The Blog in my Pocket

Update

2006-03-21T18:04:00.000-05:00

so the dsl is down again and I've been out of town quite a bit. no real news. I'm starting a myspace, so I think the blogspot will be down for a while. If you're interested, look me up on myspace.

I had to do it

2006-02-17T09:52:00.000-05:00

Waiting at the airport, I took this little quiz. If I were a punctuation mark, I'd be:

ellipsis
You scored 46% Sociability and 70% Sophistication!

Your life can be difficult because of your insecurities, but you should know that it isn't your fault. YOU didn't ask to be thrown in around thirty times per page in every bodice-ripper on the shelf! Those who overuse you can kiss your . . . you know. You need to learn to hold your head high and glory in your solitude. You really do have excellent, scholarly tastes. You must never forget that your friend, the period, will be there to support you at the end of every sentence where you truly belong, and, if what is left out is as important as what is said, why, then you are as vital as the alphabet!

My test tracked 2 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 40% on Sociability

You scored higher than 73% on Sophistication

Link: The Which Punctuation Mark Are You Test written by Gazda on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Quick Note

2006-02-09T16:35:00.000-05:00

On my campus this week, a student was shot by a police officer. I'm not going to be the judge of anyone's behavior here. What I do want to note is that meeting violence with violence is NEVER the answer! In that light, there is a protest being held outside of the FAU police station on Friday at 1:00. I quickly read the sign and hope that I have the facts correct. If I don't please correct me. Boca and FAU cops need to be put in check and this is a good way to do that.

SimCity Drama

2006-02-09T13:10:00.000-05:00

I’m coming to terms with my addiction to SimCity. After a chat with Su last night and a coffee with Denise this afternoon, I’m starting to see fairly clearly that I’m depressed. And not in a good way. Sometimes I get depressed and I lose a bunch of weight and get super organized. This time, I’m getting fat(-er) and sloppy.
I hope this won’t turn into one of those long, boring, “poor me” sessions but work with me, people. After passing my exams in December, the chair of my committee stepped down. Having no chair, but three people who are willing to serve on the committee but who won’t chair, has put me in a somewhat desperate mind-set. I know the right answer: buck up, do the work, and crack on without a chair. But something is keeping me from doing that. I don’t have the energy. Instead of focusing my time on the dissertation and its work, I’m thinking about the Sims. It’s so much easier. I can imagine them all having their own little life. They are hurrying through their day, working to achieve their goals, raising their families, writing their dissertations. It’s somehow easier to watch them succeed at my projected desires than to actually go out and fulfill them for myself. No fear of rejection, no lack of chair, no ANYTHING that would hinder a Sim life. And perhaps that is at the heart of my dilemma. I frequently project my idealistic, doxastic world wishes onto my unsuspecting, “real” world ontology. I can’t help but be disappointed. But here is the kicker. I don’t get upset with the people in my life who fall short of what I project onto them; of course not, how can I hold them to an arbitrary standard which I set and don’t bother to tell them about? Instead, I get upset with myself or the overwhelming nature of earthly disappointment. I do this to myself, too. I set up improbable possibilities for my own behavior, belief systems, appearances, relationships, &c. and then I overly abuse myself – emotionally, not physically, of course :-) – for my lack of perceived success. Of course, I’ve chatted with a therapist about this several years ago. It’s a behavior in which I’ve been engaged for my entire life. It’s not “perfectionism,” per se; “perfectionists” are anal about everything and I’m definitely NOT. Rather, I think I must be running from something but toward nothing. Am I afraid of commitment? That answer seems too easy, everyone has a “commitment problem,” and I’ve always thought of myself as being okay with commitment. But perhaps, just like the little Sims running around SimCity, I am only committed to the goals being projected onto me by an idealist outsider. Now if I could only find him or her, I could tell them to turn the game off and let me fade from their consciousness.
And just now I’m struck with that statement. It shows a fear of internal reflection. Again, not something with which I believe myself to be troubled. At my base level, I do believe I’m okay with my psyche – Freud would be bored. It’s everyone else in the world that troubles me.

New City -- Pop 120,000

2006-01-23T09:34:00.000-05:00

So I’ve found this new game. Actually, Su gave it to me for Christmas. I am now the creator of a SimCity. It’s amazing to me how much time I can spend zoning land, building infrastructure, and watching the little sim-people “live” out their “lives.” I have been known to sit down at the computer around 8pm and not get up agian until the sun is rising. The Sim's favorite day of the year is Thanksgiving day; every year they ask to have a parade which they always seem to throw in the middle of a decaying commercial district. It’s gotten to the point where I just ignore their request until after Thanksgiving so that I don’t have to watch them celebrate with their floats. Last night I began work on my city after a substantial delay. The city, which I called “New City” – don’t laugh, had dwindled to a mere 50,000 people. I was worried that it would go the way of Detroit. Thanks to my clever leadership, I managed to bounce the city up to a population of about 120,000. Basically I cut ALL of the environmental restrictions and industrial taxes so that industry would return to New City. I felt bad doing that but I didn’t have a choice, I needed people. When I reached 120,000, I put all the restrictions back in but kept the tax scale at zero and things started to decline. I bumped the tax scale up to 1% and those darn little sims started building again. I found myself getting very upset with the sims who complained about a 0% or 1% property tax. I realize that I had been too generous to my people and now think that it may be time to become a dictator. I’m especially interested in imposing the curfew on teenagers and a general smoking ban.

What's in a Name?

2006-01-18T12:05:00.000-05:00

So I get this anonymous comment on my last post:

Dear Mr. Emerson,

I was wondering if you could help me consider what the most 'liberal' state in America is (not necessarily for the feline species, but for those nasty humans).

Sincerely,

Desperate to Relocate

I find it interesting that the comment is directed to Mr. Emerson. He is, of course, my cat. And possibly the most intelligent two-year-old that I know. I also find it interesting that the post is from an anonymous commentor. One should always own up to their words as not doing so is a sign of weakness. Even, dear commentor, if you are one of my students, you should know that I would never hold you in any kind of political judgement, nor would I chastise you for finding my blog by googling my name. That said, I like the question. What is the most ‘liberal’ state? It is compelling that you choose to put ‘liberal’ in quotes. I’m not quite sure what you mean in so doing. The best answer to your question, I think, is “state of mind.” One should always maintain a liberal, open, embracing, accepting mind set. Methinks, however, that the question is more literal. For that answer, I would suggest looking at the election results for the most recent presidential race. You have to start by finding the two big oceans and then finding the blue states which but up against them. I might suggest that Oregon, with its recent “right to assisted suicide” supreme court news is a good choice. One might even go to the North East where, in some very progressive regions, gay marriage is being debated or preformed. I would caution you to avoid Texas, where, thanks to republican deception and dirty-trickery, progressive thinkers will not have a voice until an accurate re-districting is complete. –

– At least that’s what Mr. Emerson has to say. I always agree with Mr. Emerson. He always agrees with me.

Out of curiosity, dear reader, Mr. Emerson is wondering from where you wish to relocate? What’s wrong with finding friends in your own “neck of the woods?”

Of course, curiosity did kill the cat.

I'm back to let you know I can really shake it down

2006-01-16T16:50:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year and all that. I’m glad to be back “on line” here at the house. After Wilma, Bell South didn’t really have my DSL service listed as a priority, so I stopped blogging. Anyway, here I am now :-)
I had a great Christmas in Pennsylvania with my family and we threw a New Year’s Eve party to end all New Year’s Eve parties. This past week marked the beginning of the semester and I’m excited to be teaching Interp Drama this semester.
More as it becomes available
t

Back to the Exam Readings

2005-10-22T17:15:00.000-05:00

Something strikes me about the nonfiction that I’ve been reading lately. It seems that during the post-war era, corporations took advantage of the greedy, self-serving, racist, Modernism of white America and seized upon it, locking in our “progression” toward corporate capitalism. I think that, in some way, I want to link this to the race riots of the 60s and 70s. It is not so much a race of people that is rioting, rather it is a class reacting to the first offence of corporate oppression. Of course this is racism but not in a typical sense; rather it is the oppression of a class and the policies which ensure that classes be constructed of a particular race – or, perhaps that the dominant and wealthy class remain of a certain race – that constitutes racism and the racial discussion. I know I’m treading on thin ice here. I’m splitting a delicate hair. But I think it a hair worth splitting, an important distinction to make.

Presidential Pardon

2005-10-02T11:40:00.000-05:00

I just want to be clear: These are the people that the president feels DO NOT need to be in prison. He took time out of his busy day, to make sure that these people can enjoy their freedom by issuing them an official PARDON. I wonder: what is the prez's view of the "just say no" campaign?

-Gene Armand Bridger, Elkhart, Ind., conspiracy to commit mail fraud, mail fraud, sentenced May 29, 1963, to five years probation.

