Today is the day of the backward look, of course, and I do not find myself immune to it. Fortunately, I have some record of what I was doing around this time in years past; I can content myself with looking over some of what I wrote then.
Four years ago, I commented but briefly on the undesire for nostalgia. After having finally gone through my piles of filing, some of which went that far back, I am reminded of why. There are many ways in which things have changed for the worse in my life since then, although I am minded of the ways in which things are better. I want to think the balance is in my current favor, but if it is, it is not in the parts of my life that can be measured and assessed.
Two years ago saw me amidst a series of deaths. It was not a good time, and other bad news was yet to come. I have no desire to revisit it further.
Last year, saw me make a complicated scatological comment, the truth of which I maintain. It was far more in line with the kind of writing I prefer to embed in this webspace than its antecedents. Whether it is worth reading, of course, is another matter entirely, but it was not so bad to write it.
I am sure that I could pore over the volumes of my journals to look for more records and different of what I have tended to do on New Year's Eves of the past. I have not tended to spend them in revelry; I am not typically a person given to merriment and celebration, as those who know me know. Those who know me best know of no small number of times that I was expected to be festive and was very much the opposite, including this very day several years back. I am pre-Bilbo Bagginsian, after all, perhaps more so now than before, but always in that mold. (Although more so, because the bare-footed small-folk of movie and myth enjoy a good party, and I typically do not.)
I expect that they will reveal that I have spent New Year's Eve much as I am going to spend New Year's Eve this year: quietly at home, working. There is writing to do--and for which to be paid, happily. Ms. 8 is as she is, and so needs care and attention. (She is fine, but she is also less than a year old.) The Mrs. is working a fairly full shift today, so I will need to do something nice for her when she gets home. None of these things argue in favor of my going out and getting drunk with people I do not know (as most of those I do know are away or with their own children and families) or staying home and getting drunk in front of my daughter.
It is not for nothing that I avoid International Hangover Day year after year.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
20141230.0900
It is decidedly not spring, but I am doing a bit of cleaning, nonetheless. A year and more of papers have piled up, and I am sorting through them. I have the hope that in doing so, I may be able to order my thoughts about the year that is soon to be gone, to make some sense of how things have fallen out these past months. Perhaps in doing so, I can come in some way to have some glimpse of what may come in the next twelve. Perhaps I can figure out ways in which I have erred and determine how I can avoid repeating the mistakes I have heretofore made. Perhaps I can even find a way to do better.
That the paperwork has piled up as it has is a mark more of laziness than of busyness. It would not have been hard for me to keep up with things if I had simply done so, rather than shunting things aside to sit idly and play games that do not challenge me and do not connect me to others. One of the mistakes I made is that I let things slide, thinking "I'll get to it" and then allowing the "it" to slip away from conscious thought. The nagging memory likely served to inform the annoyance I have felt so often, the unease at leaving things undone that I ought to have done making less stable my feelings in the present moment. So I will seek to keep from that error.
There are others to avoid, as well, that have nothing to do with paperwork unchecked. The usual bits about being kinder, or at least less unkind, suggest themselves. Less common is the thought that I might finally purge myself of certain things, to give in wholly to the evil that is in me and cast aside scruple in the pursuit of immediate benefit for myself and my household. As it is, I am caught between the two, having in me too much of each to feel truly at ease with the other. I think I have said it before, and I think I am not alone in it, but the feeling of being between two ideals that are more or less mutually exclusive is hardly the most pleasant. Perhaps I can avoid the error of remaining in it.
There is also the matter of my later writing. I have got to get back to waking up at a decent hour; I have been sleeping in too much and too often of late. I go to bed no later, so I am losing time in the day, and there are many things that need to have me do them. I did so much more and so much better when I did it earlier than I am doing it now. The mistake of remaining asleep as I have done is one which I very much need to correct--especially as it seems to be doing me no good.
That the paperwork has piled up as it has is a mark more of laziness than of busyness. It would not have been hard for me to keep up with things if I had simply done so, rather than shunting things aside to sit idly and play games that do not challenge me and do not connect me to others. One of the mistakes I made is that I let things slide, thinking "I'll get to it" and then allowing the "it" to slip away from conscious thought. The nagging memory likely served to inform the annoyance I have felt so often, the unease at leaving things undone that I ought to have done making less stable my feelings in the present moment. So I will seek to keep from that error.
There are others to avoid, as well, that have nothing to do with paperwork unchecked. The usual bits about being kinder, or at least less unkind, suggest themselves. Less common is the thought that I might finally purge myself of certain things, to give in wholly to the evil that is in me and cast aside scruple in the pursuit of immediate benefit for myself and my household. As it is, I am caught between the two, having in me too much of each to feel truly at ease with the other. I think I have said it before, and I think I am not alone in it, but the feeling of being between two ideals that are more or less mutually exclusive is hardly the most pleasant. Perhaps I can avoid the error of remaining in it.
There is also the matter of my later writing. I have got to get back to waking up at a decent hour; I have been sleeping in too much and too often of late. I go to bed no later, so I am losing time in the day, and there are many things that need to have me do them. I did so much more and so much better when I did it earlier than I am doing it now. The mistake of remaining asleep as I have done is one which I very much need to correct--especially as it seems to be doing me no good.
Monday, December 29, 2014
20141229.0910
The end of the year is approaching, and there is an impetus to look back over the year. There is an impetus to look back more generally, perhaps to this time a year past. Now, as then, I consider the writing that I do, spending time putting words into these pages instead of onto other pages where they might earn money for me and my household or else put me into a position to be better able to earn money for me or my household. Now, as then, I maintain that the few minutes I spend in putting these pieces together serve to prepare me for the other writing work that I do, that they help me order my thoughts and accustom me to writing for audiences other than me. However small they may be.
Writing is a curious thing, though. I write much, not only in this webspace and in the too-infrequent postings to such other projects as this, but also in my work as a freelancer, a scholar, and a teacher. I also write much for my leisure; I have noted being on staff for the online L5RRPG event, and since it is a play-by-post game, nearly all of the activity for it is written. The writing I do in that context may be viewed as "lesser," as not worth attention, particularly against the other concerns, but it is still writing, and it is writing with an audience; it offers practice in things that this webspace and many of the other contexts in which I write do not--and cannot. But that will be another discussion entirely.
Even with the writing, though, with all the practice in it that I do get, I sometimes have trouble finding words to say. I sometimes have trouble finding ideas to try to put into words--or into other words than I already find them. Sometimes, as today and other days I have noted but do not care to find again at this point, I have ideas earlier than I can sit down to treat them, and they vanish between the having and the treatment time. (I am sure I could dress this up in some lovely metaphor, probably a medical one that serves as a biting commentary on health care systems. That, too, is another discussion.) They leave their traces behind, but I am not a hunter to be able to follow them to the animal I have wounded or hope to wound for meat and a trophy. (I cannot escape metaphor, it seems.)
I am not alone in it, certainly. Words are symbols, simulations, and simulations always miss things. They have to do so to be able to be used as simulations--if they have all, then they are the same, and not similar. Words themselves lose, and none of us knows all the words. I and others search for the right ones, the best ones, ones not yet known, perhaps. But there are always better words to be found.
Writing is a curious thing, though. I write much, not only in this webspace and in the too-infrequent postings to such other projects as this, but also in my work as a freelancer, a scholar, and a teacher. I also write much for my leisure; I have noted being on staff for the online L5RRPG event, and since it is a play-by-post game, nearly all of the activity for it is written. The writing I do in that context may be viewed as "lesser," as not worth attention, particularly against the other concerns, but it is still writing, and it is writing with an audience; it offers practice in things that this webspace and many of the other contexts in which I write do not--and cannot. But that will be another discussion entirely.
Even with the writing, though, with all the practice in it that I do get, I sometimes have trouble finding words to say. I sometimes have trouble finding ideas to try to put into words--or into other words than I already find them. Sometimes, as today and other days I have noted but do not care to find again at this point, I have ideas earlier than I can sit down to treat them, and they vanish between the having and the treatment time. (I am sure I could dress this up in some lovely metaphor, probably a medical one that serves as a biting commentary on health care systems. That, too, is another discussion.) They leave their traces behind, but I am not a hunter to be able to follow them to the animal I have wounded or hope to wound for meat and a trophy. (I cannot escape metaphor, it seems.)
