Saturday, May 31, 2008

Ferreol's call

I didn’t think this last day of the month would ever come. Something about writing every day makes the days slow down to an absolute crawl. Also all the work. So I’m hoping to get to some of the other writing I want to do this summer. And reading. Of course I now have someone living with me. Which is not a burden but requires a little extra mental energy. And dollars. As always, it is interesting to witness the young man growing up. And the mirror of who I am in his doing so. (Of course it’s always about me. Whoever me is.)

Three months ago, at the end of February, my phone rang just as I was getting ready to go out the door. Often, I’d ignore the ring and just head out for work. But for some serendipitous reason on that day I did not. The voice on the other end asked “Is that Belle’s Mouthpiece?” I said yes, but I could not quite place who I was talking to. “This is Ferreol Welter. In Holland.” In such shock I had to sit down, all I could say was “how are you?”

As the conversation continued it turned out he’d come across my name in some papers he was clearing out, isn’t that always what happens, and was calling to inquire about whether I’d gotten on with the story I was writing about Belle. His father is in the story, far in the past at an early point. I’d tracked Ferreol down years ago and had a phone conversation with him. We had a couple of email exchanges and then, as with the entire project, I’d allowed it to drop. One of my problems in working on this project has been maintaining contact with the folks I should be talking with. The only one I’ve been good at has been Marguerite.

So here I was on the phone with Ferreol, it’d probably been at least five years since we last spoke and he was remembering me and asking about my project. The call came completely out of the blue. And, given this golden opportunity, I fell down completely. I didn’t get his new address – he’d moved after a bad car accident. I didn’t get his new email address – all his info was changed, he’d said. I didn’t insist on getting his phone number – he promised he’d send it all to me in an email later that week. And then. The great silence. I waited each day to hear from him, but no email came. And now, three months later, it’s just a strange and coincidental blip in the course of Belle’s story.

Belle’s story that is still sitting in pieces in a cardboard filing box behind me. Bits of it are on the table next to me. Three small blue spiral notebooks, none completely filled, smirk at me. As I leaf through them I see notes about events I have no memory of. People I’ve talked with once but never followed up with. At the time follow up seemed unnecessary. During the conversations it felt as though I was digging frantically with a pick axe for the tiniest bit of information they could mine from their memories. But if I’d made more time I could have gone in with small and nimble archaeologist’s tools to pick away miniscule bits of earth and brush away the dust to see if anything was revealed. My desperate desire that they remember didn’t help. And now, as my friend Rafael warned, most of them are gone. “Every moment you don’t work on this someone you need to talk to dies.” And now I’m left with my blunt force notes of conversations with people I barely remember. Each time I dive back in I feel enormous sadness. For what I missed while staring at it, for what I’m missing because I cannot return, for a story that must be reconstructed – if at all – from shards.

Friday, May 30, 2008

almost over

The month is almost over. It has seemed interminable. So much has happened, I feel as though I’m in a nighttime soap opera. Climbing outside. New housemate. Drive to MA, drive back. Search committee. Semester with a new teaching partner. Semester ends and awards given. Week totally full of evening activities. Five days of six parties. Two graduations. House decisions: plenty of ‘em. Summer school begins without a break. I’m hoping for some moments to catch up which I still haven’t had yet enough of in the days that have gone by with any moments that were not totally already filled up with stuff that I had to do. And that’s that.

One more day. Then June. Phew.