-Thomas Kimble Collinsworth, Buckner, Ark., receipt of a stolen motor vehicle that had been transported in interstate commerce, sentenced Aug. 22, 1989, to three years probation and a $5,000 fine.

-Rusty Lawrence Elliott, Mount Pleasant, Tenn., making counterfeit money, sentenced April 26, 1991, to a year and a day in prison, two years supervised release and a $500 fine.

-Adam Wade Graham, Salt Lake City, Utah, conspiracy to deliver 10 or more grams of LSD, sentenced Nov. 23, 1992 to 30 months in prison and five years of supervised release, including 250 hours of community service.

-Rufus Edward Harris, Canon, Ga., possession of tax-unpaid whiskey, sentenced June 17, 1963, to two years in prison, possession and sale of tax-unpaid whiskey. He also was on May 28, 1970 to five years in prison, later reduced to two years probation.

-Larry Paul Lenius, Moorhead, Minn., conspiracy to distribute cocaine, sentenced Sept. 29, 1989, to 36 months probation and payment of $2,500 in restitution.

-Larry Lee Lopez, Bokeelia, Fla., conspiracy to import marijuana, sentenced July 19, 1985 to three years probation.

-Denise Bitters Mendelkow, Salt Lake City, Utah, embezzlement by a bank employee, sentenced May 21, 1981, to two years probation.

-Michael John Pozorski, Schofield, Wis., unlawful possession of an unregistered firearm, sentenced Sept. 14, 1988, to four years probation and payment of a $750 fine.

-Mark Lewis Weber, Sherwood, Ark., selling Quaalude tablets, selling, using and possessing marijuana, sentenced Aug. 20, 1981, following Air Force court-martial to 30 months confinement at hard labor, forfeiture of 30 months pay at $334 a month and a dishonorable discharge.

March on Washington

2005-09-30T10:49:00.000-05:00

On Saturday, 24 September, I marched in front of the White House and down Pennsylvania Ave, protesting the war in Iraq, specifically, and the incompetence of the Bush administration, in general. Had I reached out my hand, I could have touched Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, and Cindy Sheehan. After finishing the march, I sprinted across the lawn of the Washington Monument to catch a short glimpse of Joan Baez singing a protest song. The entire weekend was amazing. While the “experts” will disagree with the number of people that attended the rally, I think it’s safe to say that we were among at least 150,000 people. What a time! Pleading with the powerful architecture of the city for peace and raising our voices together, trying to tell the government what America really wants. The audacity of the President to say that he “realizes that people have different views on the war, but they are wrong.” (Loosely quoted from a televised speech) No, Mr. President, you are wrong. War is never the answer and we were there to tell you that. Unfortunately, you were in Colorado. Ask Laura about it, she was home for the book fair.

The anti, anti war protestors were there, too. Their most aggressive spokesperson had a shirt that read: “Kick their ass, Take their gas.” I kid you not. I can’t think of a way to even respond to that statement

My favorite bumper sticker, the one that will now adorn my car: “Who Would Jesus Bomb?”
And I think that sums it up.
Pictures below

2005-09-30T10:46:00.000-05:00

Marching partner, Erika

2005-09-30T10:45:00.002-05:00

Marching partner, Tina

2005-09-30T10:45:00.001-05:00

What the other side had to say

2005-09-30T10:45:00.000-05:00

More of the "other side"

2005-09-30T10:43:00.000-05:00

my marchin buds

2005-09-30T10:42:00.001-05:00

cindy and jesse

2005-09-30T10:42:00.000-05:00

I love that some people remember who the Prez really is

2005-09-30T10:40:00.000-05:00

Cindy brought the crosses

Who Knew

2005-09-30T10:13:00.000-05:00

I liked this on LD's page, so I did it, too

You are a
Social Liberal
(76% permissive)

and an...
Economic Liberal
(5% permissive)

You are best described as a:

Socialist

Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid
Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

IT'S THE OIL, STUPID

2005-09-22T11:01:00.000-05:00

I hope we soon "get" that.

The Toilet Double Standard

2005-09-16T13:44:00.000-05:00

Lady D came over last night. (I call her that because it sounds like the name of a madam). She told me that "For a man, you have a clean bathroom" -- or something like that. It immediately struck me: If we are to have gender equality, shouldn't phrases and standards such as that be worked out of our language? I mean, why should the bathroom "standard" be gender specific? It's either "clean" or "not clean." the phrase "for a man" only serves to further the divide in gender equality. Of course this did come from a woman whose husband taught their cat to use the toilet.

Me and the D

2005-09-14T14:30:00.000-05:00

So I took a little trip to the D the other weekend. I figured that if I Greek town going to write a dissertation on it, I should probably see it with my own eyes. While it’s been over a week since I returned, I still don’t know what to make of the experience. Su told me that I should go to Windsor and look across the river at Detroit but I couldn’t. I never quite figured out what was going on there. The down town “renaissance” makes the city even more of an anomaly. The buildings are impressive and based on their outward appearance, one would never know that the city’s population was under 1 million. According to the Free Press, “Detroit's population as of January slid to 899, 387 -- the lowest since 1917." But a closer look at those buildings suggests the population decline. A large number of buildings remain only half occupied. Walking out from the city center indicates just how abandoned the city really is. Within a few blocks, the buildings are completely abandoned and falling down or being destroyed.

As I was driving into the city (a Friday rush hour) I was surprised to be the only car on the road into the city.

Other than the Hard Rock Café and a few restaurants in Greek town, there was no place to eat or get a cup of coffee. Starbuks is open 9-5 Monday thru Friday. That’s it.

Driving farther out, I started to notice that the destruction fades. Crossing 8 Mile Road, it’s amazing how incredibly clean, neat, and WHITE everything is. With all of the reading I’ve done about Coleman Young’s “white noose around Detroit,” I wasn’t prepared to see it for myself. For fun, I drove out to the Edsel and Elinor Ford House. I went on the cheesy tour. It’s amazing how distant the 20-mile journey was from the reality of the city.

People are still claiming that Detroit can “bounce back.” I really hope it can because I think I could like it. I really did appreciate the “rawness’ of the city. I’m concerned, however, about the signifying architecture and artwork around the city. To me, it all seems so very violent and masculine. And in at least one instance, the violence is directed at women. Pictures Follow:

2005-09-14T14:28:00.001-05:00

This fist is being thrust directly into.....

2005-09-14T14:28:00.000-05:00

directly into this (looking at Detroit)

2005-09-14T14:27:00.000-05:00

down town fountain....Windsor in background

2005-09-14T14:26:00.000-05:00

down town

2005-09-14T14:25:00.001-05:00

three blocks

2005-09-14T14:25:00.000-05:00

two blocks away.....and it's being cleaned up

2005-09-14T14:24:00.001-05:00

One Block Away

2005-09-14T14:24:00.000-05:00

Down Town

2005-09-14T14:23:00.000-05:00

down town, with the Jass Fest happening

2005-09-14T14:22:00.001-05:00

Greek Town

2005-09-14T14:22:00.000-05:00

GM and Ren Center

For Su

2005-09-13T11:03:00.000-05:00

From the BBC:

"Instead, Mr Bush's feckless minions blame the city's Democratic mayor Ray Nagin for the failure to evacuate his city and the collapse of order."

What I've Been Reading

2005-09-13T10:44:00.000-05:00

A few thoughts on what I’ve been reading:

Blithedale Romance:
I’ve always loved Hawthorn and his language. Something keeps bringing me back to this book and I still can’t figure out what it is. I should, I suppose, have taken Dr. Blakemore’s Hawthorn seminar. A common theme Hawthorn plays with is “wilderness as evil-place.” In Blithedale, Zenobia is an exotic woman who wears an exotic flower in her hair and who, it seems, dabbles in the occult. Of course, she does this in the woods.

Hawthorne does a great deal of telling us that women are not to be trusted but that men are at their mercy. When we finish the book and discover – although I didn’t find it to be much of a secret– she with whom Coverdale is in love, the narrator’s voice seems unreliable. Was the story that I just finished “true” at all?

I am want to do more with this novel, too, in terms of the clairvoyant/occult stuff. I find it difficult to pinpoint what is meant to be “real” and what is meant to be “mystical.” I suppose that is because the line between the two, for Hawthorne and indeed for the members of Brook Farm (the real-world setting from which Hawthorne took the fictive text) – in both cases, that line was blurry.

