I've posted seven times previously on 10 June, in 2010, 2011, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, and 2018. The most recent three are poems, and short ones, though the 2017 piece is a sonnet with a rhyme scheme I tend to deploy. (I do not follow the typical models of Shakespearean quatrains or the more intricately braided Spenserian rhymes, but instead offer four triplets and a couplet.) It might be of interest therefore, if not necessarily much. The 2015 piece is a bit of a rant against the circumstances of my job search; it informs why I do not want to go back on the job market if I can avoid it. The 2011 piece is a short rumination on academic regalia; I still do not have answers to the questions I had then.
The 2010 and 2014 pieces remain, and I note that they both make much of my father working as an HVAC/R technician. The latter is something of an angry rant about the state of funding and care at the US Department of Veterans Affairs; so far as I know, little or nothing has been done, and things continue now as they did five years ago. My father still works for the agency, still maintains the systems that keep the staff and patients warm enough or cool enough to do what they need to do. He has not told me that things have much changed for him, and those I know who use the VA's services have been similarly uncommunicative regarding things getting better there. But I did not expect that any words of mine would carry to the eyes or ears of the mighty then, and I expect it even less now.
The 2010 piece is strangely interesting as I look back at it. The second part, wherein I discuss some things that happened in the classes I was teaching as I worked on my dissertation, is particularly interesting. It still flatters me that my students asked after copies of Malory, even these years later; it's not been something that's happened for me many times since, not even when I've had the luxury of teaching literature classes (and that has not been often, to be sure, nor is it likely to be the case again). The bit about jokes in Malory has come up for me in my work since; I tried to get a short paper on one published, but that didn't work well. (I may or may not try it again. I'm not sure.)
My rumination on the value of the academic humanities...I am not sure how to feel about it at this point. It seems entirely too myopic to be of any use; it needs corrective lenses, even as I do, but I am the wrong kind of doctor to determine that prescription. Or perhaps I am more jaded and cynical now than I was nine years ago, while I was still a graduate student with the hope--expectation, really, even more foolishly--that I would land a tenure-line position. I knew better than to think I could change the world, of course, but I thought that I would have a particular portion of that world to call my own and that what I did to push back against human ignorance might actually matter.
Now, though...I am not convinced.
Monday, June 10, 2019
Sunday, June 9, 2019
20190609.0430
9 June has been another decently diligent writing day for me, with posts made in this webspace on this date in 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, and 2018. The last three are poems, and I find once again that I do not want to focus my attention on my own verse at the moment. The 2013 piece is a musing on LinkedIN that I had forgotten I had done, though it is in my frequent model of summary and response and so presents nothing particularly compelling. The 2014 piece is a rumination on an expression of faith that, even then, was waning--and which is now exhausted. I will not say I saw no benefit to my life from participating in organized religion, but I can say that the benefit was more than it has since become, and I am trying to be better about not continuing to do things that don't help me. (Even this webspace, masturbatory as it is, offers me something; it offers me practice in writing for a generalist audience, which I always need.)
As yesterday, then, I return to 2015. In the post, I reflect upon a brief and partial return to bachelorhood; my wife and Ms. 8 had been away to attend a wedding, while I had things that needed doing at Sherwood Cottage. I note in the piece that I was able to keep body and soul together decently enough, that I had not atrophied as much as is commonly ascribed to married men and become dependent upon my wife as a second mother. I am not sure why I took pride in it then; I am not certain that I do so now, even if it does remain the case that I am able to cook meals and keep a clean house. There is no reason why I ought not to be able to, really.
I also note in the piece that "my tendency is to withdraw from things," that even when I have the opportunity to go out on my own and unencumbered, even when I have a bit of money in my pocket that I can dispose of with impunity, I stay in. I have worked at getting better about it in the past few years, and I have had some success at doing so, but it is still a struggle for me to convince myself that it is okay for me to go out and that I can actually occasionally have some fun while I do it. I am not always even partly successful; there continue to be times I stay at home when others in my family go out. And even when I have some success, I find myself counting the cost and looking at how I will be less able to do what I need to do when I need to do it as a result of going out and having fun. Rarely am I able to fully relax in the moment, and even more seldom am I able to avoid regret afterwards.
At the same time, I still feel as I note feeling in the 2015 piece. I know that acting as I do is not to my benefit, but I do not feel that I am making much progress towards improvement. Not having much changed in the four years in it does not make for the best feeling.
As yesterday, then, I return to 2015. In the post, I reflect upon a brief and partial return to bachelorhood; my wife and Ms. 8 had been away to attend a wedding, while I had things that needed doing at Sherwood Cottage. I note in the piece that I was able to keep body and soul together decently enough, that I had not atrophied as much as is commonly ascribed to married men and become dependent upon my wife as a second mother. I am not sure why I took pride in it then; I am not certain that I do so now, even if it does remain the case that I am able to cook meals and keep a clean house. There is no reason why I ought not to be able to, really.