I am not alone in it, certainly. Words are symbols, simulations, and simulations always miss things. They have to do so to be able to be used as simulations--if they have all, then they are the same, and not similar. Words themselves lose, and none of us knows all the words. I and others search for the right ones, the best ones, ones not yet known, perhaps. But there are always better words to be found.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
20141228.0856
The snow has stopped falling and largely sublimated away, but the temperatures are lower now than when it was coming down--by fifteen to twenty degrees Fahrenheit. (I know I should be doing better than that, but I am yet a product of my upbringing, habituated to systems that make little sense to those outside them.) They are not projected to rise much, so far as I know, so today suggests itself as another well worth spending inside. Even the somewhat drafty, almost wholly uninsulated place where I live is better than being out in the cold and wind, sunlight or no.
I am, admittedly, prone to saying so at most times.
Having more freelance work to do would be good. I had a piece last week; the book I had to read for it was a good one, and the write-up went reasonably well. It has already been accepted, also, and so I have money waiting for me--which I need if I am to be able to continue to support my Mrs. and Ms. 8. More of it would be welcome, particularly on a day like today when the outdoors is not attractive not only to me, but also to many who would normally like to be other than wall-bounded. None presents itself at the moment, though, so I will turn to the many other things that are for me to do. Spending time idly is not to my benefit or others'.
I am fortunate in that I have many other things to do that will keep me occupied and inside with cups of coffee and tea ready to hand and the heater on. This is not the only piece of writing to which I will attend, of course. I have the materials ready to put together comments for the Tales after Tolkien Society blog, Travels in Genre and Medievalism, and there are always scholarly projects that demand consideration (but generally do not receive it in favor of those projects which contribute to household finances). Too, I cannot in good conscience abandon the Mrs. to the housework; I contribute to the mess, so I should contribute to the cleanup, and I eat, so I should help with the gathering and preparation of food. And Ms. 8 needs care and attention, always.
There are also other things, later things, for which to prepare. My travel to the MLA Convention in Vancouver, BC, is upcoming (and I could still use some help with the expense of it), and the next term of teaching is looming. The prep-work for it looks to be eased, as I am currently scheduled to teach three sections of the same course--and a course I have taught more than once before--but it will still need to be done. Thoughts of it have begun to nag at me; I suppose I shall have to address them soon.
It is good, therefore, that there is much reason to remain indoors today. The relative lack of distraction will help.
I am, admittedly, prone to saying so at most times.
Having more freelance work to do would be good. I had a piece last week; the book I had to read for it was a good one, and the write-up went reasonably well. It has already been accepted, also, and so I have money waiting for me--which I need if I am to be able to continue to support my Mrs. and Ms. 8. More of it would be welcome, particularly on a day like today when the outdoors is not attractive not only to me, but also to many who would normally like to be other than wall-bounded. None presents itself at the moment, though, so I will turn to the many other things that are for me to do. Spending time idly is not to my benefit or others'.
I am fortunate in that I have many other things to do that will keep me occupied and inside with cups of coffee and tea ready to hand and the heater on. This is not the only piece of writing to which I will attend, of course. I have the materials ready to put together comments for the Tales after Tolkien Society blog, Travels in Genre and Medievalism, and there are always scholarly projects that demand consideration (but generally do not receive it in favor of those projects which contribute to household finances). Too, I cannot in good conscience abandon the Mrs. to the housework; I contribute to the mess, so I should contribute to the cleanup, and I eat, so I should help with the gathering and preparation of food. And Ms. 8 needs care and attention, always.
There are also other things, later things, for which to prepare. My travel to the MLA Convention in Vancouver, BC, is upcoming (and I could still use some help with the expense of it), and the next term of teaching is looming. The prep-work for it looks to be eased, as I am currently scheduled to teach three sections of the same course--and a course I have taught more than once before--but it will still need to be done. Thoughts of it have begun to nag at me; I suppose I shall have to address them soon.
It is good, therefore, that there is much reason to remain indoors today. The relative lack of distraction will help.
Saturday, December 27, 2014
20141227.0900
Snow is falling
Late in the season
Days too late for song
But the song is a bad one, anyway
Falsely celebrating falsehood
Lying and theft thought one thing
Protested as one thing year after year
But in origin another
And the protestors uninformed
Or hypocrites
I remain tucked in a room
Warm
Restricted
And I am sure there is a symbol in there
Somewhere
But I will not explicate it
There are other works to which I will turn
While the snow falls outside
And songs have ceased to be sung
Late in the season
Days too late for song
But the song is a bad one, anyway
Falsely celebrating falsehood
Lying and theft thought one thing
Protested as one thing year after year
But in origin another
And the protestors uninformed
Or hypocrites
I remain tucked in a room
Warm
Restricted
And I am sure there is a symbol in there
Somewhere
But I will not explicate it
There are other works to which I will turn
While the snow falls outside
And songs have ceased to be sung
Friday, December 26, 2014
20141226.0709
Our revels have not ended
Those that have begun
There are yet some holidays
To carry on the fun
Boxing Day, St. Stephen's Day
The Circumcision Feast
New Year's Eve and New Year's Day
Are not among the least
But of course the only one
That matters is now past
The one not mentioned calls for war
In exercised bombast
It is the one that spends the most
And celebrates the longest
And the nature of its protests
Say what devotion's strongest
Those that have begun
There are yet some holidays
To carry on the fun
Boxing Day, St. Stephen's Day
The Circumcision Feast
New Year's Eve and New Year's Day
Are not among the least
But of course the only one
That matters is now past
The one not mentioned calls for war
In exercised bombast
It is the one that spends the most
And celebrates the longest
And the nature of its protests
Say what devotion's strongest
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
20141224.0842
Many celebrate today
Calling it Christmas Eve
Wishing for their homes to be invaded
And the robber to make deposits in hanging socks
It is a strange custom
I have no mantle
No fireplace
No chimney
I usually have not had them
I remember wondering how the fat man would come
Feeling around his sack for things for me
Stuff to scatter around the room
Stuff I would have to clean up
It was preparatory
I should have known
Calling it Christmas Eve
Wishing for their homes to be invaded
And the robber to make deposits in hanging socks
It is a strange custom
I have no mantle
No fireplace
No chimney
I usually have not had them
I remember wondering how the fat man would come
Feeling around his sack for things for me
Stuff to scatter around the room
Stuff I would have to clean up
It was preparatory
I should have known
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
20141223.0610
The Grinch and the Grouch are both green;
There has to be a reason.
Are they cast in corruption's color,
Made to resemble rot and decay?
Are they a borrowing from the Bard,
Skin supplanting eyes?
Are they anti-capitalist comments,
Likened to money and made mean?
And if it is so simple
As green was cheap that day,
The day they were made,
Then there has to be a reason for that, too.
There is always something more to find.
There has to be a reason.
Are they cast in corruption's color,
Made to resemble rot and decay?
Are they a borrowing from the Bard,
Skin supplanting eyes?
Are they anti-capitalist comments,
Likened to money and made mean?
And if it is so simple
As green was cheap that day,
The day they were made,
Then there has to be a reason for that, too.
There is always something more to find.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
20141220.0718
My parents are visiting from the Texas Hill Country. They are excited to see Ms. 8 in the flesh after some months; they see her on screen fairly often, but there is something different about being able to reach out and touch someone, something that no amount of screen time can replicate. The Mrs. and I are glad to have them up; we are always happy to have people fawn over our baby, whom one physician says is "perfect."
It is good to have independent confirmation of it from another sort of doctor entirely.
Work, oddly, does not continue at the moment. There are no freelance pieces on the docket, and since I am between terms, there are no lessons to plan and none of their leavings to clean up. I am somewhat out of sorts as a result, actually; I am accustomed to having more tasks to do in less time. I am glad, though, because I can attend to family, and I can attend to the other work, The Work, that there is for me to do.