The Ambassadors:
Again, I love the language. James is such a pleasure to read when you have time to sit and let the sentences live. This time, I did not have that leisure.
The plot centers on Lambert Strether’s charge of bringing Chad Newsome out of the depths of Paris and returning him to the safety of New England. When he finds Chad in Paris, however, Strether has idealized the city, and indeed the man, as the titillating opposite of his own New England composition. Strether is forced, with his New England proclivity, to position himself in a world that exists in direct opposition to his Puritanical disposition. Strether must create an understanding of Paris in order to understand Chad. The text, then, becomes not just one of relationships, but a novel about the relationships Strether has with Chad and with Europe. Strether creates a world in which everything he appreciates about Europe is found in Chad and everything he longs for in Chad can be found in Strether’s understanding of Europe. Much of this fictitious world Strether creates has established itself before he even meets Chad. Ironically, looking specifically at two scenes that take place in a theater and the interim acton, we can best see Strether’s creation of this “staged” world while he experiences the proscenium of life. These relationships, then, are not pure because Strether is projecting his Puritanical tendencies (naïveté) into them. The hero, as a product of Woollett, exists in a world not of his own design. Strether is forced to compose a world in which he can vicariously experience the joy of Europe through his idealized creation of Chad. In doing so, Chad and Europe come to represent the same thing and are so viewed by Strether.

In his first theatre experience, with Miss Gostrey, the narrator explains that “He had been to the theatre, even to the opera [ . . . ] but there had been [ . . . ] no pink lights” (89). Following this observation, Strether resembles an adolescent boy coming to a deeper understanding of the differences between the sexes, as he pays particular attention to Miss Gostrey and how she differs with Woollett’s Mrs. Newsome; defining his European experience by how it is not-Woollett.

[Her] dress was ‘cut down’ [ . . . ] in respect to shoulders and bosom, in a manner quite other than Mrs Newsome’s, and [she] wore round her throat a broad red velvet band [ . . . ]. Mrs Newsome’s dress was never in any degree ‘cut down’, and she never wore round her throat a broad red velvet band; if she had, moreover, would it ever have served so to carry on and complicate, as he now almost felt, his vision? [ . . . ] Mrs Newsome wore, at operatic hours, a black silk dress [ . . . ] and [ . . . ] a rouche. [ . . . ] He had once said to the wearer – and it was as ‘free’ a remark as he had ever make to her – that she looked [ . . . ] like Queen Elizabeth [ . . . ]. (90)

This new and provocative haze cast by Paris clouds Strether’s understanding and focus. It also causes Strether to lament that he had “missed the time natural in Boston for [dating]” (91). Strether realizes that, in fact, “he had never taken anyone anywhere” (90). Paris represents an experience of the other: a youth Strether cannot recapture. This realization supports the argument presented by van Slyck that Strether “engages in an act of mourning for his youth which he defines initially as a failure to have acted, to have seized his desire” (558). Van Slyck asserts that Strether must separate from Mrs. Newsome in order to fulfil his quest of redefining himself. She identifies it as “an inner struggle in which Strether questions the definition of his identity posed upon him by his society, in particular by Mrs. Newsome [ . . . ]” (558).
Forced into the situation of creating a new identity, Strether confronts his somewhat sheltered youth and projects his desire to compensate for his lack of youthful “experience” into his creation of a European identity and Chad. Suddenly coming to a realization of the potential other-ness of Europe is a challenge for Strether as he sits in a world in which “types” identify people. Disturbingly, “those before him and around him were not as the types of Woollett” (92). While Strether sees Woollett as having simply the male and female, Paris presents him with numerous types that are, perhaps, as Strether points out, “interchangeable with those on the stage” (92).
Realizing this ever-expanding world of types, Strether identifies a character that seems to be forever in ‘evening dress’. Strether immediately lumps these tantalizing types he is witnessing at the theater into one idealized type and he wonders: “Would Chad also be in perpetual evening dress? He somehow rather hoped it” (92). This sudden focus on Chad allows Strether to postpone dealing with the onslaught of new types by placing the exciting aspect of European otherness in his creation of the unknown type: of Chad.

In what can be called the interim action, Strether becomes familiar with little Bilham. The scene, while not ocurring on a stage, maintains the stage metaphore by insisting on both an actor and an audience. Strether first acts as the audience, noticing Little Bilham on a balcony and creating a type for his performer which resembles Chad. Staring up at his soon to be acquaintance, however, “Strether soon felt himself noticed. [Little Bilham] began to look at him as in acknowledgement of his being himself in observation” (124). By being immediately thrust into the “other” position, Strether reverses the metaphore and himself becomes the actor. His focus, however, remains on the construction of types and characatures. The gawking hero’s “interest was affected by the young man’s not being Chad. Strether wondered at first if he were perhaps Chad altered, and then saw that this was asking too much of alteration. [ . . . ] Strether had conceived Chad as patched, but not beyond recognition” (124). Strether, confronted with a new person in Paris, immediately compares the person to Chad. By identifying little Bilham as not Chad, but perhaps a close relation, Strether has not only another negative type to attribute to his creation of Chad, but a likeness as well.

Important to this meeting is Strether’s realization that “wherever one paused in Paris the imagination reacted before one could stop it” (123). Here Strether pauses to view little Bilham and is almost surprised by his imagination’s reaction of creating Chad. Here too illustrates Strether’s preoccupation with youth. “There was youth for Strether at this moment in everything but his own business [ . . . ]” (125). While Strether identifies little Bilham as not Chad, he does identify both men as youth. Seductiveness here, however, is not a sexual seductiveness; rather it is the temptation for Strether to realize his lost youth. And as was seen in the previous theatre scene, Strether regrets his wasted youth as he sinks into a middle-aged lamentation. In this way, Strether projects both the youth he sees in Europe and the youth he squandered in New England into his creation of the idealized European experience as represented by Chad.
The new acquaintance with little Bilham is a great success for Strether because little Bilham is living in Chad’s home. Little Bilham becomes a great asset to Strether in his creation of Chad because he allows Strether into Chad’s “world”. It is a delight for Strether to be, the very next day, at little Bilhams invitation, sitting “with his legs under Chad’s mahogany [ . . . ] and with the great hum of Paris coming up in softness [ . . . ]” (136). In this world, Strether immediately identifies the connection between Chad’s world and Paris.

This connection with Paris and Chad is attractive to Strether because it allows Strether to commit offences he would never consider making at Woollett. Strether identifies Chad with good taste when he smokes one of Chad’s “excellent cigarettes” (138). Perhaps it is not the cigarette that is so exciting as it is the fact that because of Chad, Strether is able to enjoy the social aspect of smoking, for the first time, with a woman. This new outlet for penned up New England frustration allows Strether to connect with lost youth as he idealizes his portrait of Chad’s Parisian life.

For the final theater scene, Strether has existed several days in the electrifying city with no understanding of Chad but what he can create; Strether has yet to see Chad in person. Because of his experiences, Strether is forced to create a picture of Chad that consists of the more tempting aspects of Paris. All the while idealizing Chad and his world, Strether is finally confronted with the man after a clear reference to the “Europeanization” of Chad. Sitting in box seats at the theater with Miss Gostrey, his companion attributes Chad’s persona to being a product of Europe, of “Dear old Paris” (152). Believing the main influence over Chad to be Paris, Strether’s understanding of both Chad and Paris is reinforced by the physical presence of Chad, who enters the box just as the curtain rises. By allowing Chad to be created around the preconceived understanding of Woollett and its types, Strether composes a person, embodying the understanding of all the newly experienced types, who cannot be viewed independent of the city.

The Great Gatsby:
I’m particularly struck, this time through, by the meaning of language in Fitzgerald’s text. So much of the language is said without emotion, it becomes an empty container and is representing the lack of substance in the decadent Modernism that Fitzgeral critiques. In one instance: “‘She’s much obliged I’m sure,’ said another friend, without gratitude.” Or, “‘I thought you might be here’ she responded absently.” These examples – while my two selections may offer weak support – add another layer to the artificial (on its way to hype-real?) aspect of life that is killing the county’s waning pastoral idealism, the green light at the end of the dock.

And for fear of just “outing the queer” (as Denise so eloquently states it), I find that I am more convinced that homosexuality plays a big part in this novel. My only insight is that it adds to the overall theme of decadence and indulgence. As I’m not “up” on queer theory, however, I will only be able to vulgarly “out the queer.”