I also note in the piece that "my tendency is to withdraw from things," that even when I have the opportunity to go out on my own and unencumbered, even when I have a bit of money in my pocket that I can dispose of with impunity, I stay in. I have worked at getting better about it in the past few years, and I have had some success at doing so, but it is still a struggle for me to convince myself that it is okay for me to go out and that I can actually occasionally have some fun while I do it. I am not always even partly successful; there continue to be times I stay at home when others in my family go out. And even when I have some success, I find myself counting the cost and looking at how I will be less able to do what I need to do when I need to do it as a result of going out and having fun. Rarely am I able to fully relax in the moment, and even more seldom am I able to avoid regret afterwards.
At the same time, I still feel as I note feeling in the 2015 piece. I know that acting as I do is not to my benefit, but I do not feel that I am making much progress towards improvement. Not having much changed in the four years in it does not make for the best feeling.
Saturday, June 8, 2019
20190608.0430
I have been reasonably good at posting on 8 June, having done so in 2011, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, and 2018. The 2011 post was a brief one marking my parents' thirtieth anniversary then just past. The 2014 noted the birth of a cousin and work then in progress; the latter parts of it seem quaint to me now, particularly those discussing what was then my "professional" website. (I like to think that matters have improved somewhat since then in that regard; the website where I conduct my professional activities now looks better, and I have used it to learn a bit better how to design and code webpages. I admit I'm not as up as I ought to be, though.) The 2015 was a domestic report, noting small things I had done around Sherwood Cottage to make it a bit more livable. And the last three have been bits of verse, in context or not, that do not suggest themselves to me for analysis quite at the moment.
The domestic piece, though, seems to speak to me at the moment. Now, as then, my family and I rent the place where we live, paying someone else for the privilege of staying in a place we pay enough to be able to buy--if we can but get a down payment put together. The demands of daily life keep us from being able to do that; I admit that there are expenses we could trim slightly, but only slightly, and even when we do so, something crops up that keeps us from keeping much money back for very long. We are making progress, though it is slow, and there are times I do not think I'll ever be able to catch up to where I have been and where I probably need to be again.
Knowing that where we live is not ours, that it could be taken away at most any time (I pay the rent on time, but our landlord is not a young man, and I do not know if his successor will be as decent as he is) does not much motivate me to invest in making things better. I did not do much of it at Sherwood Cottage; what I did was more to reduce my utility costs than anything else. (It had some effect in that line, which I appreciated.) My family and I have done more where we live now, admittedly; Sherwood Cottage and the city in which it stands were never going to be forever homes for us, but the Hill Country town where I live now and where I grew up may well be. Knowing that we are more likely to stay here encourages making even things that are not mine better; I'll be using them longer, so I ought to involve myself in them more.
Still, I know that anything I do to the structure will stay where I put it, even though I will not stay where I put it. No small part of me chafes at the idea of putting my time, effort, and money into things that make others' investments more valuable but do not improve my own. It is a selfish attitude, perhaps, but I note that such selfishness is lauded as thrift in landlords and business owners. I want to wonder why the descriptors change when they are applied to individuals, but I already know that the answer is a de facto caste system--and that I am not at so exalted a rank as to admit of virtuous greed.
The domestic piece, though, seems to speak to me at the moment. Now, as then, my family and I rent the place where we live, paying someone else for the privilege of staying in a place we pay enough to be able to buy--if we can but get a down payment put together. The demands of daily life keep us from being able to do that; I admit that there are expenses we could trim slightly, but only slightly, and even when we do so, something crops up that keeps us from keeping much money back for very long. We are making progress, though it is slow, and there are times I do not think I'll ever be able to catch up to where I have been and where I probably need to be again.
Knowing that where we live is not ours, that it could be taken away at most any time (I pay the rent on time, but our landlord is not a young man, and I do not know if his successor will be as decent as he is) does not much motivate me to invest in making things better. I did not do much of it at Sherwood Cottage; what I did was more to reduce my utility costs than anything else. (It had some effect in that line, which I appreciated.) My family and I have done more where we live now, admittedly; Sherwood Cottage and the city in which it stands were never going to be forever homes for us, but the Hill Country town where I live now and where I grew up may well be. Knowing that we are more likely to stay here encourages making even things that are not mine better; I'll be using them longer, so I ought to involve myself in them more.
Still, I know that anything I do to the structure will stay where I put it, even though I will not stay where I put it. No small part of me chafes at the idea of putting my time, effort, and money into things that make others' investments more valuable but do not improve my own. It is a selfish attitude, perhaps, but I note that such selfishness is lauded as thrift in landlords and business owners. I want to wonder why the descriptors change when they are applied to individuals, but I already know that the answer is a de facto caste system--and that I am not at so exalted a rank as to admit of virtuous greed.