Things really do work much more better when I write in the morning. This evening writing always feels petered out.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

secrets

Secrets. A and B and C and D. They all know each other. A is a part of C’s secrets. C is part of A’s secrets. A and C know each other’s secrets. A and C play the eternal game: push and pull, hand over hand, lie and hide. D, odd letter out, knows only C’s secrets – and those only by accident of issue. But B. But B knows A’s secrets and C’s secrets. A might know that B knows all secrets, but A is not paying attention. A is obsessively focused only on A. C knows only that B knows one secret, but not all other secrets. C knows not that B knows everything about A that C knows about A. B is the silent, secret fulcrum or all the secrets. An odd position for B and B tries hard not to let any other letters know that B knows all. But it is very strange. Very strange indeed. B is secretly afraid that more will be revealed. The closeted alphabet, may it stay forever hidden.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

tasks

Summer. Do I have any time off? Not yet. I have a busier work schedule than during the regular semester. My summer class is enormous – 17. I’m hoping one or two or seven might drop, but somehow I doubt it. I thought I’d head off the possibility of so many by holding the class at 8 AM, but no luck in that area. At least the search committee I’m on will be completing its work quickly. I hope. I really wanted to get away for a real vacation this summer. But I need to get the house painted, give the graduate a real gift, maybe two. I’m hoping for a long weekend somewhere. Anywhere. But what I really need is at least a week. I still haven’t even started the long list of summer stuff I need to do. I mean literally – I haven’t begun making the list. I’m a dedicated list maker. I hear myself giving this list-making advice and it’s beginning to feel slightly neurotic. “Write it down.” “Make a list of everything you need to find out about.” I hear the words leaving my mouth and I wonder who is speaking. It sounds a little bit like a crazy woman. Or a woman with a desperate memory. And then when people can’t answer about the things I want them to know about I want to chastise them for not writing them down. “Why didn’t you make a list?” It feels just slightly compulsive. But it works for me. In a firmly organized and ordered sort of way. Yes. I can control these tasks. These tasks won’t run roughshod over me. I can corral them, round ‘em up, and bring ‘em in. Weeeeee ha.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

next...

It’s tough to keep my own craziness separate from the twenty something who’s now staying/living with me. I don’t even know what to call his presence here because I’m trying to avoid making him feel that he’s trapped in this backwater home in this god-forsaken state. This is interesting payback for all the horrible grief I brought my family. He’s a complete wonder and at the same time an anxiety filled puddle of self-doubt. Praying for help.

Monday, May 26, 2008

home again

Arrived home last night, this morning, at just about 2 AM. Couldn’t make a blog entry, just to damned exhausted. The drive home was treacherous. I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. My other driver couldn’t drive at all – too tired. I stopped to catnap a couple of times. It delayed us, but probably helped us arrive home safe and in one piece. As I parked I announced that the chances of being in a fatal accident were now slim. It really felt like that. And now I’m just reassembling the pieces of my brain into a coherent pattern. All his stuff is still in the trunk and in an unsecured roof bag on top of the car. That is, it’s secured to the car, but opens with a zipper. He’s sleeping it off in his room, probably won’t emerge until late afternoon. And when he does it’ll be as a new man – an alum of one of the best schools in the country. But still struggling with making his way in life. Who wouldn’t be.

Friday, May 23, 2008

gettin' outta town

Somehow the month goes by very slowly when I’m putting the date on paper every single day. There’s no “how did the month fly by, it was just the 2nd and now it’s the 27th!”

So today we leave for Amherst. Talk about time flying by. It feels like just a couple of months ago I was taking the boy up to college and now he’s graduating on Sunday. He’ll be an Amherst alum. I wonder what sort of mood he’ll be in. Will he be happy? Unrepentantly sarcastic? Unrelievedly stressed? I’m still getting accustomed to the moods I cannot impact. I have no wise words for him. I wish I did. Watching his struggle is both enlightening and difficult, I guess those two are always together. I wish I knew the best way to be of service in this situation, I feel completely bereft and useless.

So I will miss tomorrow here on the blog. I will do my best to make an entry on Sunday when we return. Just one more weekend as life flies by.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

fiction

Well the parties might finally be over. But of course I speak too soon – I’m heading up to Massachusetts tomorrow for another graduation on Sunday. I suspect there may be some celebrating, although it’s not likely that I will have to attend an actual party. That will be more for the graduates. A reception/luncheon after commencement is more the probability for me. Yesterday we had a department luncheon. Indian food, quite nice. Fake roses on the tables, an extended effort to dress each lovely place. The blooms were in their most open phase – just as the rose is about to drop its petals. Artifice constructed to resemble a dying flower. A peculiar choice.