I am going to spend the time with my people, then. I can always write more later.
It is good to have independent confirmation of it from another sort of doctor entirely.
Work, oddly, does not continue at the moment. There are no freelance pieces on the docket, and since I am between terms, there are no lessons to plan and none of their leavings to clean up. I am somewhat out of sorts as a result, actually; I am accustomed to having more tasks to do in less time. I am glad, though, because I can attend to family, and I can attend to the other work, The Work, that there is for me to do.
I am going to spend the time with my people, then. I can always write more later.
Friday, December 19, 2014
20141219.0821
When I was younger than I am now
I planted a field
Tended it to distraction
And it bloomed after years of work
Offering one flower of exquisite quality
Red petals gold-traced
Folding in white with black marks
After
I left the field fallow
I had earned a rest from the labor
And I went away
The flower's bloom still set on a shelf
People could see it and know my gardening
And I was content
But I left the field fallow
Not for the year tradition demands
But for two
And while the look of the flower is still as it was
Its scent no longer fills the air
And people do not look at it
And I suffer for it
For what have I done lately?
I am returning to that field again
It is full of weeds and debris
And I am clearing them
As I am clearing smaller plots, besides
For it is time to garden again
I planted a field
Tended it to distraction
And it bloomed after years of work
Offering one flower of exquisite quality
Red petals gold-traced
Folding in white with black marks
After
I left the field fallow
I had earned a rest from the labor
And I went away
The flower's bloom still set on a shelf
People could see it and know my gardening
And I was content
But I left the field fallow
Not for the year tradition demands
But for two
And while the look of the flower is still as it was
Its scent no longer fills the air
And people do not look at it
And I suffer for it
For what have I done lately?
I am returning to that field again
It is full of weeds and debris
And I am clearing them
As I am clearing smaller plots, besides
For it is time to garden again
Thursday, December 18, 2014
20141218.0748
Matters seem not to have improved...
I spent a fair bit of time yesterday filling out job applications--and I anticipate doing so again today. After writing scores if not hundreds of cover letters, I feel like I have a fair handle on how to churn them out; certainly the first and last paragraphs of each read along a formula, while those in the middle follow predictable patterns as do the kinds of jobs for which I apply (medievalist or generalist and generally teaching-heavy). It was quite the annoyance, then, to realize that I had sent several out with typographical errors embedded in them--which I only realized after sending them off. There is, after all, no better time to proofread than after it is too late to do fix any problems...I suppose I will have to be more careful and more diligent with the letters I send out today and in the days to come.
Such errors as I have made do not argue well for me, of course. Errors argue well for nobody, as they bespeak ignorance, inattention, unconcern, or some combination thereof, but typographical errors in an application for a job of writing or of teaching writing show up as particularly egregious. Prevailing conceptions of "good writing," after all, include such phrases as "free of error," and it is upon such phrases that many people fixate. Hence the grammar Nazi, and hence some of Zawacki's comments (to which I return more often than I had ever thought I would). There cannot be any mistakes in a piece of writing and have it still be "good" in the eyes of many--including those who hire--regardless of what the "error-free" content may be.
It is some comfort to think that the letters may not be read, though. My experience of applying for work in academia and elsewhere suggests that I will never head back from most of the places to which I have sent materials, either from the initial contacts or from the occasional attempts at following up on them. Emails and phone calls disappear into black holes of bureaucracy and "other things to do," and I am long past the point of being angry or annoyed at the fact; it is as it is, and I am not in a position to change it. (Seriously, given the several hundred applications that come in for each position, I understand the lack of response.) And even those that do get read will likely be skimmed, so that it is possible that the errors I missed will also be missed by the readers, who are rushing to plow through applications no less than I did in sending them. So it may not matter that I have the occasional flub.
Then again, it might well matter--and it is a legitimate concern for the kinds of jobs to which I apply. And it occurs to me that I perhaps made other errors which I did not realize, having one or more in each set of materials I have sent out. If true, it would explain many things...not that that helps.
I spent a fair bit of time yesterday filling out job applications--and I anticipate doing so again today. After writing scores if not hundreds of cover letters, I feel like I have a fair handle on how to churn them out; certainly the first and last paragraphs of each read along a formula, while those in the middle follow predictable patterns as do the kinds of jobs for which I apply (medievalist or generalist and generally teaching-heavy). It was quite the annoyance, then, to realize that I had sent several out with typographical errors embedded in them--which I only realized after sending them off. There is, after all, no better time to proofread than after it is too late to do fix any problems...I suppose I will have to be more careful and more diligent with the letters I send out today and in the days to come.
Such errors as I have made do not argue well for me, of course. Errors argue well for nobody, as they bespeak ignorance, inattention, unconcern, or some combination thereof, but typographical errors in an application for a job of writing or of teaching writing show up as particularly egregious. Prevailing conceptions of "good writing," after all, include such phrases as "free of error," and it is upon such phrases that many people fixate. Hence the grammar Nazi, and hence some of Zawacki's comments (to which I return more often than I had ever thought I would). There cannot be any mistakes in a piece of writing and have it still be "good" in the eyes of many--including those who hire--regardless of what the "error-free" content may be.
It is some comfort to think that the letters may not be read, though. My experience of applying for work in academia and elsewhere suggests that I will never head back from most of the places to which I have sent materials, either from the initial contacts or from the occasional attempts at following up on them. Emails and phone calls disappear into black holes of bureaucracy and "other things to do," and I am long past the point of being angry or annoyed at the fact; it is as it is, and I am not in a position to change it. (Seriously, given the several hundred applications that come in for each position, I understand the lack of response.) And even those that do get read will likely be skimmed, so that it is possible that the errors I missed will also be missed by the readers, who are rushing to plow through applications no less than I did in sending them. So it may not matter that I have the occasional flub.
Then again, it might well matter--and it is a legitimate concern for the kinds of jobs to which I apply. And it occurs to me that I perhaps made other errors which I did not realize, having one or more in each set of materials I have sent out. If true, it would explain many things...not that that helps.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
20141217.0728
I am evidently capable of backsliding.
Yesterday's dental appointment went well enough. My teeth have been cleaned, and I did not have to suffer the indignity of having a rubber chock shoved into my face. The dentist did, however, ask me if I had plans to have my wisdom teeth removed (I do not, both because of cost and because I would like to avoid having surgery done to my face if I can) and noted that I will need to have a filling in one if I do not. (My comment about the symbolism of having a hole in one of my wisdom teeth seems particularly resonant; I still do not want to explicate the idea.) I have not yet scheduled the filling appointment, as I am not entirely certain of my schedule in the next few months, but I imagine I shall have to do so soon. It is not an attractive proposition.
I have a number of such propositions to face. One is going to the convention I am scheduled to attend next month on the off chance that I have an interview; given regular academic practices, I doubt it, but I had to make arrangements to do so before they became unbearably expensive. As it is, I can still use help in recouping my expenses. Because my current position is contingent, I am not eligible for much in the way of travel funding, yet if I do not travel, I will not be able to find a better bit of work to do. The situation begins to recall Heller, although I doubt mine is as well written as his.
That I could use some help does not mean I am not doing what I can do to make things work. I pushed through another freelance piece yesterday; I am waiting to hear about its acceptance, and I will shortly see about snapping up another piece to do for pay. Tonight, I will be giving a tutorial, which will represent a little bit of extra money. In the meantime, around taking care of dishes and a bit of ironing, I will work on a journal article (because a lack of publications is part of what hinders my search for a tenure-line position) or on a creative piece that I have been considering for some time and which I hope to sell to one magazine or another. And I probably ought to send off other job application packets, as well; a stack on my desk still waits for my attention.
I am not indolent. I am not dissolute. I am not simply expecting to get a handout. I am doing what I can do to make things right, but I know that making them right depends on things that are not mine to control. I can only apply; I do not make the hiring decision, and I do not know what it is that will make me a more attractive candidate (other than the publication bit I noted earlier). It is with those things that I could use a hand...