Friday, June 7, 2019
20190607.0430
I have not been as diligent in posting on 7 June as on some other days; I've only posted in this webspace on the day four times previously: 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2018. Three of the four are poems; the fourth is another pompously whining piece, and one of the poems is, as might be expected, an entry in an ongoing series of them. Neither needs any significant attention at this point. The 2015 post is another poem that reads more like prose than verse. (I received such a comment about another work of mine, though I have to wonder if the reader did not understand alliteration as a line-unifying device. That does not mean the critique is never valid, though.) It does not provoke even my interest at this point, so revisiting it further seems unhelpful.
The 2014 post, however, still works for me. Part is the stercoraceous language; the poem uses the word "shit" thrice in its thirty-nine irregular lines, twice specifically naming it as "dog shit." I am juvenile enough that I still pay attention to that kind of thing, even if "shit" is attested in English far earlier than is "beautiful" and should be old hat therefore. But the obscenity of the word still reads as being juxtaposed with the presumed formality of verse (formal because marked out as special due to the perceived distance between poetic form and "normal" life, just as "formal" clothing is marked as such in part because it is not "normal" daily wear). Being thus juxtaposed, it attracts attention and consideration.
It is not the only thing in the poem that does so, to be sure. The short second stanza--two unrhymed, arrhythmic lines--subverts the expectations fostered by the first stanza's raised chins. Typically, "chin up" refers either to pride or to a determination to persevere; the second stanza proposes that a raised chin is an invitation to attack. It makes possible that what is normally perceived of as a bad thing is, in fact, a good one, an inversion that the following lines pursue as they point out that the good and useful work of cleaning is work that demands looking down.
The poem continues, though, to note that those who do such work--vital and even pleasant to have done, though often unpleasant to do because of people's unconcern--is complicated and made harder by the active abuse of others. It does often seem that those in positions to care for or serve others are abused in those positions, the uneven power dynamics used to permit exercises in cruelty and disdain that are normally otherwise avoided (but if they are, it is because of fear of consequences rather than due to the sense that people deserve respect because they are people; such are those who need oversight to act well and who assume the same is true of others). The poem speaks to that openly.
There are other readings, of course; the dog shit might not be just dog shit, but a metaphor for any number of other unpleasantnesses often left behind by people who do not care much for the impact of their actions on others' lives. There are enough such to be found, certainly, too many.
The 2014 post, however, still works for me. Part is the stercoraceous language; the poem uses the word "shit" thrice in its thirty-nine irregular lines, twice specifically naming it as "dog shit." I am juvenile enough that I still pay attention to that kind of thing, even if "shit" is attested in English far earlier than is "beautiful" and should be old hat therefore. But the obscenity of the word still reads as being juxtaposed with the presumed formality of verse (formal because marked out as special due to the perceived distance between poetic form and "normal" life, just as "formal" clothing is marked as such in part because it is not "normal" daily wear). Being thus juxtaposed, it attracts attention and consideration.
It is not the only thing in the poem that does so, to be sure. The short second stanza--two unrhymed, arrhythmic lines--subverts the expectations fostered by the first stanza's raised chins. Typically, "chin up" refers either to pride or to a determination to persevere; the second stanza proposes that a raised chin is an invitation to attack. It makes possible that what is normally perceived of as a bad thing is, in fact, a good one, an inversion that the following lines pursue as they point out that the good and useful work of cleaning is work that demands looking down.
The poem continues, though, to note that those who do such work--vital and even pleasant to have done, though often unpleasant to do because of people's unconcern--is complicated and made harder by the active abuse of others. It does often seem that those in positions to care for or serve others are abused in those positions, the uneven power dynamics used to permit exercises in cruelty and disdain that are normally otherwise avoided (but if they are, it is because of fear of consequences rather than due to the sense that people deserve respect because they are people; such are those who need oversight to act well and who assume the same is true of others). The poem speaks to that openly.
There are other readings, of course; the dog shit might not be just dog shit, but a metaphor for any number of other unpleasantnesses often left behind by people who do not care much for the impact of their actions on others' lives. There are enough such to be found, certainly, too many.
Thursday, June 6, 2019
20190606.0430
I have posted on 6 June in six of the nine previous years: 2010 and 2014-2018. In all save the last two, I've commented on the anniversary of the D-Day invasion of Normandy, of which this year is the seventy-fifth. It is the diamond anniversary of an event more marked by steel and lead than any precious stone, and few are left to celebrate who were united then. It's not something to which I think I ought to speak all that much at this point. Honestly, what more can I add to such a conversation, when I have not worked to make myself an expert in it? I know that does not stop many from opining at length, and I am probably among those people, but I will at least not compound the error this time.
In all save the last year, as well (again with the poem-in-sequence), I have noted that the day is my parents' anniversary; they've been married thirty-eight years today. I'm not sure what I can add to that, either, except to say again that I am glad they are and have remained married, and that I love them. But I think they have known it for some time, even if I do not think they weary of hearing it.