I’ve always said what, in the end, is the difference between fiction and non-fiction. Either way you must tell a good story. If I read non-fiction, I learn something about the world. But my fiction-writing friend was aghast. Memoir is ruining fiction, she stated with great certainty. But I don’t think memoir is the culprit, it is a symptom. What is ruining fiction is cultural insistence that all authority emanates from the individual and that all individuals are equal sources of authority. It is the same insistence on all points of view being equal that I see in my students. It is the unwillingness to accept expertise, to view an expert voice as elitism. Fueled by the Internet, and the vast abundance of easily available opinions, people seem to believe, really believe, that the only experience worth hearing about is the personal one because no one can possibly be any more authoritative than anyone else.

It is yet another paradox – the paradox of access. You can make a system more accessible, more transparent, and everyone will delight in understanding its functioning and content. But at a certain point these qualities begin to drag the system into inefficiency and eventually breakdown. We get things like Wikipedia. A tantelizing reader controlled text that easily has reams of incorrect information. Without gatekeepers information is unreliable. It leads also to a president people would like to have a beer with, rather than a president who is a deep thinker. We get a jovial, albeit sometimes nasty, advisor controlled executive who has easily made hundreds of bad choices because he has replaced thinking with patronage.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

graduation day

Graduation day at my shop. And last night comes another party invitation. Ugh! I’ve already done four parties in three days. I’m totally partied out. Was expressing gratitude on the way home from the last (or thought it was the last) party on Monday night that the parties were all over. And now a surprise party tonight after commencement. I can’t even express how badly I do not want to go to this thing. But go, I shall. I think it’s a mistake – I’m guessing many of the invitees will feel as I do and be totally spent. But there’s always relatives – they haven’t been to four parties in three days and will be delighted to celebrate her momentous achievement.

And another one of my students is delivering today’s commencement address. He’s a wonder. He was in, I think, the very first class I ever taught here, 17 years ago. After two semesters he went off to pursue another profession, one where he has done well and still works. But at some point about five years ago he returned to school hoping to claim his Bachelor’s degree. He’s been an incredible student and deserves every moment of his talking-in-front-of-the-crowd glory. Although his commencement speech looks to be a tiny bit sappy (reading a poem written by a 13-year-old muscular dystrophy victim), at least he is imploring his fellow grads to do something about the world. I’m not sure that showing how a 13-year-old can be as wise as wise can be is what you want to tell a group of people who’ve just struggled through days and nights of neglecting their children, husbands, wives, and other relationships, who’ve worked their butts off just to get a C, who’ve been told repeatedly that getting this degree will help them advance but who know in their souls that the world is actually not their oyster. This ain’t Harvard. But then, that’s why they’re getting Mattie Stepanek (the young and far too accessible poet) and not Maya Angelou or Herodotus.

Final grades are finally done. All I must do now is submit them and await the return barrage. “A C!? Why did I get a C? I did all the homework.” The “I paid for this, why should I have to do any more work” attitude grows more pronounced each semester. Even when they haven’t paid for it – a parent might still be footing some bills – they are still indignant. The student-as-consumer model corrupts every relationship in the university and damages any chance at a real education. This place really should be a benign dictatorship – why I got into this line of work, I’m sure – we really do know better than they do what they need to get into their heads. Or at least what they need to be exposed to, the getting into the head problem, unfortunately, is yet another issue.