First gay scene (my ellipses in brackets):

Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier I followed.
“Come to lunch some day,” he suggested as we groaned down the elevator.
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
[. . .]
“All right,” I agreed, “I’ll be glad to.”
. . . I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands [ . . . ]

Second gay scene comes in two episodes:

“I was brought [to Gatsby’s party] by a woman named Roosevelt [. . .]Do you know her? I met he somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library”
[So this guy comes to the party with a woman and when he leaves, his car crashes into a ditch and he declares]
“You don’t understand . . . I wasn’t driving. There’s another man in the car.”
The shock that followed this declaration found voice in a sustained “Ah-h-h” as the door of the coupe swung slowly open [. . .] Then, very gradually, part by part, a pale dangling individual stepped out f the wreck, pawing tentatively at the ground with a large uncertain dancing shoe”

Ruth Hall

2005-08-29T13:13:00.000-05:00

Ruth Hall, at first glace, seems a simplistic, straightforward attempt at early feminism. And on one level it is. Historically this novel is groundbreaking because it represents a woman’s book that rivals Whitman, Emerson, and the good ol’ boys club of the nineteenth century in terms of sales and circulation. Fanny Fern begins the novel, which is a collection of newspaper submissions, with an apology. Basically, she’s sorry that she is a woman and that the book may be insulting to the superior brain power of men. (Nod to all the other US Women who do this). What strikes me as interesting in this book, however, is not the blatant feminist statement, but the more subtle way the country is contrasted to the city. In particular, the way the city represents a space that has no middle class. Ruth is either destitute or cosmopolitan. There is no in between. This fact is, of course, subject to her position among men. When she is married, she is fine. When she is single, she is barely able to survive. The Horatio Alger story here is fresh, for the nineteenth century, because Ruth pulls herself us by her boot straps in a celebrated self-made American way. Natural imagery abounds as people are compared to trees, animals, &c. The ultimate suggestion is that while the rural remains a place of hard times and difficult living, as well as lies and deceit, the urban can be a cosmopolitan pleasure or a living hell. Ultimately, Ruth becomes in some ways what Elizabeth Wilson calls The Sphinx in the City. She is an eruption, an unnatural presence in a masculine space. The novel serves as fine example of the traditional gender dualities that have evolved to be standard interpretation. Fern breaks boundaries by giving us a woman that we like who “makes it” in a man’s world without compromising her femininity. For Wilson, the Sphinx succeeds, in some cases, as a whore. Ruth is accused of such by her mother-in-law but isn’t ever forced into becoming a prostitute. Ultimately, however, she is dependant on a man, acting as the story’s gardener, to help her realize what she has already learned.

Thoreau's Walden

2005-08-29T12:49:00.000-05:00

It has been a while since I last had a serious look at Thoreau’s Walden. Previously, I was subjected to a professor who thought the best way of teaching the text was to read passages out loud. The louder she read the more important the passage. I have no idea why. It was a waste of time.
This time through, however, I have begun to see things heretofore undiscovered (by me, of course). While the train’s whistle cutting through the forest is a classic example of the industrial age’s invasion of the rich, natural landscape, Thoreau ultimately takes on more than just the train. It seems that almost all of human contact with nature involves destroying it. A rather sad example is when a domestic cat becomes wild and is then caught in a woodchuck trap, “and so became a dead cat at last.”
Early on in the book, Thoreau identifies “second nature” which smacks me as something very similar to the more recent definition by Wm Cronan (more on that when I read Cronan). Thoreau is basing the definition on what he deems “necessary of life.” He writes: “The necessaries of life for man in this climate may . . . be distributed under the several head of Food, Shelter, Clothing, and Fuel; for not till we have secured these are we prepared to entertain the true problems of life with freedom and a prospect of success. Man has invented, not only houses, but cloths and cooked food; and possibly from the accidental discovery of the warmth of present necessity to sit by it. We observe cats and dogs acquiring the same second nature.” Ultimately, for Thoreau, “second nature” becomes almost anything we deem necessary that is not of nature. Second nature, for Thoreau as well as Cronan, I think, is a luxury we allow ourselves that requires our manipulation and gradual destruction of nature. Based on the progression of the idea from Thoreau to Cronan, I might suggest that there is a kind of “first contact” destruction. Who was the anthropologist (?) that said to observe something is to necessarily change it? Well that is basically what’s happening here. By entering nature and imposing our demands upon it, we are changing it, in the first instance for Thoreau, in a more complex way for Cronana, who also suggests that we create a certain nostalgia for “first nature” (my term) that is a false nostalgia. So even Thoreau, then, is trying to live out a “first nature” experience that is impossible because the more me achieve “progress” – the more the train and it’s whistle invade the woods – the farther removed we are from nature and the more we have nostalgia for something that is a perversion of what nature really is. Thoreau: “The best works of art are the expression of man’s struggle to free himself form this condition, but the effect of our art is merely to make this low state comfortable and that highter state to be forgotten.” Emerson and Oates (even Cronan, to an extent) try to avoid this problem in some ways by suggesting that nature is an experience. I’m not sure that Thoreau says this explicitly but he might suggest it by insisting that “Wherever I sat, there I might live, and the landscape radiated from me accordingly.” Or, “we are in danger of forgetting the language which all things and events speak without metaphor, which alone is copious and standard.” Language/Nature-as-experience.

This idea of language is picked up again in the “Visitors” section of Walden. Thoreau writes that “our sentences wanted room to unfold and form their columns in the interval. Individuals, like nations, must have suitable broad and natural boundaries, even a considerable neutral ground, between them.” And “if we are merely loquacious and loud talkers, then we can afford to stand very near together, cheek by howl, and feel each other’s breath; but if we speak reservedly and thoughtfully, we want to be farther apart, that all animal heat and moisture may have a chance to evaporate.” The essence of what Thoreau is suggesting here is that we need space to talk. It is both a physical/literal space and a metaphoric space. The city exists as a space that is non-conducive to language. “Things” are close and so are people. Therefore, language is unable to shed its passion and animalistic emotion. I can see strong arguments here that would work against the current state of TV news (no metaphoric space to allow language to be considered before it reaches the consumer). This can also translate into an argument against the reactionary war we are fighting. If we would have allowed the language and information the space to loose its animalistic passion and the blatant lies to expose themselves, the president’s popularity ratings would have been much lower much sooner. This is one of the problems with the current brand of reactionary conservatism running rampant in the country.
Back to Thoreau. He recounts an “ant war” that struck me as important. In Middlesex there is an ant war. Oates reflects on ants, as well. I’m sure that it has come up in other sources, too. I think there may be an important idea that permeates American fiction and it is yet to be uncovered by scholars looking at the ants in US Fiction. Perhaps the democratic war of the ants.
Thoreau wonders if “our farmers when they cut down a forest felt some of the awe which the old Romans did when they came to this, or let in, the light to, a consecrated grove. . . that is, would believe that it is sacred to some god. The Roman made an expiatory offering and prayed.” I’m here reminded of the hurricane in Hogan’s novel Power. And, indeed, of our recent visit by Katrina. Nature is trying to tell us something. Hogan’s hurricane, I might suggest is a violent birth of the novel and the main character. The storm’s destruction is meant to cleanse the earth of how its inhabitants have polluted it. The character is “born” of this natural disaster as natures way of “fixing” the problem. I wonder what “fix” Katrina has offered? Thoreau’s claim is similar to Hogan’s. There is a divinity in nature and we must be careful how we handle it. Small ceremonies (a la Hogan, I think. – Is that right? Was it Hogan who discusses ‘small ceremonies?” Anyone?) Are important to respecting and reflecting on nature and its gifts to us. Again, it’s space we need. Words and, I’ll add actions, need time to be considered. Reflecting on the death of a forest is important because it might allow us to see something other than the initial profit motivation. It is also a thoughtful gesture to nature and might, indeed, be considered a “small ceremony.” I’m thinking here of the clear cutting of my dear Pennsylvania forests.

I’ll finish by saying that Thoreau’s anal documentation of everything from the number and cost of shingles to his measurement of the pond harkens back to that pragmatic, Franklinesque habit of scheduling and recording that Tocqueville argues is a uniquely American habit.

God Smiles on Boca Raton

2005-08-26T10:03:00.000-05:00

For the first time since creation, God smiled on Boca Raton. Last night, as Katrina positioned herself to strike our fair city, she made a last minute dip south and spared us some of her wrath. High winds and rain seemed like nothing compared to last year's torture. We never lost power! The air was conditioned all night long and I awoke this morning to find no significant property damage. As a thankful gesture, I'm having the instant coffee I bought for drinking in the event of a power outage. It's disgusting, yes, but not as bad as drinking it in a hot, smelly, powerless house.
As I understand it, there is another system developing in the tropics that has hurricane potential. Stay tuned.

Katrina, Katrina

2005-08-24T11:46:00.000-05:00

So I've returned from yet another August visit to PA to be greeted with a hurricane. Well, she's only a tropical storm right now but it looks like Katrina will be affecting our weather for the next 48 hours or so.
I flew from State College to PBI yesterday morning. I landed around 10:15am and then went to greet my first class of freshman at 2:00pm. This is an 1102 class. I was asking them about their intended majors and why they chose that particular major. One student tells the class that he is majoring in psychology so that he can be a stripper. Stunned at his brazen declaration, my mouth agape, I knew not what to respond. (I think that I must invite this type of response). In my silence he continues: "see, I'm ripped (he's not) and totally hot. Already I've got people in this class ready to come to my show." I'm not sure if he is being serious. I regain composure and the class by announcing to everyone: "And this class, is the perfect example of what NOT to say to your teacher on the first day of school."