The commemorations may not offer much to reflect upon as I sit and write now, but some of the attending comments might. My 2016 post on the day, for example, gives me something to consider as I look back. Aside from a usage error that galls me as I read it (so much so that I've gone back and adjusted it), I find myself somewhat annoyed by the tone I hear in the piece (or perhaps an under- or overtone that sounds in my ear because I remember its composition). Not having steady work was not good for me, I think; the writing reads as having whining notes in it, as well as fundamentals in dark tones, indeed. And why should it not? I was beaten, leaving Oklahoma in defeat, and there are ways in which I've still not recovered from it.
I am not sure I ever will.
This is not to say that things are not better now than they were. I have steady work now, and decently fulfilling. More importantly, I am able to have a good life outside of work; I am not a creature of my professions only, as I had tried (foolishly) to be, or even mostly, as I often was. Instead, I have a life outside my work, and one that is of greater comfort to me than any work I have done. And I can still work on The Work--I am, in fact, getting more of that kind of thing done now than I did when I was making a go of making it in academe, which is a strange thing but not unenjoyable.
Even so, there lingers at the back of my mind a niggling voice that reminds me that I have been beaten. It calls out a cadence to which I still play, and I am not sure how to break away from that rhythm.
In all save the last year, as well (again with the poem-in-sequence), I have noted that the day is my parents' anniversary; they've been married thirty-eight years today. I'm not sure what I can add to that, either, except to say again that I am glad they are and have remained married, and that I love them. But I think they have known it for some time, even if I do not think they weary of hearing it.
The commemorations may not offer much to reflect upon as I sit and write now, but some of the attending comments might. My 2016 post on the day, for example, gives me something to consider as I look back. Aside from a usage error that galls me as I read it (so much so that I've gone back and adjusted it), I find myself somewhat annoyed by the tone I hear in the piece (or perhaps an under- or overtone that sounds in my ear because I remember its composition). Not having steady work was not good for me, I think; the writing reads as having whining notes in it, as well as fundamentals in dark tones, indeed. And why should it not? I was beaten, leaving Oklahoma in defeat, and there are ways in which I've still not recovered from it.
I am not sure I ever will.
This is not to say that things are not better now than they were. I have steady work now, and decently fulfilling. More importantly, I am able to have a good life outside of work; I am not a creature of my professions only, as I had tried (foolishly) to be, or even mostly, as I often was. Instead, I have a life outside my work, and one that is of greater comfort to me than any work I have done. And I can still work on The Work--I am, in fact, getting more of that kind of thing done now than I did when I was making a go of making it in academe, which is a strange thing but not unenjoyable.
Even so, there lingers at the back of my mind a niggling voice that reminds me that I have been beaten. It calls out a cadence to which I still play, and I am not sure how to break away from that rhythm.
Wednesday, June 5, 2019
20190605.0430
5 June has been better for writing than 4 June; I've posted five times on the date in this webspace: 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2018. As is likely to continue to be the case throughout the month, the 2018 piece is one element of a sequence of poems. The 2016 piece is a poem noting an experience in the Texas Hill Country (and marking me as the UTSA graduate I am--BA, English, 2005, cum laude, etc.), and the 2014 piece is a short musing on a dream; neither suggests itself as needing my attention again at this point. But the 2015 piece, talking about a potential teaching exercise that never came to be, and the 2013, looking at a book-as-object, both seem like they could use revisiting.
The teaching piece looks at comparative levels of obscenity in a series of nearly-identical statements. I note in it that I would have to have tenure to get away with offering it, and I've found that's not quite as true as I might have thought--as witness this account on another blog I maintain, incidentally just under a year ago. At the same time, I've not really been in classes where I can deploy the exercise, not because my students wouldn't go for it--they're generally non-traditional at this point, and most such are happy to have something more "real" than they associate with formal education remembered from their youth--but because the teaching I do is in a lock-step curriculum where I do more to regurgitate material passed down to me than anything else.
A lot of the teaching has been online, as well, and while there are benefits to teaching in that venue, one of them is not the development of the kind of rapport that allows such exercises to go off well. Online students tend to engage less frequently and deeply than students who have to have their butts in chairs in a set place on a set schedule, and the engagement is the thing that matters; it is what allows for the development of a space where inquiry into what is obscene, how obscene it is, and why it is so can occur. But even my on-site students cannot engage quite so much; I see them once a week for a three- or four-hour stretch across two months, which is not enough time or exposure to develop rapport with more than a select few. It's not as helpful as might be hoped.
To turn to the 2013 piece: There are other places in this webspace that I've considered books and their paraphernalia as objects rather than as texts, as such. A piece about a bookmark comes to mind as one example, as do some other pieces from earlier this year (here, here, and here). It's been perhaps not a theme so much as a topic of occasional interest to me. And while I no longer own the book in question--I passed it along, in turn, as I made to move from Sherwood Cottage back to the Texas Hill Country--such thoughts as I put to pixels then still occur to me when I look over the "inherited" volumes I still have. A bookstore I shop at deals mostly in used books, and I find things tucked into the pages on occasion; I still wonder about who left them there and why. I've not matched the (likely apocryphal) story of finding money tucked between the pages of dissertations, more's the pity, but I have come across things that offer interesting departure points for thought. Taking that kind of trip might be good to do again...