But when the upper administration adopts a business model, as so many schools have, and begins treating students as customers the attitude seeps into every crevice of the institution. And we have people asking questions like “Did you tell them the writing had to be good?” Students expect to have requirements waived, or dispensed with, because they object to taking business ethics, or find Shakespeare inconveniently challenging. Students want courses offered in a particular sequence because it fits their schedule better than the sequence we, after eighty or ninety collective years of experience, have determined. I’m not averse to learning from any situation – even situations that I feel I’ve mastered. In fact, that’s why I chose this profession. Being a teacher provides a forum for decades of learning. I try to be always open to new possibilities. But one thing I’ve learned is that experience really does bring wisdom. Ah. Another paradox.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

busy day

Phew boy. Didn’t feel particularly well last night. Think it was something I ate before I turned in. That might teach me to leave stuff out too long. But also it might not. The next thing I need to try doing is writing in the morning rather than the evening. I find, as you might notice, that I write less, have less to say, less interesting topics, and less well written when I check in at the end of the day. This is not working for me. But I need to quiet the voice that tells me I need to get everything else done before I’m allowed to work on my own stuff – my blog, my essays, even my own academic writing. The no-writing voice is very powerful and irritating. Tomorrow morning I will try writing before I start working on my syllabus. Yes, working on the summer course syllabus – class begins one week from today. I’m pretty much finished with grading, must still submit them. But tomorrow is commencement, then a day of no appointments (I hope) and then up to MA to see the guy graduate. But this means that the day of no plans will be taken up with the rushing around of preparing for a trip. I’m making prayers to the gods that the roof bag I ordered will A. arrive and B. be left at the door tomorrow. FE is not always great about leaving stuff. I must leave a letter of supplication taped to the door. Well, that’s enough rambling for this evening. Getting all the commenting and grading done, three phone interviews, final grades, feeling sick, answering email, and a few odds and ends have made for a full day.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Carroll Pickett

So what did it feel like for Carroll Pickett to minister to a man he was convinced was innocent just before that man was led down the hall and executed? What is it like to be in the room as a man is strapped down and pumped with three chemicals back to back – one to put him to sleep, the next to paralyze him, and the third to stop his heart – after having spent the day with him watching him cower in the corner as a thunder storm passed over? What is it like to say to a guard you feel convinced the man about to be put to death didn’t commit the crime he was convicted of and have the guard agree with you. And know that neither of you can do anything about it. That the courts, the governor, and the supreme court of the land have all said this man received justice, ‘s OK to kill him. What can that be like? Listen to Pickett tell his story.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

ninja warrior

Ninja Warrior is pretty amazing. It’s on the G4 network (a gaming network). The commentator is outrageous and involved, but it’s hard to read the subtitles while you’re trying to watch the athletes running the incredibly difficult obstacle course. And it’s timed to boot! True athletes – Japanese and many other countries, many Olympic athletes – compete in this unbelievably difficulty course, three stages. So far I’ve seen only the fist stage – mostly because I haven’t seen anyone make it though more than the first part of stage two. But then I have to see commercials for things like Ultimate Fighting and it makes me feel like I’m watching the adolescent boy network. How did I ever get addicted to competition shows? But mostly on Bravo: Project Runway, Top Chef, Shear Genius, Dancing with the Stars, Amazing Race. Oh my.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

parties

It was a two-party day. First class then work pot luck – salad, lemon mousse, lemonade pie, California rolls, pasta salad (tomatoes & mozzerela), rice salad (artichoke hearts and feta), garlic grits, strawberry rhubarb pie, cookies, beers, chicken salad, squash baked with turkey-bacon and goldfish (yes, that’s correct), lots of wine (some on the floor). And the Preakness.

Then climbing folks out in the middle of the woods. Middle. of…the. Woods. Drive through the Greenspring Valley Golf Club (through the middle of the course), then deeper into the woods, then deeper into the woods. And then deeper into the woods. And then through someone’s front yard, then deeper into the woods. Then deeper into the woods. And then over a tiny corrugated bridge – two widths of corrugated steel each about three feet wide. And then up a hill. And then his house in a large clearing. I can’t believe I didn’t get lost. Anyway, it was a fun party. But two parties was way too much food. And now I’m still hungry from all the eating. Better have some chocolate.