Yesterday's dental appointment went well enough. My teeth have been cleaned, and I did not have to suffer the indignity of having a rubber chock shoved into my face. The dentist did, however, ask me if I had plans to have my wisdom teeth removed (I do not, both because of cost and because I would like to avoid having surgery done to my face if I can) and noted that I will need to have a filling in one if I do not. (My comment about the symbolism of having a hole in one of my wisdom teeth seems particularly resonant; I still do not want to explicate the idea.) I have not yet scheduled the filling appointment, as I am not entirely certain of my schedule in the next few months, but I imagine I shall have to do so soon. It is not an attractive proposition.
I have a number of such propositions to face. One is going to the convention I am scheduled to attend next month on the off chance that I have an interview; given regular academic practices, I doubt it, but I had to make arrangements to do so before they became unbearably expensive. As it is, I can still use help in recouping my expenses. Because my current position is contingent, I am not eligible for much in the way of travel funding, yet if I do not travel, I will not be able to find a better bit of work to do. The situation begins to recall Heller, although I doubt mine is as well written as his.
That I could use some help does not mean I am not doing what I can do to make things work. I pushed through another freelance piece yesterday; I am waiting to hear about its acceptance, and I will shortly see about snapping up another piece to do for pay. Tonight, I will be giving a tutorial, which will represent a little bit of extra money. In the meantime, around taking care of dishes and a bit of ironing, I will work on a journal article (because a lack of publications is part of what hinders my search for a tenure-line position) or on a creative piece that I have been considering for some time and which I hope to sell to one magazine or another. And I probably ought to send off other job application packets, as well; a stack on my desk still waits for my attention.
I am not indolent. I am not dissolute. I am not simply expecting to get a handout. I am doing what I can do to make things right, but I know that making them right depends on things that are not mine to control. I can only apply; I do not make the hiring decision, and I do not know what it is that will make me a more attractive candidate (other than the publication bit I noted earlier). It is with those things that I could use a hand...
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
20141216.0704
I am slowly clawing my way back to normalcy--or what passes for it with me. I am not there yet, obviously, but I am closer than I was even yesterday, having woken with an alarm rather than out of a haze of fatigue far later than I had wanted to do. And I am writing before I tend to a number of other things (but not all, as some needs allow no delay in their meeting), which is also a good sign.
Today will see me go to the dentist for a regular checkup and cleaning. I expect that the dentist will find another cavity in my mouth; I brush regularly, but floss far less so, and I think I felt the little divot in my enamel form. It does not bother me at this point, but I have no doubt that the dentist will want to schedule a time for me to come in and get it filled--if it is there as I expect. And while I doubt that this dentist will treat me poorly, I am always apprehensive about making such a visit; I do not have the best history when it comes to that particular sort of doctor.
I do not mean to include the idiocies of my childhood in the account. I do not think that any kid does terribly well with the dentist or the orthodontist, although I admit that I was likely worse than most in my responses. No, what comes to mind is an experience I had while living in The City, one I had while I had excellent dental coverage but less excellent dentists to visit. And, as it happened, I had a cavity in one of my wisdom teeth. (I still have all four. That one had a hole in it has some symbolic resonance, I am certain. I am equally certain I do not want to explicate it.) The dentist who worked on it was an Eastern European gentleman, and I am sure that he was competent, but he was notably lacking in patient relations. He barked commands--almost literally, although it might have been a language barrier issue--and, when I had difficulty opening my mouth wide enough to ease his access, he jammed a rubber stop between my jaws.
My lips split, and my lower jaw was sore for a week afterwards.
I changed dentists after the event, as could be expected, and I did so again perforce after moving from The City to Where the Wind Comes Sweeping Down the Plain. The one I am visiting today is gentle enough, and he expressed shock when I told him of my earlier experience; I do not think the technique is commonly taught in this part of the world, and I do not have any expectation that I will find a chock in my mouth again. Even so, I can already feel a twinge in my lower jaw, and it is not at all a comfortable sensation.
Today will see me go to the dentist for a regular checkup and cleaning. I expect that the dentist will find another cavity in my mouth; I brush regularly, but floss far less so, and I think I felt the little divot in my enamel form. It does not bother me at this point, but I have no doubt that the dentist will want to schedule a time for me to come in and get it filled--if it is there as I expect. And while I doubt that this dentist will treat me poorly, I am always apprehensive about making such a visit; I do not have the best history when it comes to that particular sort of doctor.
I do not mean to include the idiocies of my childhood in the account. I do not think that any kid does terribly well with the dentist or the orthodontist, although I admit that I was likely worse than most in my responses. No, what comes to mind is an experience I had while living in The City, one I had while I had excellent dental coverage but less excellent dentists to visit. And, as it happened, I had a cavity in one of my wisdom teeth. (I still have all four. That one had a hole in it has some symbolic resonance, I am certain. I am equally certain I do not want to explicate it.) The dentist who worked on it was an Eastern European gentleman, and I am sure that he was competent, but he was notably lacking in patient relations. He barked commands--almost literally, although it might have been a language barrier issue--and, when I had difficulty opening my mouth wide enough to ease his access, he jammed a rubber stop between my jaws.
My lips split, and my lower jaw was sore for a week afterwards.
I changed dentists after the event, as could be expected, and I did so again perforce after moving from The City to Where the Wind Comes Sweeping Down the Plain. The one I am visiting today is gentle enough, and he expressed shock when I told him of my earlier experience; I do not think the technique is commonly taught in this part of the world, and I do not have any expectation that I will find a chock in my mouth again. Even so, I can already feel a twinge in my lower jaw, and it is not at all a comfortable sensation.
Monday, December 15, 2014
20141215.0925
Twenty-seven years, now, my brother has been among us. I have already called to wish him a happy birthday, and I will likely do so again.
With his birthday come the reminders that a holiday is near and that gifts for it are expected. The reminder comes, too, that I have not gotten all of the gifts I need to send out, and I am not pleased with myself. It bespeaks to me a failure of my duties as a member of my family; I benefit from gifts received, and so I ought to contribute to that same system of gift-giving.
I remember many of the gifts I have been given. A great many of them still grace my bookshelves and other parts of my home, serving to remind me of what I owe and to whom. That I track things in such terms does not argue favorably for me, admittedly; with those close to me, I ought to be past the mercantile or mercenary principle. We should be past owing and being owed. Yet I feel a sense of indebtedness, and such is the way I have been shaped that I cannot readily set it aside. Holding onto it does no good, but I know not how to release it.
In the wake of final exams and grades being submitted, student complaints have begun. I could wish to quote some of them, actually; what students think is convincing rhetoric is amusing--or would be were it not so sad. But I expect that there will be trouble once again, and even though I fully expect to have my findings borne out, I do not look forward to once again going through the process of grade appeals. They annoy me greatly--although not as much as offering the kinds of grades that would deflect student complaints (not least because doing so--giving all As to all students--would attract the unfavorable attention of my supervisors, and I already end up in trouble with them).
Truly, it is the most wonderful time of the year. There should be time to work on The Work, and I indeed mean to do so. There should be time to work on more freelance writing; I have a job waiting for me already, and I look forward to getting it done. There should *not* be so much to do about the term just ended; I ought to be able to set it aside in favor of what is to come, but it seems that I cannot. Ah, well, such is the glamorous life in the ivory tower--tacks in the seats and all.
With his birthday come the reminders that a holiday is near and that gifts for it are expected. The reminder comes, too, that I have not gotten all of the gifts I need to send out, and I am not pleased with myself. It bespeaks to me a failure of my duties as a member of my family; I benefit from gifts received, and so I ought to contribute to that same system of gift-giving.
I remember many of the gifts I have been given. A great many of them still grace my bookshelves and other parts of my home, serving to remind me of what I owe and to whom. That I track things in such terms does not argue favorably for me, admittedly; with those close to me, I ought to be past the mercantile or mercenary principle. We should be past owing and being owed. Yet I feel a sense of indebtedness, and such is the way I have been shaped that I cannot readily set it aside. Holding onto it does no good, but I know not how to release it.