The teaching piece looks at comparative levels of obscenity in a series of nearly-identical statements. I note in it that I would have to have tenure to get away with offering it, and I've found that's not quite as true as I might have thought--as witness this account on another blog I maintain, incidentally just under a year ago. At the same time, I've not really been in classes where I can deploy the exercise, not because my students wouldn't go for it--they're generally non-traditional at this point, and most such are happy to have something more "real" than they associate with formal education remembered from their youth--but because the teaching I do is in a lock-step curriculum where I do more to regurgitate material passed down to me than anything else.
A lot of the teaching has been online, as well, and while there are benefits to teaching in that venue, one of them is not the development of the kind of rapport that allows such exercises to go off well. Online students tend to engage less frequently and deeply than students who have to have their butts in chairs in a set place on a set schedule, and the engagement is the thing that matters; it is what allows for the development of a space where inquiry into what is obscene, how obscene it is, and why it is so can occur. But even my on-site students cannot engage quite so much; I see them once a week for a three- or four-hour stretch across two months, which is not enough time or exposure to develop rapport with more than a select few. It's not as helpful as might be hoped.
To turn to the 2013 piece: There are other places in this webspace that I've considered books and their paraphernalia as objects rather than as texts, as such. A piece about a bookmark comes to mind as one example, as do some other pieces from earlier this year (here, here, and here). It's been perhaps not a theme so much as a topic of occasional interest to me. And while I no longer own the book in question--I passed it along, in turn, as I made to move from Sherwood Cottage back to the Texas Hill Country--such thoughts as I put to pixels then still occur to me when I look over the "inherited" volumes I still have. A bookstore I shop at deals mostly in used books, and I find things tucked into the pages on occasion; I still wonder about who left them there and why. I've not matched the (likely apocryphal) story of finding money tucked between the pages of dissertations, more's the pity, but I have come across things that offer interesting departure points for thought. Taking that kind of trip might be good to do again...
Tuesday, June 4, 2019
20190604.0430
I have not been as successful on writing on 4 June as I have on a number of other days; I appear to have done so in this webspace only in four years previously: 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2018. The last of them, again, is a poem in a sequence of them and cannot be understood outside of that sequence--and I might someday revisit that project. There was promise in it, but I am not skilled enough a writer to fulfill that promise. The 2016 piece was an occasional poem, one of many I've written that could do better as prose; I am not sure what I've tried to do with line breaks other than highlight things, but that highlighting doesn't make much sense to me at this point. The 2015 piece ruminates on then-present circumstances at what my Mrs. and I called Sherwood Cottage in something of a romanticizing gesture that had the benefit of being easier to write and reference than "the place we live/d in Stillwater." (We refer to our apartment in Brooklyn as Bedfordside Garden for a similar reason. Other places we've lived get other names.)
The 2014 piece, as I look at it again (and it's been five years since I have), warms my cockles. It talks about the beginnings of the Tales after Tolkien Society blog, with which I was and still am heavily involved, as well as with the Society that operates it. (Clearly so; I was one of its first vice-presidents, and I am currently its president. It's hard to be more involved with it.) I was and still am enthusiastic about that project, though I do not post in it as frequently as I do in other places (such as this one), and being reminded of my early enthusiasm for the project (which helped the Society come in as a World Fantasy Award finalist in, I think, 2016) has not so much rekindled my enthusiasm as it has restored to me a little bit of joy I had not recalled having.
Leaving aside the discussion of scholarship and audience that runs to self-pity--the tendency to it in my writing is one I've yet to outgrow, despite being many years no longer a teenager--I had no way to know at the time that things would progress with the blog as they have. I've been fortunate to see some of the most popular and insightful commentaries about some of the most popular medievalist mass-media to emerge in a while develop, and I've seen the popularity of those commentaries mount; having some small part in it has been gratifying. Having my own work, much more modest, receive some attention alongside it has also been enjoyable--as well as helping my writerly voice develop further. I've worked to improve how I write for broader audiences through the work I've done on that blog, and I flatter myself that it's influenced the other writing I've done since starting on that.
I often use reminiscence and rumination to chastise myself. I look back on what I have done and what I have written, and I think about how stupid I was in whichever then is in question. Occasionally, though, I am happy about what I see. It's a nice thing.
