bucks it costs to iTunes this stuff or grab it from a used CD's place before now. Especially when I enjoy it so much. Just to think: any time I want, I too can sing along with Tom Scholz's crew and their ironic falsettos and killer guitar riffs.

Today I told someone that I was really stoked because I picked up a Boston CD and was rocking out with it on the way to school. "How do you rock out to Boston?" I didn't really know what to say. Is asking that question tantamount to a constitutional inability to comprehend the answer?

Later on, in a small computer lab half-filled with enervated grad students I mentioned the CD. This time one of my compadres launched into a pretty full-throttle "No, we didn't have much money / We barely made enough to survive" and I joined in.

Awesome.

Then it was back to copying essays for evaluation and getting over to an office across campus to drop the forms off that should have been taken care of in the morning (well--should have been taken care of yesterday). Luckily, the next major activity to totally devour my attention was actually related to finishing coursework. A few hours later, around five pm, I emerged from a seat in the Library in a daze, having more or less completed my basic formal mapping of a novel.

What is it that I'm supposed to get done today?

Man, I need to get some agency.

Sunday Sunday

Maybe I was being punished. After all, at breakfast I had ignored the promptings of my conscience and continued in the book I was reading while I ate my Special K Red Berries (what can I say, it was on sale) and drank my O.J.

The book wasn't even that good, and now I was stuck in a liturgical time-warp. To begin with, I couldn't get over the fact that the entrance hymn began with the same riff as Chicago's "Where do We Go From Here."

As mass progressed, the effect of the drab architecture and soggy day was compounded by the mash-up of leftover late-seventies samples: a strange cacophony of disco-jazz voices apparently stolen variously from Abba, old Shaft reruns, and the soundtrack of any Disney film set in New Orleans--oh and whatever Jimmy (Page, Hendrix, Smith?) inspired the kid with the Les Paul and the wah-pedal.

When the cantor got up for the responsorial psalm, we listened to her model the refrain "The Lord is kind and merciful" and I wondered what sort of congregation this was that could possibly match her virtuosic lounge singer melodies. I didn't try. I was too distracted: with all my head-scratching modernist angst I feel out of place as it is in a place of worship. Moreover, in addition to the wet day making it hard for me to stay energized, my attempt at some semblance of weekly reflection was now getting sidelined by the prima-donna with a predilection for wind-chime crescendos.

Like I said, it's my own fault. If I had put my book down and been more diligent I could have made the ten-o'oclock downtown, enjoying the blend of traditional hymn and charismatic effluence I'm a little more used to: you know, a little "Eagle's Wings" mixed in with the "Godhead Here in Hiding," and a nice bit of silence under vaulted ceilings after communion.  Or maybe you don't know. Regardless, I was the one who dallied. Then again, it's a bit of a miracle for me to be functionally anywhere before eleven am these days: my weekly (or semi-monthly) hauntings are the closest I get to communing with the divine unbeing and the choir was throwing off my chi.

The priest threw it back a little. Readings about the end of times, one of my favorite topics (and part of my intended research), and he could have gone with the standard, don't worry about apocalypse, just make sure you've been to confession, but he stretched a little further. It was a bit of an esoteric stretch--something about the Second Coming not possible till the Sacraments were at an end--but the end result was exciting: don't worry about when God's coming back, since the whole point of him coming the first time was to say he'd always be here. If nothing else, I could appreciate the logical elegance. I closed my eyes through the second half of mass and drank in the semi-silence of the his prayers, thankful the choir is only sporadically present till the great Amen.

Like apparently all things these days, this eventually led my thoughts back to the stuff I'm reading along with schoolwork. Girard likes to think of apocalypse as a more secular/cultural phenomenon that's always potentially happening. Things get out of hand, we kill somebody, things get better. He thinks it's getting worse. Then I thought of the kiss of peace and the fact that there was a minor apocalyptic struggle for seat space in my pew at the beginning of the service. I ended up between a dark-skinned couple of north African extraction on the left and some older suburbanites on the right.

I was thinking about pettiness till the lady on the left told me not to worry about the books I had crowding the seat. It was still residually present till the couple on the right--as we exited--each said some nice words to me about being happy to worship together. In case you're not Catholic, this is a little exceptional. Half the reason a Catholic Church is a great place to let your inner introvert run wild is that no one who doesn't know you is likely to give you a second glance, let alone speak kind words to you.

These were appreciated. I have to confess I actually thought of coming back next week, annoying music and all: if you sit next to someone enough times they're likely to offer you a homecooked meal, right?