Friday, May 16, 2008

dollars

At the bank today I tried to get the latest golden dollar. It’s just a manifestation of my compulsion to collect things. I collect golden dollars, state quarters, wheat pennies, cobalt glass, other colored glass (only deeply saturated colors), luster ware, political buttons, other buttons, postcards, matchbooks, small television sets (not real), martini shakers, bowls, vintage men’s scarves, vintage kitchen ware, Manhattan deco pattern bowls, cartoons, books on the Titanic, books about the death penalty, movies about the death penalty, I’m sure there’s more stuff that I can’t remember…

She didn’t have any dollars for me, only the old ones. And she told me that in order for the branch to send the dollars back to the government, she needed to have a thousand of them. They have to go in the box and the box holds a thousand. She seemed almost desperate when she said that right now she has only seven hundred. And I’m betting she’s been collecting them since they were released. Over a year. And only seven hundred. They’re clearly not a collection point for the golden dollars.

On the bright side the delightful teller seems to remember me. I bank the old fashioned way – at least for deposits – at the window.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Marin

Just arrived home from the Symphony where I heard Beethoven symphonies 1 and 4. What growth into his own between the two. The 1st is Hayden’s student, the 4th is Beethoven working out yet another problem. You can just hear the precision vehicle starting and stopping, banking left and right. “See, I can do this. And I can do this. And even this.” Each symphony another step into Beethoven’s personality until it culminates with the 9th. Glorious. Guest conductor and composer, Thomas Ades, performed full body conducting. His music, and Beethoven’s.

It reminds me that I heard, also at the BSO just a couple of weeks ago, the Carmina Burana again. What a fantastic piece of music; I never get tired of hearing it. And I love seeing it performed. It was after this performance that our new Maestra, Marin Alsop, made clear who the boss is. Usually when a group of soloists are onstage the women leave the stage first; even if they have been standing far stage left, all men gallantly sweep their arms in front of them to permit the women to exit stage right first. I’ve never ever seen a male performer – instrument or voice – or conductor permit a woman to follow him off the stage. Never. But Marin is the conductor. She is the boss. So when the three soloists – two male, one female – finished the Carmina and took their bows it was clear that she had already made it clear backstage that the conductor was to follow the soloists off the stage. Even if the conductor was a woman. The conductor always brings up the rear. And so it is with the Maestra of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. She leaves the stage last, politely and gallantly ushering her soloists off first.

In the early, early days of her tenure here – she is still in her first year – there was confusion about who would exit first. A male violinist tried to show his respect for the gentler gender by motioning that she go before him. They piled up into a small crack up just to the right of the podium, and exited the stage together – her hand gripping his upper arm. But she’s obviously left instructions that that is not to happen any longer. Marin is the boss and she will depart in the boss’s position: last. Good for her!

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Israel's birthday

When I was in seventh grade I was required to write a report about a country. Since I was one of two Jews in the entire school the teachers would often “encourage” me to do Jewish oriented subjects. It was so helpful in my objective to totally blend in. I can’t remember if this was one of those times or if it was my own choice, but I did Israel. I don’t remember anything about writing the report, it was one of those reproduce-the-encyclopedia 7th grade papers. What I do remember is being shocked to find out that Israel had been in existence for only twenty years. It must have been a spring assignment because I remember giving the oral part of the report and saying that the anniversary is next month.

So today is Israel’s sixtieth anniversary. Apparently Harry Truman recognized the new state within seconds of its declaring itself a state. And today our embarrassing president is there saying both Israel and the US are committed to peace. (Somehow I just don’t feel authenticity from him.) Sixty years and never any peace. Sixty years and thousands of Palestinians displaced with more settlements germinating every day. Sixty years and a homeland with an anthem in a minor key. Joy and gratitude, melancholy and disaster. Will the pain make us stronger? Will the unceasing conflict bring wisdom? Will there ever be kindness?