In the wake of final exams and grades being submitted, student complaints have begun. I could wish to quote some of them, actually; what students think is convincing rhetoric is amusing--or would be were it not so sad. But I expect that there will be trouble once again, and even though I fully expect to have my findings borne out, I do not look forward to once again going through the process of grade appeals. They annoy me greatly--although not as much as offering the kinds of grades that would deflect student complaints (not least because doing so--giving all As to all students--would attract the unfavorable attention of my supervisors, and I already end up in trouble with them).
Truly, it is the most wonderful time of the year. There should be time to work on The Work, and I indeed mean to do so. There should be time to work on more freelance writing; I have a job waiting for me already, and I look forward to getting it done. There should *not* be so much to do about the term just ended; I ought to be able to set it aside in favor of what is to come, but it seems that I cannot. Ah, well, such is the glamorous life in the ivory tower--tacks in the seats and all.
Saturday, December 13, 2014
20141213.1011
The teaching work is done at last.
The grading work is nearly past.
All that yet remains to do
Is mark exams, but who
Will revel much in such a task?
Who will delight, someone might ask,
In failures found, having to say
To students that once again they
Will have to take a class,
That they did not, in fact, pass?
The grading work is nearly past.
All that yet remains to do
Is mark exams, but who
Will revel much in such a task?
Who will delight, someone might ask,
In failures found, having to say
To students that once again they
Will have to take a class,
That they did not, in fact, pass?
Friday, December 12, 2014
20141212.0715
It is good to write once again at a reasonable time.
Today is the last day I have to be in the classroom for the term, and I am commemorating it by proctoring two exams. One is at ten this morning, the other at four this afternoon. I openly and freely admit to jealousy of my coworkers and broader colleagues who are already done with their work; I very much look forward to joining them in a couple of days. For while it is the case that my in-class work wraps up today, I do not think I will be able to get done the grading that in-class work will require today. It would perhaps not look good if I were to do so; if I can get a stack of exams handled in a day, there is a strong implication that I do not read closely what my students write, and that opens my assessment practices up to substantial challenge.
It is a curious conundrum. I am under explicit deadlines in my grading throughout the semester, and I am under particularly tight deadlines in my grading at this point; final submission is expected before next Wednesday. Students complain about turnaround even when I am within the institutionally imposed deadlines--as if I have nothing else to do or better to do than sit and grace stacks of papers, many of them written the night before or morning that they are due--yet I know, I know that if I were to actually offer a one-day turnaround on exams, even on the kind of exam I am requiring today (a two-page memorandum that answers a number of specific prompts), that celerity would be used to argue against the results provided.
What I have often seen among students as an attitude toward the school is befuddling. They (or those who actually pay for them) claim (and how accurate the claim is is a discussion for another time) to be paying for a service, for access to education, yet students frequently agitate to be dismissed early--if they do not outright leave. They commonly arrive to class late, and while a few minutes can perhaps be forgiven as a result of factors beyond student control, "a few" is a slippery distinction. My "few" and theirs routinely fail to coincide. And the readings and assignments through which understanding is built are more frequently tasks to be avoided or hurdles to be cleared at the last possible moment than paths up the mountain that is competence, proficiency, and mastery. It is, as I have heard remarked (and I apologize that I do not recall where), "the only field where people are happy to get less than they paid for."
But I probably have it wrong here and right here, noting that it is not so much a service that is sought as a product--a degree. It explains much, although I could still hope that students would like a higher-quality product than they seem to want to get.
Today is the last day I have to be in the classroom for the term, and I am commemorating it by proctoring two exams. One is at ten this morning, the other at four this afternoon. I openly and freely admit to jealousy of my coworkers and broader colleagues who are already done with their work; I very much look forward to joining them in a couple of days. For while it is the case that my in-class work wraps up today, I do not think I will be able to get done the grading that in-class work will require today. It would perhaps not look good if I were to do so; if I can get a stack of exams handled in a day, there is a strong implication that I do not read closely what my students write, and that opens my assessment practices up to substantial challenge.
It is a curious conundrum. I am under explicit deadlines in my grading throughout the semester, and I am under particularly tight deadlines in my grading at this point; final submission is expected before next Wednesday. Students complain about turnaround even when I am within the institutionally imposed deadlines--as if I have nothing else to do or better to do than sit and grace stacks of papers, many of them written the night before or morning that they are due--yet I know, I know that if I were to actually offer a one-day turnaround on exams, even on the kind of exam I am requiring today (a two-page memorandum that answers a number of specific prompts), that celerity would be used to argue against the results provided.
What I have often seen among students as an attitude toward the school is befuddling. They (or those who actually pay for them) claim (and how accurate the claim is is a discussion for another time) to be paying for a service, for access to education, yet students frequently agitate to be dismissed early--if they do not outright leave. They commonly arrive to class late, and while a few minutes can perhaps be forgiven as a result of factors beyond student control, "a few" is a slippery distinction. My "few" and theirs routinely fail to coincide. And the readings and assignments through which understanding is built are more frequently tasks to be avoided or hurdles to be cleared at the last possible moment than paths up the mountain that is competence, proficiency, and mastery. It is, as I have heard remarked (and I apologize that I do not recall where), "the only field where people are happy to get less than they paid for."
But I probably have it wrong here and right here, noting that it is not so much a service that is sought as a product--a degree. It explains much, although I could still hope that students would like a higher-quality product than they seem to want to get.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
20141211.0817
I did not really sleep in today. I did have to take care of a few things before getting to this bit of writing. I will be taking care of more things soon after; I have a freelance job in progress, and the headache remains.
My wonderful wife has a job interview today; I will be driving her to it and to her current job afterwards. Both of us hope that she is able to get the job, as it would represent a substantial increase in income and an offer of stability that we have long sought. Her getting the position will limit my own job search somewhat, I think, but if it is at the cost of having some security (and only some, given where we live), it will be worth it.
I will continue to deal with exams as I am able. I do need to get the freelance piece done, of course, and that has a tighter deadline than grading exams and inputting scores. But as soon after that is done as I can manage, I will be handling the exams submitted to me yesterday. It should not take long; there were not many submissions, many of them were brief, and I read quickly.
At this point, there is not much else to say, or at least not much to say that I am willing to say here. I will hope for the best from my wife's interview today and move forward from there.
My wonderful wife has a job interview today; I will be driving her to it and to her current job afterwards. Both of us hope that she is able to get the job, as it would represent a substantial increase in income and an offer of stability that we have long sought. Her getting the position will limit my own job search somewhat, I think, but if it is at the cost of having some security (and only some, given where we live), it will be worth it.
I will continue to deal with exams as I am able. I do need to get the freelance piece done, of course, and that has a tighter deadline than grading exams and inputting scores. But as soon after that is done as I can manage, I will be handling the exams submitted to me yesterday. It should not take long; there were not many submissions, many of them were brief, and I read quickly.
At this point, there is not much else to say, or at least not much to say that I am willing to say here. I will hope for the best from my wife's interview today and move forward from there.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
20141210.0826
The headache is still present, although it has improved somewhat, likely because it is still morning and I slept in (as should be obvious).
My sleeping in has been increasingly common, despite my annoyance with it. I have found it harder and harder to wake when I really ought to, and that despite going to bed earlier than was my wont. Perhaps the fatigue of the term is catching up with me. Perhaps also my body is failing me--and there is other confirmation thereof. I am growing, and neither vertically nor stronger. I really should find more time to exercise, should make it, but when I cannot wake at a decent hour to do so and still attend to the things that need attention, such as my paying work and care for Ms. 8, I do not know how I will do so. It is not as if I can afford to turn down work, and it is not as if I can neglect my daughter, nor are such things to be expected. I understand better why so many in the United States find it so difficult to burn off the calories they take in, and I well understand why they take in so many: they taste good and are inexpensive in the short term.
Seriously, think about the cost of a fast-food hamburger, and then think of the cost of the materials to make a similar hamburger at home. Don't forget to factor in time spent acquiring and cooking the food, or that from cleaning up afterwards; the price of the fast-food burger does so.