The 2014 piece, as I look at it again (and it's been five years since I have), warms my cockles. It talks about the beginnings of the Tales after Tolkien Society blog, with which I was and still am heavily involved, as well as with the Society that operates it. (Clearly so; I was one of its first vice-presidents, and I am currently its president. It's hard to be more involved with it.) I was and still am enthusiastic about that project, though I do not post in it as frequently as I do in other places (such as this one), and being reminded of my early enthusiasm for the project (which helped the Society come in as a World Fantasy Award finalist in, I think, 2016) has not so much rekindled my enthusiasm as it has restored to me a little bit of joy I had not recalled having.
Leaving aside the discussion of scholarship and audience that runs to self-pity--the tendency to it in my writing is one I've yet to outgrow, despite being many years no longer a teenager--I had no way to know at the time that things would progress with the blog as they have. I've been fortunate to see some of the most popular and insightful commentaries about some of the most popular medievalist mass-media to emerge in a while develop, and I've seen the popularity of those commentaries mount; having some small part in it has been gratifying. Having my own work, much more modest, receive some attention alongside it has also been enjoyable--as well as helping my writerly voice develop further. I've worked to improve how I write for broader audiences through the work I've done on that blog, and I flatter myself that it's influenced the other writing I've done since starting on that.
I often use reminiscence and rumination to chastise myself. I look back on what I have done and what I have written, and I think about how stupid I was in whichever then is in question. Occasionally, though, I am happy about what I see. It's a nice thing.
Monday, June 3, 2019
20190603.0430
Continuing on with the idea of retrospection, I note that 3 June has seen me post in each of the past six years (2013-2018). The posts in 2018, 2017, and 2016 were each poems; that in 2015 was itself a retrospection, noting the 2014 post's attempt at humor and the 2013 post's rumination on the quiet of the morning. Again, the 2018 poem is one that exists as part of a sequence and cannot be understood outside of that context; again, too, the 2017 poem is not terribly good. The 2016 post, despite the typo in its title, offers some good, though; it came from one of my several immensely frustrating bouts of job-searching, and I think that it captures a fair bit of the vexation that came from the process. (There is a reason I've written often that I do not want to have to be back on the job market if I can avoid it.)
Since I seem to have laid out a thesis for a short essay, I suppose I ought to follow up on that form and note that the seven-line poem opens with a comment about an unnamed "she" before moving into the second line's "I," setting up a dichotomy that, given the remaining's lines' discussion of difficulty in opposition to the ease "she" enjoyed, makes the poem a complaint. In combination with the ragged poetic form--the seven lines do not rhyme, and they do not follow any particular rhythmic pattern--the complaint helps to express vexation at job hunts. Being at ease would allow for, if not encourage, the kind of reflection and revision that admits of a more regular verse form; the lack of both implies the opposite.
The second pair of lines also speaks to the vexation of the job-search process. Taken together, they raise the idea that offers of work may well be lies--as is no mystery. Claiming that a "vow is perhaps not the best" is far from a ringing endorsement of the speaker's honesty. Pointing out that any offer might well be a lie implies no small amount of mistrust, and it is not an easy thing to have to interact with people while suspecting them of deceit. That it is a concern raised almost as soon as the prospect of work is, then, highlights the immediacy of such thoughts, and, highlighting them, reinforces the vexation associated with them.
The final three lines, generally shorter than the first four, do not detract from the impression of vexation. The last two, particularly, enhance it. The sixth line, consisting only of the word "Perhaps," serves as a pivot--and, structurally, a pivot so close to the end of a work places it into a position of peculiar stress. Given the brevity of the poem, it stands out, calling attention to itself and implying, if subtly, the stress of job-hunting. It also highlights the final line, which ascribes agency not to the searching narrator but to outside forces rendered not-wholly-human through labeling them "the locals" rather than naming them or even assigning personal pronouns. They are certainly an other group, one that excludes the narrator, and being dependent on the good will of a group of which a person is not part is no easy thing. Throughout the poem, then, the idea that job hunting is not a easy or relaxing thing, that the opposite is true, comes out clearly.
Admittedly, I have an interest in having my own work studied and lauded. Admittedly, too, it is somewhat disingenuous for me to look back at my work and explain why it works well; a similar attempt by Poe in "The Philosophy of Composition" led to some problems for him, and I cannot expect that I will fare much better. But it is also good to look back on what I've done and, when occasion warrants, approve of it; I'm critical enough of myself as it is without allowing myself the occasional bit of pride in my efforts.
Since I seem to have laid out a thesis for a short essay, I suppose I ought to follow up on that form and note that the seven-line poem opens with a comment about an unnamed "she" before moving into the second line's "I," setting up a dichotomy that, given the remaining's lines' discussion of difficulty in opposition to the ease "she" enjoyed, makes the poem a complaint. In combination with the ragged poetic form--the seven lines do not rhyme, and they do not follow any particular rhythmic pattern--the complaint helps to express vexation at job hunts. Being at ease would allow for, if not encourage, the kind of reflection and revision that admits of a more regular verse form; the lack of both implies the opposite.