With the parentals and younger sibs coming in next week, and the roomie offering a family berth for Thanksgiving festivities, though, maybe I'll just stick to the Zatarain's and PBJ's for now. And get back to work at some point. On the agenda for today: reading, grading, more reading, printing a mess of articles and some concrete mapping out the writing sample. Here goes...

Poetry Much?

e.e. cummings on love and lust (apologies for formatting glitches and giant spaces)


Soon to follow (maybe?): A brief review of Oliver Stone's Wall Street, starring Michael Douglass and Shia Lebeouf. With a separate spoilers section. 

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)


N.b. Cameron Diaz recited this poem to her on-screen sister in the 2005 movie In Her Shoes.

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg.  ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

         (it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

Summer Syndrome

Last night I drove home in my shuddering car at one in the morning, making intensely responsible plans for today. The car was shuddering because - well, actually I'm not sure yet. But it's been shuddering for about three days. And pulling intensely to the right. I fear major alignment and suspension woes.

My responsible plans involved a quick bed-prep, some reading, then six hours of solid snooze before waking to an eight-o'clock cup of coffee, some practical this-n-that, and six hours of solid read time for the M.A. comprehensive exam. I thought I could do it. I thought I could make a quick stop at Super Smash Brothers on my way to the bed. Play a few rounds. Read. Wake. Produce....

Fail.

Four hours later I finally have my ante-somnulent reading time. Starship Troopers and pre-dawn light outside my window: see if I can salvage a few hours of sleep and some sort of Monday responsibility.

Even when I finally did wake up I was sillily hopeful.

Respond to friend's inquiry: check.

Coffee: check.

Call the mechanic:...

I wonder how Chile is doing against Switzerland.

Better go back upstairs and get that miscellaneous stuff done.

You know, other than the U.S., Chile is the only team I'm really following.

Skip soccer, stay on target! Stay on Target!

Tied nil nil at halftime? I haven't gotten to see Chile play since qualifiers - where's Suazo?

Doh.

Apparently my curiosity as to how much and what quality of work I could get done with a modicum of discipline and regularity is to remain still-unsatisfied.

Enter the afternoon: Showered and Shaved and ready to work promptly at one pm. Gear organized - gameplan restructured.

Enter the digressions: Oooooo, funny blogs! - should send this link to someone; I agree, Final round of the U.S. open was a major let down... Hmm, that'd be a clever status update...

Back on track. Phone calls responded to: Check. Contracted for a small job with needed cash flow: Check. Call mechanic, set up car appointment: Check. Find tax forms to mail for refund: Check. Budget check-up: Check. First three hours of comps reading:... Any comps reading?... It's two-thirty?

Chill out: you totally only took three days to respond to a potentially major car issue! Achievement win! Break out the stickers!

This could be depressing. I could get really annoyed with myself. I probably should. However, I am still pretty stoked about a.) that totally ninja preventative-attention car move, b.) work contracted, c.) good news on another cash opportunity, and d.) imminent tax rebate mailing! (got the extension back in April).

And what's more, I quite possibly may start on a book this afternoon. Of course, the fact that I've so far read all of two books this summer is a little depressing for someone who claims to love reading and has, in fact, decided to make a career out of literature. But, then again, one of them was Henry James' 650-page study in perpetual story-telling, The Portrait of a Lady. That's a different story though (ha. haha).

So: two-thirty (uh, two-forty-five). Still time to be productive. Enter third productivity restructure: tax mailing, library, comps reading, tutoring session, evening run: Check?

Now entering Stage Three Sleep Deprivation:

Characterized by mild tremors, reduced motor control, cognitive lag, and speaking to oneself in improvised voices. Also, may produce waves of manic excitement and feelings of euphoria. Occasionally accompanied by random outbursts of enthusiastic singing-along-to-80's-music anterior to complete somatic collapse and degeneration of cognitive function (see Stages Four and Five).

Condition at Stage Three is moderate, recommendation is 8 or more hours of uninterrupted sleep. If this is not immediately possible, subjects are encouraged to find a couch or quiet corner of a library for brief napping....

The good news is that--for better or worse--by 5 pm this evening I'll have two of my still-outstanding assignments out of the way (a syllabus complete with teaching introduction and course rationale, and a set of journal entries on films and selected critical readings) and can look forward to a (hopefully) full night's rest. Who-hoo! After that there's one week of intense effort writing a take home essay exam and a conference length research paper; then I'm scott-free for the semester with one year of grad school under my belt and a Summer of significantly relaxed academic pressures to look forward to. The only question now is, how can I get my blasted fingers to start hitting the right keys again so I can finish up this course rationale for my pedagogy class?