I am hardly alone in bemoaning my body. While it is true that I carried a gut even when I was competing in judo, and I was pudgy even while getting ten or more hours of practice in aikido each week, I have been bloating in the last year and a half. I have had to go up a pants size, and I am poised (unhappily) to go up yet another. It is not a pleasant thing to think upon, particularly given the family from which I am descended, with its heart conditions and early deaths even for those who did work out regularly and well, and the other problems attendant on those who have survived so long as they have. But I suppose I have only myself and my laziness to blame, and I suppose that that laziness is the thing that requires vanquishing. As always.
Whatever else is true, I could still use a bit of help. While I am going to try to trim down so that I may not have to buy a new suit for the conference, and I am going to try to improve several parts of my physical health (the end of the term will open up some time for me to do so), my financial situation is still much as it has been--which is not as I would have it. The help would be greatly appreciated.
My sleeping in has been increasingly common, despite my annoyance with it. I have found it harder and harder to wake when I really ought to, and that despite going to bed earlier than was my wont. Perhaps the fatigue of the term is catching up with me. Perhaps also my body is failing me--and there is other confirmation thereof. I am growing, and neither vertically nor stronger. I really should find more time to exercise, should make it, but when I cannot wake at a decent hour to do so and still attend to the things that need attention, such as my paying work and care for Ms. 8, I do not know how I will do so. It is not as if I can afford to turn down work, and it is not as if I can neglect my daughter, nor are such things to be expected. I understand better why so many in the United States find it so difficult to burn off the calories they take in, and I well understand why they take in so many: they taste good and are inexpensive in the short term.
Seriously, think about the cost of a fast-food hamburger, and then think of the cost of the materials to make a similar hamburger at home. Don't forget to factor in time spent acquiring and cooking the food, or that from cleaning up afterwards; the price of the fast-food burger does so.
I am hardly alone in bemoaning my body. While it is true that I carried a gut even when I was competing in judo, and I was pudgy even while getting ten or more hours of practice in aikido each week, I have been bloating in the last year and a half. I have had to go up a pants size, and I am poised (unhappily) to go up yet another. It is not a pleasant thing to think upon, particularly given the family from which I am descended, with its heart conditions and early deaths even for those who did work out regularly and well, and the other problems attendant on those who have survived so long as they have. But I suppose I have only myself and my laziness to blame, and I suppose that that laziness is the thing that requires vanquishing. As always.
Whatever else is true, I could still use a bit of help. While I am going to try to trim down so that I may not have to buy a new suit for the conference, and I am going to try to improve several parts of my physical health (the end of the term will open up some time for me to do so), my financial situation is still much as it has been--which is not as I would have it. The help would be greatly appreciated.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
20141209.0909
Something tells me I have an issue with triplicate...
I have been nursing a headache for the past couple of days, which annoys me greatly. I do not know what the cause of it is, either. Aspirin has not helped it, nor has ramping up my intake of water (the Mrs. suggested that it has been a result of dehydration). I have to think that it is stress or tension, but it has greeted me when I work up for the past two days...I do not know. Maybe it is the oncoming end-of-term illness about which I have commented before (although I cannot seem to find the post at this point); I rather hope not, as I have much to do, including a new freelance piece that was just ordered. Whatever its cause, though, the headache is annoying me mightily, and I wish it would go away.
Wishing will not make it so, however, no more than it will make many other things so. It is probably better thus; I know that I have wished for things that would not be to the benefit of the world, and I am certain I am not alone in having done so. (Many of them have involved things deemed impossible by current understandings of physical laws as I have seen them reported. Some of them still do. Others are wholly unethical and probably icky. Again, I doubt that I am alone in such wishing.) The actions I can take to enact some of those wishes are limited, not only by physical law, but also by federal, state, and local statutes and by my own moral and ethical imperatives. Simply put, there is only so much I can do, only so much I can get away with doing, and so much that I am willing to do...and because of the last, I have to accept that my wishing is not in earnest. And in that, too, I doubt I am alone.
Perhaps it is for that reason that I see in the behaviors of some what I see. I can understand immersion in certain narratives that allow for action without consequence, despite the lack of verisimilitude such narratives display for that very reason. I am not immune to it, as might be suggested by my long involvement in role-playing game communities. (This is particularly true of running them; the GM is god, or is at least a god, within the collaborative improvisational storytelling environment Mackay describes.) Acting in such a way as betrays a lack of acceptance of consequences, though, makes for a bad time to be had by all concerned, in games and out of them--and I do not think I am alone in having had the delightful experience of being around such people. I am not alone in being concerned with such things as trying not to be such an actor...but I am more nearly alone than is good, for me or for anyone else.
I have been nursing a headache for the past couple of days, which annoys me greatly. I do not know what the cause of it is, either. Aspirin has not helped it, nor has ramping up my intake of water (the Mrs. suggested that it has been a result of dehydration). I have to think that it is stress or tension, but it has greeted me when I work up for the past two days...I do not know. Maybe it is the oncoming end-of-term illness about which I have commented before (although I cannot seem to find the post at this point); I rather hope not, as I have much to do, including a new freelance piece that was just ordered. Whatever its cause, though, the headache is annoying me mightily, and I wish it would go away.
Wishing will not make it so, however, no more than it will make many other things so. It is probably better thus; I know that I have wished for things that would not be to the benefit of the world, and I am certain I am not alone in having done so. (Many of them have involved things deemed impossible by current understandings of physical laws as I have seen them reported. Some of them still do. Others are wholly unethical and probably icky. Again, I doubt that I am alone in such wishing.) The actions I can take to enact some of those wishes are limited, not only by physical law, but also by federal, state, and local statutes and by my own moral and ethical imperatives. Simply put, there is only so much I can do, only so much I can get away with doing, and so much that I am willing to do...and because of the last, I have to accept that my wishing is not in earnest. And in that, too, I doubt I am alone.
Perhaps it is for that reason that I see in the behaviors of some what I see. I can understand immersion in certain narratives that allow for action without consequence, despite the lack of verisimilitude such narratives display for that very reason. I am not immune to it, as might be suggested by my long involvement in role-playing game communities. (This is particularly true of running them; the GM is god, or is at least a god, within the collaborative improvisational storytelling environment Mackay describes.) Acting in such a way as betrays a lack of acceptance of consequences, though, makes for a bad time to be had by all concerned, in games and out of them--and I do not think I am alone in having had the delightful experience of being around such people. I am not alone in being concerned with such things as trying not to be such an actor...but I am more nearly alone than is good, for me or for anyone else.
Monday, December 8, 2014
20141208.0735
Today is the first day of exams week, and today is the first day I give an exam during the week. My literature class will get done today, and I will be putting in some final-touch type grades on my technical writing classes in preparation for their examinations on Wednesday and Friday. Thus, while I will be busy, I will not be so busy as I have been, and I will have a bit of time to focus my attention otherwise. This is good, for I have no shortage of other tasks requiring my attention.
I had hoped that some of that attention would need to be given to more freelancing work. I do not have an order waiting for me, however, either through the exchange that gives me most of my work or through the private channels that send occasional bits my way. This disappoints, because I do feel compelled to pick up another few gifts, and having the additional money would be of great help with that. Perhaps orders will come in later today.
Some attention probably ought to be paid to my work on the Tales after Tolkien Society blog, Travels in Genre and Medievalism. I have not posted to it since last month, and while others ostensibly contribute to it, I have not had submissions from other sources for some time. There are ideas growing in the fertile soil of minds; harvest them and grind them into flour for baking or malt them for brewing, that we may eat and drink deeply!
Some also ought to make its way to the ongoing search for a continuing-line job. I remain pleased with the way I am treated where I currently work; I am voicing no complaints against it. But I am on a term contract, as I believe I have noted several times before, and I would like to have less worry about whether or not I will have a job next year. Hence the search. I know that its success will not eliminate worry, but it will diminish it significantly.