The trip to PA was fun. Kylie and Nathan can cook up a mean meal. My brother is an extreme grill master, insisting that my recent purchase of a gas grill is nothing short of blasphemy. Charcoal is the way to grill. Everything else represents sin and destruction. Does this make Nathan a purest?
Hayden is getting cuter by the second, as the pictures below will testify. He's crawling and can motor his way around the house and under the dog like Stewey on Family Guy.

Everything seems to be in order back home. Nothing ever really changes and that is somehow comforting. Although it makes me realize how much I am changing/have changed and this realization makes every visit a new and different challenge. On this trip I learned that I'm too fat, I have high blood pressure, and my cholesterol is off the charts; I will probably die soon; and if life is not difficult and oppressive, then it must be evil.

While it has been pretty dry in PA this summer, my mom was able to score some delicious peaches and wonderful garden-fresh tomatoes. I think I ate a bushel of each -- wait: maybe I am fat. I love the fact that, up north, people still can and freeze fresh fruits and vegetables. It's funny how we forget about the lack of these items when we live in Florida. It seems that the canned goods even taste better than the fresh stuff we are eating in FL around February. The "goodness" of the fruits and veggies comes from the soil. That is why most of our stuff tastes like sand or Guatemala. -- Already, I'm looking forward to a peach cobbler at Thanksgiving or Christmas.
That's it for now. Enjoy the pics of my favorite little nephew.

2005-08-24T11:44:00.000-05:00

I know, I know. I'm cute!

2005-08-24T11:43:00.000-05:00

Me and my Daddy -- both at an awkward moment

2005-08-24T11:41:00.001-05:00

Look! I can stand!

2005-08-24T11:41:00.000-05:00

the ol' thumb sucker

"A Mother and the President"

2005-08-16T14:12:00.000-05:00

This Time article has the most beautiful ending:

"But White House aides say they worry about the precedent, should Bush see Sheehan again. 'If the President meets with her, does he have to meet with every protester who camps out in Crawford or in Lafayette Park [in Washington]?' asks a Bush aide. 'Does he have a second meeting with every mother or wife who asks for one?'
A Fair question. There is a risk, though, that Sheehan's ideas will never stop spreading down the road. In 1965 a group of just 25 antiwar protesters demonstrated outside President Lyndon Johnson's Texas ranch. Within a few years, the handful had turned into a movement."

It's the turn of the last two sentences that gets to me. It pulls at my heart. What we need is a movement. I wish I was courageous enough to pack up and go to Crawford, adding my voice to (what I pray becomes) a movement toward peace and away from the Bushit.

Stuff and Pedantic Self-Aggrandizing

2005-08-15T16:22:00.000-05:00

So it’s been a while.......

Friday’s “Wicked Huge Party” went off with a bang. The front lawn was parked full of cars and I still had guests the next day at 2:00, when we turned the grill back on and cooked up some of the leftover hotdogs and hamburgers. I had a blast! I’m thrilled that so many people showed up. Every nation was represented. (Let’s see if I can remember them all): Irish, English, Trinidadian, Italian, Cuban, and Brazilian. It was so cool, too, that Shannon O (and Simone) came. You’re the coolest, girl. And Scotty G’s reproduction of the Venice di Milo is one that I will always treasure. (I’m soooo tempted to post the picture – but I won’t. Instead, I’m willing to sell a copy to anyone who wants one. Say $50?) The funniest part of the entire thing was watching the cats try to walk on the filthy, sticky floor the next day. Afer every step, they’d have to shake each paw.

The weekend before, Colleen and I had Wendy and Jeremy over for dinner – (they were delicious) – and after dessert, we looked at each other and said “let’s take a vacation.” We packed our swimming suits and drove to Fort Lauderdale where we booked into a beach hotel. We spent all day Saturday on the beach and sipping fruity drinks by the pool. I love Florida!

This month of fun has been brought to you by my new grill. About three weeks ago I went to Target and bought a little gas grill. It said that “your parents [should] put it together.” But I didn’t think that my dad was really interested in coming to Florida, so I went ahead and “built” it myself. So far so good. No major gas explosions, yet. I’ve also been ignoring the various suggestions on how to prepare Mr. Emerson.

This week I’m off to PA to visit the family before I begin the new semester. Little Hayden is now crawling and I feel like I’ve missed half of his life already. When I return, I’ll be teaching just two days a week so that should allow plenty of time to read and study for my exams in December. I’m also taking a weekend research jaunt to Detroit on 2 September. I figured that since I’m writing on the city, I should at least visit it.

In other news, the people from the Walt Whitman conference in Paris want to publish my paper. It’s crazy to think that I was surrounded by “all star” Whitman scholars and someone was drunk enough at 9am to find mind deserving of publication. I’m wondering, though, if this justifies the $350 cell phone bill I racked up over there?

Right now I can’t seem to hear enough music by Anastacia. I finished reading Middlesex. It was brilliant! What follows is a collage of my thinking on the novel for my summer class – a la Donna Haraway. It’s kinda long but I think it represents the kind of thinking I want to do in the dissertation and will serve as what I hope to be the inaugural shift for this blog. I want to use it to, among other things, post initial musings about the books from my examination reading list.
So Hheeeeeeeeeeerrrrrs Middlesex:

Eugenides’s novel doesn’t so much trace the life of a hermaphrodite as it traces the journey of a hermaphroditic gene. As the gene passes from generation to generation, we see the boundaries of relationships blur. Upon moving to the United States, Cal’s grandparents are the catalysts of confusion: Desdemona and Lefty are both sister and brother, wife and husband. When Cal’s grandfather begins his job at the Ford factory in Detroit, the narrator declares an “historical fact: people stopped being human in 1913. That was the year Henry Ford put his cars on rollers and made his workers adopt the speed of the assembly line . . . Since then . . . we’ve all inherited it to some degree.” Donna Haraway, of course, tells us that a cyborg is “simultaneously animal and machine . . . with a power that was not generated in the history of sexuality.” Ultimately I want to consider these idea in light of the novel’s setting. Detroit exists in the national consciousness as “the motor city” and is the perfect place for a cyborg to emerge. I need to be clear, however: I do not want to argue that any character exists as a literal cyborg. Rather, I want to illustrate a cyborgian metaphor in an attempt to discuss the significance of the hermaphrodite-as-cyborg and environmental/cultural seer.
When Lefty goes to work at Ford, he is becoming part of the mechanized city and, if we believe the narrator, he stops being human: he is now a man/machiene. He takes this trait, in conjunction with the chromosomal abnormality associated with hermaphrodita, and passes it onto his progeny. The ensuing generations of Detroiters, as well as Lefty’s kids, will be part machine. This, of course, is all happening at a figurative level and plays out in other cultural situations that exist outside of my current discussion. What is important, however, is that the mutated gene, is passed through three generations in such a way that the boundaries of familial relations are broken down into an almost non-dualistic, partial identity that also exists within the framework of a machine. When she is born, first as Callie, the narrator explains that
Sourmelina Zizmo (nee Papadiamandopoulos) wasn’t only my firs cousin twice removed. She was also my grandmother. My father was his own mother’s (and Father’s) nephew. In addition to being my grandparents, Desdemona and Lefty were my great-aunt and -uncle. My parents would be my second cousins once removed and Chapter Eleven would be my third cousin as well as my brother.
(I’ll leave it to you to figure that passage out for yourself). My point is to illustrate the chaos from which our hero is first born. Haraway explains that being a cyborg is “about lived social and bodily realities in which people are not afraid of their joint kinship with animals and machines, not afraid of permanently partial identities and contradictory standpoints.” The helter-skelter interweaving of the social and bodily reality into which Callie is first born exists as a series of partial identities that Callie-as-cyborg must embrace.
From genetic chaos, then, comes a cosmic eruption. “As sperm meets egg, I feel a jolt. There’s a loud sound, a sonic boom as my world cracks.” Callie is born a girl with a “blank slate of personhood.” She demonstrates the outward manifestations of correlate hermaphroditic gene which she carries. Her chromosomes are male, her appearance is female. She is also born into postlapsarian Detroit, where everyone is part machine. Callie is not yet able to fully embody the spirit of the cyborg, however. Here, I am merely setting up the connection between the female Callie and her cyborg potential. Also, Eugenides does not allow us to make a simple correlative relationship between Callie and a cyborg. Our hero, after all, is not quite female.
Cal explains that he was “born twice: first, as a baby girl . . . and then again as a teenage boy” (3). I will argue that Cal is born a third time. When he returns to Detroit after running away to San Francisco, he is blending his male/female person with his cyborg-self. Haraway suggests that “gender might not be global” and that “cyborgs might consider more seriously the partial, fluid, sometimes aspect of sex and sexual embodiment.” After being born as a teenage boy, Cal comes to realize this cyborg (a)sexuality(?).
Callie, investigating the terms she overheard the doctors of the “Sexual Disorders and Gender Identity Clinic” using to describe her, found her identity in the dictionary. “There it was, monster, in black and white, in a battered dictionary in a great city library . . . Monster. That was what she was. That was what Dr. Luce and his colleagues had been saying. It explained so much really.” And while it explained enough to Callie to cause her to run away, it explains to us that her relationship to a cyborg is growing ever more dynamic. “Monsters,” according to Haraway, “have always defined the limits of community in Western imaginations.” She even uses hermaphrodites as an example of historical monsters, explaining them to be “confused human material in early modern France.” Haraway likens hermaphrodites to cyborgs when she writes that: “Cyborgs are no exception. A cyborg body is not innocent . . . it takes irony for granted. One is too few. Two is only one possibility . . . We are responsible for boundaries; we are they." Callie’s sojourn into Cal, her trip to San Francisco, is the hermaphrodite’s embracing of the “monster” that she was trained to see in the mirror. Cal’s loss of innocence is very telling of his ability to recreate the boundaries for, and the understanding of, his “new” self.
While in San Francisco and living as a man, Cal finds his best – and only – employment option to be in a sex club where he fills the role of “monster:” he is part of a freak show. Surrounded by the compassion of two other people who struggle with gender identity, Cal is able to learn to embrace his bifurcated physical and emotional being. Zora, Cal’s roommate and essentially his opposite – both are genetic males, however Zora “developed along female lines” – was successful in convincing Cal that “we’re what’s next.” She also introduced him to the knowledge that “many cultures on earth operated not with two genders but with three. And the third was always special, exalted, endowed with mystical gifts.” In the presence of others who are having conflicts similar to his own, Cal is able to embrace his “new” identity. This identity is fraught with the same irony in which Haraway centrally locates the cyborg, namely the irony of evasive gender.
Before making any final pronouncements about Cal’s validity as a cyborg image or move on to the final machine connection, there is one final critical stop to make. Haraway argues that “Cyborg politics is the struggle for language and the struggle against perfect communication, against the one code that translates all meaning perfectly, the central dogma of phallogocentrism.” Cal subscribes to this politic. I am in fear of under developing the point by only citing one example but I believe it to be a solid and clear commitment to his ability to understand language as both a man and a woman, hence illustrating the binary world of “normal” language as one devoid of absolute meaning. In retelling his life, Cal explains that “emotions . . . aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in ‘sadness,’ ‘joy,’ or ‘regret.’ Maybe the best proof that language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling.” Cal knows this, of course, because for the first part of life he experienced the world as a girl and was then forced to understand it as a man. Here, he is simply stating that the experience doesn’t translate because it comes from a world-experience that works to create binaries and divisions. His position as clairvoyant, as hermaphroditic unionist, allows him the same insights that Haraway subscribes to the cyborg.
When he returns to Detroit for his father’s funeral, Cal is recreated as a cyborg. Having embraced and now embodying all of the requirements for working against duality, Cal turns to his connection with technology in the form of the city before taking his place in the fringe, the suburbs. Detroit’s urban environment becomes part of Cal and is embraced by him as part of his person. In this way, the hermaphrodite-as-cyborg is not reborn; rather, he regenerates himself. Haraway requires that cyborgs regenerate and are not reborn. In so doing, the cyborg encourages the “utopian dream of the hope for a monstrous world without gender.” On the way home, Cal asks if they can drive through the city. As they entered Detroit:

"It was just getting light. The sun was rising form wherever it rose, behind the distant factories maybe, or over the blind river. The growing light was like a leakage or flood, seeping into the ground .
[. . .]
Grow up in Detroit and you understand the way of all things. Early on, you are put on close relations with entropy. As we rose out of the highway trough, we could see the condemned houses, many burned, as well and the stark beauty of all the vacant lots, gray and frozen . . . Returning to Detroit from bright climes usually depressed me. But now I welcomed it . . .
[. . . ]
He had turned back onto Jefferson for the long miles through the blighted East Side . . . The old dime stores and sweet shops were closed, Kresge’s, Woolworth’s, Sanders Ice Cream. It was cold out. Not many people were on the streets. On one corner a man stood impervious, cutting a fine figure against the winter sky . . . No part of my suburban world, this figure; therefore exotic. But nevertheless familiar, and suggestive of the peculiar creative energies of my hometown. I was glad to see him anyway. I couldn’t take my eyes away."

As well as being a beautifully lyrical section of prose, the description of Detroit illustrates Cal’s union with “the peculiar creative energies” of the city. He welcomes his “close relations with entropy” and is being regenerated by the city. Detroit represents both the non-nature required in creating a cyborg as well as the “monstrous world” for our hero without a definite gender. It is his identification and embrace of the history that makes him a hermaphrodite that allows Cal to reject dualism and embrace the non-nature of the city, making him the personification of hermaphrodite-as-cyborg.

NY Times Discusses Important Issue

2005-07-30T09:41:00.000-05:00

It seems that in my own little blog-sphere, this article is true. Of course, Mr. Emerson often makes an appearance on my blog. And Pamela allows Jazzy a little fame, too. And there is the infamous picture of the Cat Gravatt using the toilet. Su has Indy on her web page but the pup never really makes it to blogger fame. The article suggests that cats are a more important web force because they are a "private" animal and are therefore linked to the voyeuristic nature of the web. I might argue that Mr. Emerson makes it to my blog so much because he is always jumping up on my lap or keyboard when I am at the computer. He has been known to email and instant message people when I get up for a cup of coffee. And sometimes I'm suspicious that he uses my web cam for less than appropriate "discussion groups." Regardless of what the Times says, Cats are cooler than dogs. They are smarter, too. Just ask Mr Emerson, he'll tell you. In fact, just now he's sitting on my lap helping me write this entry....

2005-07-22T13:55:00.000-05:00

For my momma, it's Whistler's ;)

Books, Books, Books

2005-07-19T10:59:00.000-05:00

Somehow, Sally has compelled me to fill this out:

Total number of books owned: I currently own right around 1000 books (not counting the ones I am “storing” at my mom’s house in PA

Last book bought: The last book I bought was Camille Paglia’s Break Blow Burn, or was it the Eco book from my previous post? – Paglia, I think.

Last book read: I just finished The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram. He’s using Husserl, Heigegger, and Merlot-Ponty along with Native American linguistic structures to argue for the existence of a transcendent life-world that is hidden by language.

Five books that mean a lot to you (not in any particular order):
JCO’s them, of course
Any collection of Steven’s poetry
Silent Spring
As I Lay Dying
The first chapter of Invisible Man. The entire book is good but there is something in that first section that I think is close to perfect.

Tag five people to continue this meme:
I don’t think I know five new bloggers.I’ll list
Su
and maybe encourage Colleen to start her blog with this entry
as well as Tom, Steve, and Rebecca ;)

I'm ready for my close up

2005-07-18T08:31:00.000-05:00

When I was in Boston (what was it?) three years ago, I saw a documentary on this artist. Turns out he’s still working. I love it. People need to embrace their bodies – all shapes and sizes. After all, we’re all naked under our clothes.

I think it must be me

2005-07-17T13:10:00.000-05:00

So I went to a bbq yesterday and was having a really nice time when another party guest (I have no idea what his name was) told me that I had a flat tire. Now if something is going to go wrong with my car, I prefer that it be a flat tire. I must say, however, that since moving to Florida the number of flat tires I've suffered outweighs by far the number of times in my LIFE that I've heard of other people having flat tires. I know I must be doing something wrong. I'm not "off roading" in the Hyundai. I'm not even "haulin' ass" in the Hyundai. What am I doing wrong? I drive on standard issue pavement. Sometimes I speed. I share the roadway with a bunch of old people in Cadillacs and soccer moms in SUVs. Why don't I ever see a donut on one of those cars? Mostly, I see my car decorated with a spare tire (well, my car and my stomach;). Occasionally, I'll see someone sporting a donut on an old Toyota. Really, this is just reenforcing my commitment to fighting against the atrocities of classism. Only poor people get flat tires. Ok, well maybe that is a bit of an over statement. I take comfort in knowing that when terrorists nuke south Florida, we'll all be treated equally. And the real cockroaches will take over.
All in all, the bbq was fun and the AAA guy, who actually joined the party after changing my tire, gave the already unusual evening a totally new dimension.

2005-07-16T23:42:00.000-05:00

my girls came over the other night

Evaluations

2005-07-13T09:18:00.000-05:00

I received my student’s evaluations from the spring semester. Here are some of my favorites (click on the image to enlarge it):

2005-07-13T09:15:00.000-05:00

They like me, they really like me! (I think -- hmmm..... a doll without organs of bodily functions? Is that me?)