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

climbing outside

Rock climbing outside was great fun, exciting, invigorating and challenging. It felt almost like it used an entirely different set of muscles, I was fatigued after we finished. Even though I’d only done about five or six climbs. It was also frightening and nerve wracking. The idea of falling is far more frightening outside because, although you’re on a rope, when you fall you scrape down an uneven wall and can often wind up swinging out to the right or left – more scraping against an uneven wall. Not scraping, actually, slamming after a wide swing. Trying to pull a roof was terrifying because I knew I’d swing ten feet to the left when I came off. Which I did.

I managed to hit myself in the head with my helmet. An excellent example of irony. I ate a lot of gorp. Went up to the top of the rock to take photos looking down, On the way to the top I saw a snakeskin which caused me to have a small panic attack – being terrified of snakes as I am. Every time I climbed up this one route – the bunny slope I called it – I saw a hole directly into the dirt between the rocks. Round and snake shaped. Every time I was eye level with it I had to control my panic and just climb on past.

I enjoyed the day and, although the climbing was sort of frightening, I definitely want to do it again. I’m not ready for real hard routes yet. But I loved the feel of the cold and flaking rocks beneath my fingers. The teeny tiny holds I can’t get onto in the gym felt enormous outside. The support of the convex wall beneath me helped more than the flat unnatural wall in the gym. Can’t wait to try again.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Vanishing Point

Well, missed yesterday. Last day of my 12 days of non-stop franticness. Today I’m on the couch, in couch clothes, doing only couch things. Hooray. Finally a day off.

The play, Vanishing Point, was fabulous. Very tight, story clear, music lovely. I have high hopes for it to go places beyond Dignity Players in Annapolis. Should be off Broadway at the very least. The plot concerns three women born in the late nineteenth century – all famous. All three of them at some point in their lives, vanished. Two returned. One remains missing. The parallels among them are eerie. Agatha Christie, Aimee Semple McPherson, and Amelia Earhart. What would it have been like had they known one another, helped one another, held one another closely to the heart? It was, in the twenties and thirties, so difficult to be a succeeding woman. The culturally embedded dislike of women getting things done wasn’t even hidden at that time. There simply was no taking women seriously. Would they even have taken each other seriously? What would they have said? The play explores these questions and more. A wonderful production.

However when it gets to off Broadway, there must be a better costume mistress. The costumes in this production were sad. My companion knew they would be a problem when the program announced of the costumer that “Costuming is her thing.” Oh dear. The woman playing Agatha Christie was costumed fairly well, our guess was that she was wearing her own clothing. The clothing seemed dated – appropriate for the part – but fit her perfectly. The woman playing Aimee Semple McPherson was dressed in a shiny, glaringly white costume, a cross stitched in gold adorning the center of her front. If it’d been even off white it wouldn’t have been as awful. But the shininess and the ridiculous look really made her stand away from the other characters and not in a good way. It looked as if it’d been sewn just for her, just finished the afternoon the play opened. The woman playing Amelia Earhart wore a leather jacket, white scarf, flannel shirt. That all sounds right. But it was far from it. The jacket was some man’s – a blazer, not a flying jacket, about five sizes too big. She swam in it, the shoulders poking out too far from her body, the sleeves taped up to try and hide their enormous length. The scarf was not a flying scarf, but a regular knitted winter scarf. The fringe on the end was the only thing saving it from being totally inappropriate. The flannel shirt, not too visible beneath the enormous jacket was also enormous. Her khakis fit fine, thank goodness, and the shoes weren’t too bad, although the white socks were a mistake.