A chunk will doubtlessly find itself devoted to the online game I am helping supervise. With over 100 players and some 20 staff (including me), there is a lot going on in that community, and I am entertained to watch it and gratified to participate in it. And I have an idea for a Tales after Tolkien Society piece that may make use of the community; I can turn my work on it into work I should be doing. Possibly. The results will determine if I may or not...
Finals week is the beginning of when I can attend to such things in earnest. It is not without its own challenges, of course, but those challenges are much more easily managed than those of the semester as a whole. Too, there is a near, definitive ending to them, and that is a thing greatly to be appreciated. I am not ungrateful for it, and so it is with somewhat lightened heart that I approach it now, going to do what it is that I need to do.
I had hoped that some of that attention would need to be given to more freelancing work. I do not have an order waiting for me, however, either through the exchange that gives me most of my work or through the private channels that send occasional bits my way. This disappoints, because I do feel compelled to pick up another few gifts, and having the additional money would be of great help with that. Perhaps orders will come in later today.
Some attention probably ought to be paid to my work on the Tales after Tolkien Society blog, Travels in Genre and Medievalism. I have not posted to it since last month, and while others ostensibly contribute to it, I have not had submissions from other sources for some time. There are ideas growing in the fertile soil of minds; harvest them and grind them into flour for baking or malt them for brewing, that we may eat and drink deeply!
Some also ought to make its way to the ongoing search for a continuing-line job. I remain pleased with the way I am treated where I currently work; I am voicing no complaints against it. But I am on a term contract, as I believe I have noted several times before, and I would like to have less worry about whether or not I will have a job next year. Hence the search. I know that its success will not eliminate worry, but it will diminish it significantly.
A chunk will doubtlessly find itself devoted to the online game I am helping supervise. With over 100 players and some 20 staff (including me), there is a lot going on in that community, and I am entertained to watch it and gratified to participate in it. And I have an idea for a Tales after Tolkien Society piece that may make use of the community; I can turn my work on it into work I should be doing. Possibly. The results will determine if I may or not...
Finals week is the beginning of when I can attend to such things in earnest. It is not without its own challenges, of course, but those challenges are much more easily managed than those of the semester as a whole. Too, there is a near, definitive ending to them, and that is a thing greatly to be appreciated. I am not ungrateful for it, and so it is with somewhat lightened heart that I approach it now, going to do what it is that I need to do.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
20141207.0857
I am driven on by a
Green-eyed task-master
Its whip cracks nearly every time
I see another person
Smiling
Happy
Celebrating
Successful
Reminding me that
I do not feel myself
Smiling
Happy
Celebrating
Successful
Stealing the joy I ought to feel
I know I have much
I should be happy
I should celebrate it
But I feel the lash upon me
Again
And again
And I know of few who smile under such an onslaught
Green-eyed task-master
Its whip cracks nearly every time
I see another person
Smiling
Happy
Celebrating
Successful
Reminding me that
I do not feel myself
Smiling
Happy
Celebrating
Successful
Stealing the joy I ought to feel
I know I have much
I should be happy
I should celebrate it
But I feel the lash upon me
Again
And again
And I know of few who smile under such an onslaught
Saturday, December 6, 2014
20141206.0840
This is evidently the 700th post to this webspace. Not bad for four and a half years, eh?
Two years ago today, I was reminiscing about middle school and high school band. Last year at this time, I was waxing poetic about the snow. This year, neither applies; I am not wistful about the past, and there is not snow on the ground. The weather is instead fall-like, with temperatures in the 40s F and the sky an overcast grey. It is weather conducive to the work I will need to do, for final exams are next week, and I need to be clear of other grading going into them.
I am not the only one at work, of course. My most magnificent Mrs. will put in a shift today, and Ms. 8 continues the difficult task of growing rapidly, crawling proficiently, and being cute in a devoted and serious way. Indeed, I must go tend to her now, and so I will leave this post as a brief note. All it needs, really.
Two years ago today, I was reminiscing about middle school and high school band. Last year at this time, I was waxing poetic about the snow. This year, neither applies; I am not wistful about the past, and there is not snow on the ground. The weather is instead fall-like, with temperatures in the 40s F and the sky an overcast grey. It is weather conducive to the work I will need to do, for final exams are next week, and I need to be clear of other grading going into them.
I am not the only one at work, of course. My most magnificent Mrs. will put in a shift today, and Ms. 8 continues the difficult task of growing rapidly, crawling proficiently, and being cute in a devoted and serious way. Indeed, I must go tend to her now, and so I will leave this post as a brief note. All it needs, really.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
20141204.0719
I have noted that my freelance writing has me read a number of things I would not normally read. Most recently, it has taken me through Preston and Child's Blue Labyrinth. While I know that the series of which it is part sells well and enjoys a great deal of currency, something about the text strikes me as...wrong. It is not merely the Batman-esque protagonist (ridiculously wealthy and possessed of substantial skills in both investigative techniques and hand-to-hand combat), who partakes heavily of the Marty Stu trope (if not actually God-Mode Sue), although I do react negatively to that. (Yet I like many incarnations of Batman--but a reality where illegal aliens land in Kansas farm-towns and Amazons who do not cut off their breasts fly around, invisible jets or otherwise, allows for more...leeway than something ostensibly based in contemporary reality.) It is not merely that those closest to the protagonist partake of the protagonist's nature, becoming the Robin or Batgirl (horrible name, that) to the protagonist's Batman--although that, too, does irk me. Really, there are few challenges (and thus little meaningful conflict) for those such as the protagonist who are already equal to any situation--however unexpected it might actually be.
It is rather that the text uses the words it uses as it uses them, trotting out high-level diction in ways that seem discordant with their context. (Note that I have no problem with high diction in itself. I hardly could, being a literary scholar, and as I have expressed once or twice my appreciation for diction in itself, I cannot complain on that ground alone.) I might expect the highly educated to use such language in speaking with other highly educated people in reference to those matters about which they are highly educated--and Preston and Child do deploy elevated diction thusly. I might expect such diction as a class marker used to remind "the lesser" that "their betters" are, in fact, their betters--and Preston and Child do deploy elevated diction thusly. But for an omniscient third-person narrator to do so, and to do so in attending to the less-educated (although decidedly not less worthy; frankly, the protagonist is an ass if not actually Cohen's douchebag), strikes the eye as discordant. It does not fit, and because it does not fit, something is wrong with the text. (Yes, I do tend to expect narratives to follow their own rules consistently.)
I have to wonder, though, if Preston and Child are not using the device to somehow connect with their readership. As I read the text, I felt as if the narrator and the implied author were somehow sneering at those who do not understand the words being used; the diction becomes a class marker not only within the text, but also within the context of readership. A reader could easily become complicit in that sneering disregard, so that the diction becomes a way to make the reader feel good by self-promotion; understanding the words makes the reader "smarter" than those who do not understand the words. It is not something that I can recommend.
It is rather that the text uses the words it uses as it uses them, trotting out high-level diction in ways that seem discordant with their context. (Note that I have no problem with high diction in itself. I hardly could, being a literary scholar, and as I have expressed once or twice my appreciation for diction in itself, I cannot complain on that ground alone.) I might expect the highly educated to use such language in speaking with other highly educated people in reference to those matters about which they are highly educated--and Preston and Child do deploy elevated diction thusly. I might expect such diction as a class marker used to remind "the lesser" that "their betters" are, in fact, their betters--and Preston and Child do deploy elevated diction thusly. But for an omniscient third-person narrator to do so, and to do so in attending to the less-educated (although decidedly not less worthy; frankly, the protagonist is an ass if not actually Cohen's douchebag), strikes the eye as discordant. It does not fit, and because it does not fit, something is wrong with the text. (Yes, I do tend to expect narratives to follow their own rules consistently.)