2005-07-13T09:13:00.000-05:00

Looks like I'm able to fool even the initial naysayers

2005-07-13T09:11:00.000-05:00

From someone who didn't like the course. I think the logic here is fantastic ;)

2005-07-13T08:43:00.000-05:00

Non, je ne regrette rien

2005-07-12T17:47:00.000-05:00

Well I’m finally home and I don’t think I’m leaving Florida for the rest of the summer. Paris was wonderful. I was in love the entire time – no object for my affection. It was just my response to the city. The conference was extraordinary. I’ve never been so intimidated in my life. Everyone who was anyone in Walt Whitman studies was there. After reading my paper I was worried that the audience would either ignore me or lambast me. Neither happened. Instead they were soft-balling me with questions like: “so do you believe that a universal, democratic language exists?” My answer is, of course, “No.”
My favorite complement came from Vivian Pollak. She is a professor at Wash. U, St. Louis (a school that rejected me). She told me that their policy of not admitting PhD students who already have an MA from another institution was “obviously unfortunate for us, in this case.” I was pleased, too, that so many people recognized the name of my school. When I said FAU, they were able to make a connection with someone they knew working there.
The first Sunday of the month is “free museum day” in Paris. I took advantage of the opportunity and went to the Picasso, Pompidou Center, and the Musee d’Orsay. After the conference I spent the day at the Louvre. After climbing the stairs and turning the corner, looking over a sea of people down a marble corridor with arches and columns, I saw, floating above the heads of tourists, the Venus de Milo. I have only cried in a museum one other time. (In Pasadena, CA viewing Degas sculpted ballerinas). I spent at least 20 minutes circling the Venus and contemplating her beauty. I’m still speechless.
The night before visiting the Louvre, I was walking down the street looking for a place to eat. As I was crossing the street, I heard a voice: “Tai?” The phantom questioned. I looked. “I’m sorry” I said. “Should I know you?” (The last thing I want is for someone to recognize me – that’s why I usually travel alone) Turns out that it was Sabrina, a girl from the MA program here at FAU. She was on her way to meet Ryan, another FAU grad student, for dinner. They were spending the summer in the south of France and happened to be in Paris for the weekend. We had a nice dinner and lovely evening.
The next night I was contemplating a meal at a restaurant by the Shakespear & Co. Bookstore. Standing next to me was another potential dinner guest. I paid no attention to her. When the waiter went to seat me, he thought that this other person and I were together. Dumbfounded, we both said “no, we’re not together.” The waiter “Well, you should be.” I spent a lovely evening with Amy from Kansas City, Missouri. She is a classical clarinetist who is spending the summer in Lyon studying French. After dinner we walked to the Eiffel Tower and watched it sparkle for 10 minutes at midnight.
I also went to the Moulin Rouge and then to the cemetery to find the graves of my two favorite Frenchwomen: Collette and Edith Piaf. Buried there, too, is Oscar Wilde and Jimmy Hendrix.
I must say that Paris is now my favorite city and is now my most anticipated “return trip.” The French get it. I was sorry for them when they lost the Olympic bid. I was standing in a square with thousands of Parisians, watching large screen projection tvs when the announcement was made. A sigh went out from the crowd and I believe that the people there were honestly disappointed. Paris, unlike what I saw in London last month, had community and government support and enthusiasm for the games. I think I’ll go with the argument that the Olympic committee is corrupt.
In a final note, one the day of the London bombings both my mom and John called me within three hours of each other (as soon as they awoke, I’d assume. John at 5:30 and mom at 8:30) to ask the same question: “You didn’t do something stupid like go to London, did you?” While I was considering a chunnel ride to London, I was happier in Paris but will, without hesitation, jump on another plane headed to one of those cities just as soon as time and money permits.
I’m posting several pictures from the trip below.

2005-07-12T17:46:00.000-05:00

Colette

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Edith

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voule vou couche avec moi?

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I was here

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I was here too

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on the Champs Elysee

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view from my hotel room (I heard everything -- I mean EVERYTHING!)

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For Dad -- I saw it!

2005-07-12T17:40:00.000-05:00

Inside the Musee d'Orsay

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I prefer the "rear" view of the Pompidau

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I was always stumbling onto parades

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what else would the street be for?

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THE nice day

2005-07-12T17:36:00.000-05:00

look for the hunch-back

en francais

2005-07-03T10:31:00.000-05:00

BonjourArrived in Paris and was dead tired. The girl next to me on the plain talked the entire flight. I took a nice nap and began my flanneuring. So far I have done a lot of walking and seen some museums. The first sunday of the month museums are free! This really helps out my budget. (it’s a good thing I like bread). This keyboard it confusing so ill stop this post now
have not finished my paper yet. conference starts tomorrow

Aaah, the free press.

2005-06-30T09:18:00.000-05:00

I'm wondering why I havn't never read this article from a US news source. It is just more proof of the CONSERVATIVE domination of the media. (even though it was first reported by the Washington Post, no one has done a follow up confirmation nor has it reached mass distribution)

2005-06-28T10:42:00.000-05:00

I forgot to include my picture of Uncle Umberto

Where I am going, where I have been

2005-06-26T20:27:00.000-05:00

Anyone know this post's title's origin?
Well it’s been a while. And for good reason. In the last few weeks I have been doing some crazy traveling. But let’s back up. A few weeks ago, I went to see Umberto Eco speak at Miami/Dade College. It was terrific! I bought his new book and had him sign it as well as my copy of Limits of Interpretation. Scott posted the highlights of the evening so I’ll refer you to his blog.
I also was off to Pennsylvania for my cousin Todd’s wedding. I spent the weekend with my brother, Kylie, and Hayden. I don’t think that I stopped looking at Hayden all weekend. He is just the most precious thing. I even replaced Mr. Emerson’s picture on my phone with one of Mr. H. R. Houser.
The wedding was much like a class reunion because Todd married Brooke, a sweetheart of a girl with whom I went to high school. It was great to see all those “old” people. It made me nostalgic for old times when life seemed less complex.
I flew home for one day and then went to Baltimore, where my mom was having surgery at Johns Hopkins. She was to have a tumor removed that the Doctor called a “pituitary adenoma.” When they got in to her brain, however, they found that it was a “craniopharyngioma.” Turns out that this was a good surprise. While the pituitary adenoma is a relatively “normal” thing, only 1% of the population develops a craniopharyngioma. It is benign and the doctor was pleased with the procedure and the results. She is home now, recovering and being waited on hand and foot.
Now that I’m back in Florida, I’m doing another turnaround. I’m off to a conference in Paris on Thursday. I’m giving a paper on Walt Whitman’s poem The Sleepers. I will be in Paris from 1 July to 10 July. I’m taking my phone with me, so some of you might just get a call from me bragging about strolling down the Champs-Elysees or having a café at the Eiffel Tower. One little problem about this trip, however. I’m running out of money. After paying for the hotel, museums, &c., I wonder if I’ll be able to eat. Can I live on bread and wine? I’m sure going to give it a try.
I’m worried for Colleen, though. I’ve been home for just about 24 hours now and already Mr. Emerson is driving me nuts. I think he is upset that I haven’t been home that much these last few weeks. He’s really going to be upset when I leave for 10 more days. Good luck, Colleen! Please don’t kill my cat. (Chiara, don’t you dare encourage her).
Well, I wish I had something more insightful to share. I’ve been too busy to be very contemplative lately. I did read some pretty good books. Power, by Linda Hogan, is a blend of Native American and European American fiction that does a superior job of illustrating mythic space and it encourages a more green-conscious way of thinking. (I read it for my Green Consciousness class – but I think I should have liked to read it anyway). I also read the introduction to Camille Paglia’s new book, Break, Blow, Burn. I recently discussed her ideas with Prof. Bucak on her blog. Right now, I’m reading Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake. I’m not enjoying it so much. It’s close to sci-fi/fantasy. I don’t like that genre. I’m also reading Middlesex. It’s taking me a long time to get through it but so far, I love it! I’ll post more on it when I finish it.
Ok, that’s it for now. Pictures from the last few weeks below

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aahhh, even Papa wore the hat

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Lori, it seems, needed help standing. Guess where Colleen, on the left, kept her cigarettes and lighter -- a hint: they are behind the cup

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Lori spent a lot of time close to the ground

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Sgnra Penny

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I'm always proud of cousin Lori

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It always gets a little crazy

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aahhh yes, Uncle Pickle was having a good time

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Love this one of Brooke and my Grandfather

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I like this one of Todd and Aunt Karen

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Todd and Brooke

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Uncle Tai's favorite little man, Punk Houser

Buddy, I'm getting old

2005-05-28T09:37:00.000-05:00

I looked at my hands this morning. The right hand was pasty-white and the left was an olive-cream color. Does that mean something?