But, hey, the play was fantabulous enough to overcome the poor costumes. It was a high wire act for those three women and they accomplished the feat smoothly. All three were onstage for almost the entire two acts – not even a sip of water to moisten their singing throats. What a great job they did. Can’t wait to be going to the Broadway opening.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

phew

This is the last day of unadulterated work, six in a row. But it felt like twelve since last weekend was a visit-the-family twofer. After this I have a tiny break. Phew. (Although my list of things to get done over the summer is already growing exponentially.) As soon as I finish my grading for this semester I need to start preparing for the summer semester. I have several packs of grading to do, but the deadlines give me at least a tiny window instead of all those I-beams across the head I had this week. Tonight I get to see a musical written by a friend, a play I’ve been waiting to see for years. High anticipation.

Friday, May 09, 2008

Dave

As I pulled my arm back from giving him a big hug, my wrist brushed against the hard and unyielding metal and plastic housing of his weapon. Tucked snugly against his back, a waistline holster holding it in place. For a split second I saw his face wondering if he’d need to explain. Or apologize. But I continued on as if it nothing had been revealed. Although his face betrayed nothing more I could tell he was relieved not to have to go through it all again and gently ask my indulgence. His face is pudgier now than the last time I saw him. So is mine. His presence in the room far more grounded than that last time too. He drags behind him, like his shadow, a palpable sadness. When I last saw him he’d just been accepted into the police academy. Now it is almost nine years later, and he was telling a tale about a drunk he’d not arrested under the bridge, a guy who couldn’t stop drinking. What a gift that he and I both had.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

yet another day

It's 9:40. I just got home from work. I left my house this morning at 8 AM. The entire dang week has been like this. I'm exhausted and I still have a stack of papers to respond to -- by Saturday. I feel on the verge of a little tiny collapse. If I can get through the rest of this week...it'll be cause for great celebration. Then I can think about better blogging items -- like why American Gladiators is coming back to television, what happened to the horse stuck in cement statue that used to be on Maryland Avenue (and other statue disappearances), and why a skull and crossbones adorns one of the coffins in which the pope is buried.

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

still no brain

This has to be the worst week of the semester – last week of class. Four different stacks of projects and papers to respond to and evaluate. Meetings, meetings, meetings. Candidates coming for interviews. Open houses to attend and answer questions at. Public presentations of three different sets of projects. Group presentations in one class. Breakfast and lunch dates with work people to discuss various work things. And the cap at the end on Saturday night will be a fun evening seeing a friend’s play. Next week a little bit better – still a bunch of things to do, but three of them are parties. I like parties, but after a one or two it begins to feel like a chore.

Today I got done most of what was on the list. Still one group of grades not written up. But I think I can get to it tomorrow. I wish I had even a tiny bit more brain power to write even a tiny bit of stuff here that’s not about work. But my brain simply is not working for anything else. It’s barely working for this. I’m keeping up with my daily commitment, but I feel completely dazed by this semester. It’s worn though me. Added to all the work, all the bad news I keep getting is also wearing me down. I know it’s not happening to me, and for that I’m grateful. But it begins to feel like everywhere I turn.

That’s it for tonight. Soon, soon…my brain will be returned to me. I hope anyway.

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

work and more work

Work work work work work work work. Is there no end to the crowded days and swamped nights. Waking up at 3 AM thinking about what I have to do tomorrow. Working straight through all day no break lots of different things to do all of them requiring brain power and eyes that pay attention and never ever ever stops. Yipes. Maybe tomorrow I can grab a few moments before I start on the big pile again. Let’s hope for some moments to be able to write. That would be nice.

Monday, May 05, 2008

today was...

Somewhere someone has finished all her grading. This person is not me and the place is not here. I have a brand new telephone on my desk. Taped to it is a tiny sign that says “please continue to use your old phone until May 11” and next to the test is a small clip art picture of an old hook and receiver telephone. Like from the movies. Under the small sign is a larger – but still perty darned small – piece of paper upon which is printed some instructions about how to use the phone. But the essential part is that you must call to set up a time to take new-phone-training. And every time you go to the new-phone-training website it says the trainings have been put off. I wonder if I’ll ever learn to use my new phone.