The second pair of lines also speaks to the vexation of the job-search process. Taken together, they raise the idea that offers of work may well be lies--as is no mystery. Claiming that a "vow is perhaps not the best" is far from a ringing endorsement of the speaker's honesty. Pointing out that any offer might well be a lie implies no small amount of mistrust, and it is not an easy thing to have to interact with people while suspecting them of deceit. That it is a concern raised almost as soon as the prospect of work is, then, highlights the immediacy of such thoughts, and, highlighting them, reinforces the vexation associated with them.
The final three lines, generally shorter than the first four, do not detract from the impression of vexation. The last two, particularly, enhance it. The sixth line, consisting only of the word "Perhaps," serves as a pivot--and, structurally, a pivot so close to the end of a work places it into a position of peculiar stress. Given the brevity of the poem, it stands out, calling attention to itself and implying, if subtly, the stress of job-hunting. It also highlights the final line, which ascribes agency not to the searching narrator but to outside forces rendered not-wholly-human through labeling them "the locals" rather than naming them or even assigning personal pronouns. They are certainly an other group, one that excludes the narrator, and being dependent on the good will of a group of which a person is not part is no easy thing. Throughout the poem, then, the idea that job hunting is not a easy or relaxing thing, that the opposite is true, comes out clearly.
Admittedly, I have an interest in having my own work studied and lauded. Admittedly, too, it is somewhat disingenuous for me to look back at my work and explain why it works well; a similar attempt by Poe in "The Philosophy of Composition" led to some problems for him, and I cannot expect that I will fare much better. But it is also good to look back on what I've done and, when occasion warrants, approve of it; I'm critical enough of myself as it is without allowing myself the occasional bit of pride in my efforts.
Sunday, June 2, 2019
20190602.0430
To follow up on yesterday's post and look back at what I have written in this webspace before, I'd note that 2 June has seen posts in each of the past six years (2013-2018). In 2013, I commented on Hobb's The Willful Princess and the Piebald Prince; in 2014, I made some random comments. In 2015, I opined about an honorarium; in 2016, 2017, and 2018, I wrote poetry. As such, I have a few things I might look back on and discuss further. The 2018 poem, though, is one in a sequence of them, not really workable outside that context. The 2017 is, frankly, not very good; the 2016 is not much better, if at all. The former might as well be prose; the latter rhymes, at least, but in neither case is there a discourse to be found. They are, as it were, fruits without seeds, and while such may be good for eating, they don't do what fruit ought to do (if we can talk about "ought" in this context).
The 2015 piece reads to me as pompous. Even to my eyes, it seems the writer is struggling to bring in fancy words, and while I recall doing so in an attempt to be clear and exact in my language, I'm not at all sure it succeeds in that. Leaving aside the issue that assessing a piece by its writer's intent isn't a good approach--because I can only try to recall it at this point, and I can't be sure I remember it rightly--I'm not at all sure that what I write is clear. Bringing in the rarer words--not "bigger," because some of them are short, but less common and seemingly "fancier" as a result--seems to get in the way of easy reading; it comes off as showing off, as pompous. The refusal to use contractions reinforces the impression of arrogance; the removal from common speech patters marks off what should be an informal bit as trying to be more formal. It's wearing a tie when a t-shirt is expected.
The last bit, the metaphor about the tie and t-shirt, reminds me: I really seem to have been struggling to make the metaphor of falling fruit work in the 2015 piece. It's not a bad one, really; fruit dropping from trees before it's picked is windfall, and it's often the case that windfall produce starts rotting before a person finds it. Even if it hasn't yet, it still needs to be brushed off before eating. Where the metaphor uses that imagery, it works. But it pivots back into the kind of pompous language that marks the rest of the blog post, shifting away from what might actually work as evocative language and into stilted writing that does as much to say "look at me; I'm a professor--ain't I smart?" as it does anything else.
I was invested in coming off as smart, as deserving of an intellectual position. I was trying to get one at the time, as I am no longer, and I knew that I'd be researched by those I wanted to have hire me. But going about making myself seem a smart guy the way I did didn't work out (obviously). It might even have backfired; the case could be made, and easily, that I ought to have been working on researched writing rather than blogging. (It could be made now that I ought to be working on other projects than this webspace, others that I might use to at least try to make some money.) The 2015 piece was not my best work; understanding better why it wasn't can help in avoiding some mistakes later on.
The 2015 piece reads to me as pompous. Even to my eyes, it seems the writer is struggling to bring in fancy words, and while I recall doing so in an attempt to be clear and exact in my language, I'm not at all sure it succeeds in that. Leaving aside the issue that assessing a piece by its writer's intent isn't a good approach--because I can only try to recall it at this point, and I can't be sure I remember it rightly--I'm not at all sure that what I write is clear. Bringing in the rarer words--not "bigger," because some of them are short, but less common and seemingly "fancier" as a result--seems to get in the way of easy reading; it comes off as showing off, as pompous. The refusal to use contractions reinforces the impression of arrogance; the removal from common speech patters marks off what should be an informal bit as trying to be more formal. It's wearing a tie when a t-shirt is expected.