I have to wonder, though, if Preston and Child are not using the device to somehow connect with their readership. As I read the text, I felt as if the narrator and the implied author were somehow sneering at those who do not understand the words being used; the diction becomes a class marker not only within the text, but also within the context of readership. A reader could easily become complicit in that sneering disregard, so that the diction becomes a way to make the reader feel good by self-promotion; understanding the words makes the reader "smarter" than those who do not understand the words. It is not something that I can recommend.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
20141203.0710
I wrote in my journal last night that "I feel I must confess that I look forward to the end of the term," something I think I have indicated in earlier posts to this webspace. Soon after, though, I found myself musing on the phrasing "feel I must confess," as if looking forward to having time off is somehow a sin for which I must atone. The teaching I do is supposed to be a calling, something only done by those who love what they do (else why would they suffer such low wages for it?), and there is something awry in wanting release from the ostensibly beloved. Too, I am acculturated such that diligent work is virtuous--the more so the more so. Time off thus comes off as something of a lapse in virtue. And I am aware of cultural currents that flow in such ways as make teaching, particularly at the collegiate level, "not really work," so that to look forward to time away from it is disingenuous.
I do not know if I have ordered my points well. Whether I have or not, though, and whether or not I have a complete list (it is not likely), I can identify things that prompt the feeling of needing to confess, of having somehow sinned and thus of being in need of penitence. I do not subscribe to a doctrine that can prescribe a particular number of incantations or some specific physical hardship to redress what I seemingly cannot help but feel is error (although I know it is not, but knowing and feeling are different things entirely, and the latter almost always triumphs over the former). I do, however, have other work to do than that which I do in the classroom, and I will be attending to that in plenty as my means of making right the purported wrong I commit in looking forward to being away from the classroom. Because I should not ever not be working, right? Especially if I am going to be asking for a bit of help, yes? I dare not look like I am lazy or wasteful, after all.
But all this is is whining, of course. It is a feeble attempt by one who sucks uselessly at the public teat (for I teach in a humanities field at a state school) to justify his impending indolence. Such people ought to feel shame at not contributing, at receiving benefits without working. That kind of thing is only for those whose incomes come from investments, after all, and who are famous for whatever it is that makes people famous. But they are of a different sort altogether, not bound by the strictures that apply to those who work--or who should work. Those people have jobs to do, and they had better do them; there are others waiting to take the jobs if they will not or cannot, and they will not be looking forward to having time off from work every now and again.
I do not know if I have ordered my points well. Whether I have or not, though, and whether or not I have a complete list (it is not likely), I can identify things that prompt the feeling of needing to confess, of having somehow sinned and thus of being in need of penitence. I do not subscribe to a doctrine that can prescribe a particular number of incantations or some specific physical hardship to redress what I seemingly cannot help but feel is error (although I know it is not, but knowing and feeling are different things entirely, and the latter almost always triumphs over the former). I do, however, have other work to do than that which I do in the classroom, and I will be attending to that in plenty as my means of making right the purported wrong I commit in looking forward to being away from the classroom. Because I should not ever not be working, right? Especially if I am going to be asking for a bit of help, yes? I dare not look like I am lazy or wasteful, after all.
But all this is is whining, of course. It is a feeble attempt by one who sucks uselessly at the public teat (for I teach in a humanities field at a state school) to justify his impending indolence. Such people ought to feel shame at not contributing, at receiving benefits without working. That kind of thing is only for those whose incomes come from investments, after all, and who are famous for whatever it is that makes people famous. But they are of a different sort altogether, not bound by the strictures that apply to those who work--or who should work. Those people have jobs to do, and they had better do them; there are others waiting to take the jobs if they will not or cannot, and they will not be looking forward to having time off from work every now and again.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
20141202.0921
I know that I am posting later than I normally do; the morning has been busy. I have already completed a bit of freelance work today, which please me no end, and I have been working with the online L5R PbP RPG I have noted before. It has formally begun, so what leisure time I have is being devoted to it at this point--and it helps me by giving me practice writing, negotiating competing demands from international audiences, and storytelling (so I need not feel quite so guilty about doing things other than work). And I have been attending to other things, as well.
That said, I do feel some obligation to make a post to this webspace. I have, as I recall, waxed poetic about the demands of writing for a public audience--even one as small as mine tends to be (I do look at the reader statistics thoughtfully provided by the platform). More, I find myself much in mind of something I have seen attributed to the Good Doctor: "I write for the same reason I breathe--because if I didn't, I would die." My feeling for writing is not quite so strong (obviously, or I would be a *lot* more productive), but it is of the same sort; I write because I have a need to do so, and I write here because I feel a need to do so. Thank you, then, dear readers, for helping me meet one of my needs.
There are other needs, of course. The Maslovian hierarchy applies, I think, at least in part; my writing is a higher-order need than others I yet feel. For I am not at all certain of my security or of the esteem in which I and others hold me. (I have spoken to anxieties about the former on more than one occasion--not all of the training, formal and informal, I received as a graduate student has been to my benefit.) And I offer the statement not as a plea for cheap statements of validation; any that would come in the wake of this piece would register as shallow and reflexive, iterations of pity and condescension (whether intended so or not). It is simply a thing that is.
Perhaps I write as a backwards approach to the Maslovian, using what I perceive as my "thing to do" as a means to secure the ostensibly more fundamental levels of need. And perhaps that is why I remain ill at ease; I am approaching things in reverse. (It may be that Maslow is a bit off. I am not informed enough about psychological issues to be able to speak to that end; I would welcome input from those who are.) Whatever the reason or effect, however, I write because I must, here and elsewhere; I have no doubt that I will continue to do so, and I nurture the hope that it will work to my benefit and that of those for whom I care.
That said, I do feel some obligation to make a post to this webspace. I have, as I recall, waxed poetic about the demands of writing for a public audience--even one as small as mine tends to be (I do look at the reader statistics thoughtfully provided by the platform). More, I find myself much in mind of something I have seen attributed to the Good Doctor: "I write for the same reason I breathe--because if I didn't, I would die." My feeling for writing is not quite so strong (obviously, or I would be a *lot* more productive), but it is of the same sort; I write because I have a need to do so, and I write here because I feel a need to do so. Thank you, then, dear readers, for helping me meet one of my needs.
There are other needs, of course. The Maslovian hierarchy applies, I think, at least in part; my writing is a higher-order need than others I yet feel. For I am not at all certain of my security or of the esteem in which I and others hold me. (I have spoken to anxieties about the former on more than one occasion--not all of the training, formal and informal, I received as a graduate student has been to my benefit.) And I offer the statement not as a plea for cheap statements of validation; any that would come in the wake of this piece would register as shallow and reflexive, iterations of pity and condescension (whether intended so or not). It is simply a thing that is.
Perhaps I write as a backwards approach to the Maslovian, using what I perceive as my "thing to do" as a means to secure the ostensibly more fundamental levels of need. And perhaps that is why I remain ill at ease; I am approaching things in reverse. (It may be that Maslow is a bit off. I am not informed enough about psychological issues to be able to speak to that end; I would welcome input from those who are.) Whatever the reason or effect, however, I write because I must, here and elsewhere; I have no doubt that I will continue to do so, and I nurture the hope that it will work to my benefit and that of those for whom I care.
Monday, December 1, 2014
20141201.0648
The last week of teaching's beginning today.
The current semester's almost passed away.
Exams will soon happen; then students will play,
For the last week of teaching's beginning today.
The hard work of grading is going away.
In research and writing I will spend the day
Instead of planning that soon goes astray,
For the last week of teaching's beginning today.
It's odd to be happy, as some folks may say,
To see that the class-work is going away,
But why not be happy? The work doesn't pay.
O! The last week of teaching's beginning today.
The last week of teaching's beginning today.
It will not be students that fill up the day
But comfort and rest, and so say "Hooray!
The last week of teaching's beginning today!"
The current semester's almost passed away.
Exams will soon happen; then students will play,
For the last week of teaching's beginning today.
The hard work of grading is going away.
In research and writing I will spend the day
Instead of planning that soon goes astray,
For the last week of teaching's beginning today.
It's odd to be happy, as some folks may say,
To see that the class-work is going away,
But why not be happy? The work doesn't pay.
O! The last week of teaching's beginning today.
The last week of teaching's beginning today.
It will not be students that fill up the day
But comfort and rest, and so say "Hooray!
The last week of teaching's beginning today!"
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