Today a very packed day. Two live chats and about eleven hundred papers graded. Tomorrow an actual class. And then more papers. And then the next day. More papers. And the day after that…more papers. Will this god forsaken semester ever come to an end? Too many problems piling up at the end. Too many.

Sunday, May 04, 2008

sorry

Well, I missed yesterday because I was in Arlington with a bunch of other family members and the computer problems were like a comedy of errors. This old computer ran out of juice because I forgot power. By the time I realized that I couldn’t get on the computer in the room I was sleeping in because it’d been shut down because it’s too noisy (and then this morning it didn’t even come back on anyway – its own power problems). I was working all the live long day yesterday. A student missed class, and never emailed or called. I checked my email at lunch and said to my partner “I have an email from Caroline Kennedy. But no email from [this missing student] – she didn’t even bother to tell us she wasn’t showing up. This is going to be a big problem for her. My 6 year old niece has lost three teeth, but can’t remember where they were lost. The 4 year old is whiney as ever. The 2 year old is just a joy with his little tiny hands – what could be better than feeling a small hand tugging you to come with him? Not much. Certainly not trying to figure out what happened to that blasted student. Anyway. I’ll make up for missing yesterday…promise.

Friday, May 02, 2008

belle's mouthpiece?

You might be interested in Belle, the person who keeps signing the posts. She was an interesting woman. The story is both long and circuitous and brief and to the point. She and her sisters hated each other. "What did they fight about?" I asked a cousin from South Africa once. "Anything. If one said it was black, the other said it was white. They just fought all the time." And so it was with a pervading sadness that, after my grandmother's funeral, my father implored me and my young brothers to always get along with our siblings. Belle was born one off from the youngest of a large eastern european brood. She wanted, however, to be the youngest. And to that end she insisted her younger brother, Sam, swap birthdays with her. When she died, at age 84 or 86 or 87 (it will never be totally clear), her death certificate gave her year of birth as 1902. But I know she had simply succeeded in fooling her nephew, a rather famous doctor, into thinking that. She was almost certainly born in 1899. Maybe in Poland. Maybe in South Africa. But somewhere, she had a beginning.

Thursday, May 01, 2008

American Idol

I can’t believe I’m about to discuss this topic, but I have something to say about American Idol – the ridiculously popular television show engaged in finding, via popular vote, the next big singing sensation. On Tuesday night Paula Abdul, one of the judges and the object of infinite ridicule by Kathy Griffin, seemed confused when she started to critique one of the singers for his second performance after he’d performed only once. Apparently there was great media outcry about this – some accusing Abdul of being, let’s say, in an altered state. Some just accusing her of stupidness. And some accusing the show of underhanded tactics.

Then today comes a revelatory story – in the New York Times, no less – that she “acknowledged on Wednesday what some ‘American Idol’ viewers have long suspected: The show’s judges sometimes see portions of the dress rehearsal for the show and use that to help formulate their comments on the evening’s live performance.” For god’s sake. (You can see I’m not even alarmed enough to give this an exclamation point.) Who in the world would have expected them to not watch dress rehearsal.

I’ve been watching this show for only this season. Quite literally, I have never before seen a single episode – although I’ve been listening to people talk about it for years. But even I know – the judges having mentioned it – and would expect – how could they possibly make those judgments on the fly on live television – that they see dress rehearsals. In this single season I’ve been watching (just, mind you, to get a sense of what this cultural phenomenon involves) I’ve heard them make reference to having seen the dress rehearsal. Has the rest of the viewing – and critiquing – public not heard these comments? Made, as they are, on the air and in front of millions.

And why, why?! (there’s your exclamation point), is it a big deal? Why is it a small deal? Who in the world could care about this? The “judges” don’t even judge the competition. They evaluate people’s performances. But the “judging” – the evaluating that results in elimination and/or victory – is done by the voting public. So why would it matter if Randy, Paula, and Simon get to see dress rehearsal?

Baffling – the event, the response, the attention. Another example of an out of control media response, fueled by bloggers and lapped up by the public. Oh my.