The last bit, the metaphor about the tie and t-shirt, reminds me: I really seem to have been struggling to make the metaphor of falling fruit work in the 2015 piece. It's not a bad one, really; fruit dropping from trees before it's picked is windfall, and it's often the case that windfall produce starts rotting before a person finds it. Even if it hasn't yet, it still needs to be brushed off before eating. Where the metaphor uses that imagery, it works. But it pivots back into the kind of pompous language that marks the rest of the blog post, shifting away from what might actually work as evocative language and into stilted writing that does as much to say "look at me; I'm a professor--ain't I smart?" as it does anything else.
I was invested in coming off as smart, as deserving of an intellectual position. I was trying to get one at the time, as I am no longer, and I knew that I'd be researched by those I wanted to have hire me. But going about making myself seem a smart guy the way I did didn't work out (obviously). It might even have backfired; the case could be made, and easily, that I ought to have been working on researched writing rather than blogging. (It could be made now that I ought to be working on other projects than this webspace, others that I might use to at least try to make some money.) The 2015 piece was not my best work; understanding better why it wasn't can help in avoiding some mistakes later on.
Saturday, June 1, 2019
20190601.0430
With a new month beginning, it is time for me to think again about what I'll write for the month. I did have a good experience with the month just ended, getting enough of a buffer built up that I was able to spend a fair bit of time working on other projects without much encumbrance. (Indeed, I invite you who read this to read one of them, here.) But keeping on with that line of work doesn't suggest itself as a good thing at present. Nor yet does returning to my hymns against the stupid god, nor still does going back to my LinkedIN commentaries or to more general responses to readings I might do. (This is partly because my outside readings are still not what I would like them to be, even if I am making some use of my need to work to get some reading done that I flatly want to do.)
A couple of ideas do suggest themselves. (Another rereading series is one of them, but that seems like it would not work out well for me. I'm not the reader I used to be.) One of them is to return to the random short essay that I've done in past months. It has the advantage of being flexible, to be sure; there is freedom in being able to range across topics as I will. At the same time, there is the problem of lack of direction; having structure helps to channel energies, and directed energies penetrate deeper and uncover more than those energies flung out into the void to fall where they may in the hope that enough fall together in a place easily seen that something can be done with them. I am not so bright a light as to give my luminescence freely and expect that others will be able to see to steer themselves thereby, if I may make an overly florid metaphor.
Another occurs to me after looking back over this webspace. I've been posting in it for more than nine years, now, after having made several other attempts at keeping a blog on other services. There's a fair bit of material on which I can look back, a fair amount of writing that I have some distance from at this point; it might well behoove me to reflect upon that writing and mark changes to my experience of the world since then (with varying definitions of then, to be sure). I am a medievalist by training, even if I probably ought to have been a fantasist (if that can be called a word); looking at the work of the past is something that appeals to me, even if it is not so deep a past as might be thought attractive. Yet I am not the sort of scholar who would have lived in the long-ago then I study; I am glad to live in the time I live in and not a much earlier one. And I am happy to be in a position to look back on the words I have written--so much so that I think that is the direction I will take.
An occasional bit of retrospection can be healthy. Too, I would not be averse to having some of my older stuff receive attention again (if it ever did, which I know is bold of me to assume).
A couple of ideas do suggest themselves. (Another rereading series is one of them, but that seems like it would not work out well for me. I'm not the reader I used to be.) One of them is to return to the random short essay that I've done in past months. It has the advantage of being flexible, to be sure; there is freedom in being able to range across topics as I will. At the same time, there is the problem of lack of direction; having structure helps to channel energies, and directed energies penetrate deeper and uncover more than those energies flung out into the void to fall where they may in the hope that enough fall together in a place easily seen that something can be done with them. I am not so bright a light as to give my luminescence freely and expect that others will be able to see to steer themselves thereby, if I may make an overly florid metaphor.
Another occurs to me after looking back over this webspace. I've been posting in it for more than nine years, now, after having made several other attempts at keeping a blog on other services. There's a fair bit of material on which I can look back, a fair amount of writing that I have some distance from at this point; it might well behoove me to reflect upon that writing and mark changes to my experience of the world since then (with varying definitions of then, to be sure). I am a medievalist by training, even if I probably ought to have been a fantasist (if that can be called a word); looking at the work of the past is something that appeals to me, even if it is not so deep a past as might be thought attractive. Yet I am not the sort of scholar who would have lived in the long-ago then I study; I am glad to live in the time I live in and not a much earlier one. And I am happy to be in a position to look back on the words I have written--so much so that I think that is the direction I will take.
An occasional bit of retrospection can be healthy. Too, I would not be averse to having some of my older stuff receive attention again (if it ever did, which I know is bold of me to assume).
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