Su came over yesterday and we had a great dinner on the beach in Deerfiled with EK and Jay. It was such a nice night. We walked out to the end of the pier and enjoyed the breeze and beautifully lighted coast line. In an effort to “try something new” we headed to The Duck. It was packed. We ended up at Crabby Jacks. It wasn’t. Packed. Both places reminded me why I like the pub. I know that some people question our pub patronage. While the selections at the pub are limited, I like it because it is not usually very crowded and has what Su called an “everyone knows your name feeling.” (I’m singing now). My question is why do people want to go to a smokey, crowded, loud space? I don’t buy the “to meet people” argument because if you really wanted to meet people, you wouldn’t do it someplace where you can’t talk with them. And if the argument is “to have fun with friends,” my response is the same. You can’t enjoy anything other than your drink if it’s too noisy to have a chat. While I’ve gone to South Beach or Fort Lauderdale and had a good time, I just don’t understand the appeal anymore. I think I’m getting old. My quest for silence is, perhaps, informing my choice in entertainment. I have had more fun with “the group” at the ol’ Lion and Eagle in the past few months than I think I’ve ever had at the “popular” places. What it boils down to, for me, is the company. People are fun, interesting, enjoyable. The people make the space enjoyable. Anything that inhibits/prohibits social intercourse (ie: “noise” or “pollution”) ruins the experience for me. Methinks that my psyche is preparing to enter my 30s. I must be getting old. I’m worried that I might “mellow.”

In other news, we are dog sitting this weekend. Buddy is an adorable beagle who likes to chew and chase. I spent the day with Buddy on Thursday and we were doing a good job of going outside regularly. I was on the phone with Chiara and took Buddy outside. I was on the phone with Su and took Buddy outside. I was on the phone with Michelle and took Buddy outside. This was all before 2:00. It started to rain at 2:00. Buddy promptly peed on the sofa and shat upon the floor. Thanks, Buddy.

Yesterday, I was working at the computer setting up my grade book. Colleen was in the shower. Buddy was yacking something up on the floor. Thanks, Buddy.

Every night since he arrived, Buddy has slept in his crate. He has to. He might micturate on the sofa again or chew through the pillows. Buddy doesn’t really like sleeping in the crate. He prefers to practice his howl while in the cage. Thanks, Buddy.

I now have huge bags under my eyes and am concerned for Buddy’s life. “Mr. Emerson” has a black-belt and he’s been known to use it when he’s angry.

A quiz

2005-05-22T15:29:00.000-05:00

I ran across this quiz by linking to one of Pam's friends. I thought I'd put it on here because we (those 2 or 3 people who I know look at this blog) like to consider this stuff. I like that I am part of something "new." I've never heard of a Cultural Creativist before. Talk about a hermeneutic drift.

You scored as Cultural Creative. Cultural Creatives are probably the newest group to enter this realm. You are a modern thinker who tends to shy away from organized religion but still feels as if there is something greater than ourselves. You are very spiritual, even if you are not religious. Life has a meaning outside of the rational.

Cultural Creative

94%

Postmodernist

69%

Romanticist

50%

Existentialist

44%

Idealist

38%

Fundamentalist

38%

Materialist

31%

Modernist

25%

What is Your World View? (corrected...again)
created with QuizFarm.com

Two Things

2005-05-21T11:38:00.000-05:00

I've got two thing to talk about today.
Thing one
I'm not sure if it was the lack of sleep or if the stars were aligned but my flight from Philadelphia to Fort Lauderdale was the most interesting people watching event of the year. When I sad down in my seat, I said hello to the old guy sitting next to me. We chatted off and on throughout the flight and I learned a lot about him. He is 85 years old and was born in Sicily, fought in WWII and married an American woman. They now live in Davie. His three sons all work for airlines. He flew back to Sicily at the request of his dying cousin. He didn't make it in time; she died just before he arrived. This bit is interesting because Chiara had similar circumstances surrounding her trip home to Sicily. The guy liked to talk about life and life-experiences. He told me I needed to learn Italian. I said I'd like to ... I have a certain inclination toward it. And then, with a little prompting, he gave me the secret to Sicilian women -- (let's just say I have an academic interest in them). His insight is less profound than one might think: "Listen to her when she talks." This got me thinking about how the best advice is usually the simplest advice. Basic respect for people and their place in the world makes for more productive human relationships. Wouldn't it be nice if we could just all take the time to listen to each other? We become so self-consumed that when we "listen," we are really only listening for a place where we can jump in and talk. We don't always need to have something to say in response, we just need to hear and consider the concerns of other people. Sometimes, of course, we need to talk. But if you are a good listener, there will always be someone willing to listen to you in return -- these are our friends. And perhaps at the root of what the guy is trying to say is that the "secret" is that I should --we should -- just be a good friend. It's a good answer. Imagine what would happen if we spent more time listening: it follows that less people would be talking. And with the silence that we find, we would be able to listen to that which speaks most clearly to our souls. Undoubtedly, this will not happen. Modern life, especially modern capitalist-driven life, forces us to produce. What we mostly produce is "noise." It might not be noise in the audible sense but it is "noise" in the terms of Physics (A disturbance, especially a random and persistent disturbance, that obscures or reduces the clarity of a signal) or computer science (Irrelevant or meaningless data). This has implications for the individual (the secret to Sicilian women -- at least according to that guy who married an American) as well as for the global. Imagine if we would have listened to the memo stating "Bin Laden planning attack on America," or if we would have listened to the message being sent by the 9-11 hijackers, or if we would have listened to the UN committee that said Saddam didn't have WMDs, or if we would have listened to the voices of history that tell us how wrong is the noisy action of war.

Also on the flight was this guy who was very proud of his new lap top computer. He got it out and decided to make alist of "summer goals." He is the kind of guy who annoys me (actually, that's most guys). He was relatively well built (that's not really my problem) but he had this annoying habit that many of the gym guys develop of twisting/cracking his neck in a quick, jerky motion that ends up making him look like a turtle with a twitch. I wonder if he is happy in his cubical life?
anyway, the list intrigued me as it neared 200 items, some of which I jotted down because they were priceless:
1. car to Hyundai for recall work
2. order meds
3. dentist
4. find endocrinologist
5. Lisa, get the divorce already
6. enroll kids in summer activities. probably one active and one arts focused program
7. Clean fridge
8. change bathroom fixtures
9. go to park -- don't wear denim shorts this time
10. don't eat out any more
11. buy a few more suits
12. clean carpet
13. Maybe somebody can start teaching kids the guitar

Around number 100, he started to make a list for his girlfriend who was sitting next to him. I really wanted to add one item to his list: "Buy softer toilet paper." But really, what an intreagueing list. Do people really follow these detailed lists that they make themselves? I can't imagine checking some things off the list. "Just a minute, honey, I need to check off that I went to the park and DIDN'T wear denim shorts"

Thing 2.
I started Jane's Ecofeminism course this week. She was talking about a Native American creation myth and she teared-up. The class then had a brief discussion about how, at time, we swell with emotion, sometimes seemingly unmotivated, and it brings us to tears of joy or, sometimes, tears of sorrow. I started thinking about this. It happens to me all the time. If you know what I'm talking about, it probably happens for you at different times. The motivation for this excess emotion is, I think, purely subjective. For me it happens when I have an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Usually it happens in relationship to thoughts and images that relate to family, nature, or how incredibly fortunate I feel to be alive, right now, doing what I'm doing, seeing what I'm seeing, feeling what I'm feeling. I can't listen to The Cats in the Cradle without having this experience. On a gorgeous florida night -- usually in the fall or spring -- sitting outside and listening to the city or the ocean, thinking about where I'm going and where I've been (see previous post) I experience the same thing. When I travel. And most recently when I saw that old, frail man dancing in Scotland. He was clearly celebrating his life and enjoying the evening so much that he wanted to dance. After taking the picture and watching his celebration, as the crowd disbursed, I stood on the Streets of Edinburgh and cried.

What was I thinking?

2005-05-18T16:52:00.000-05:00

Well I'm home. I've posted too many pictures for you to enjoy. I figured that for all of my celebrating the English I should point to (at least) three reasons we should hate them. This is an attempt to seem "fair and balanced" -- excuse me while I gag on that reference. Anyway, on with Tai's three reasons to hate England:

1. The exchange rate. I withdrew 100 pounds and found the transaction had deducted $188 from my checking account
2. Toilets: Flushing always seems to be an issue -- and I'm not really doing anything different.
3. Jerry Springer: The Opera. Cheeky humor in opera form could only be appreciated by the Brits. Why do they have to celebrate our accomplished cultural failures?

I also realized that I left out an important detail about London. Strolling through Soho one night, I found myself in a seedy part of town when, all of a sudden, I recognized a red light glow that was familiar to that of Amsterdam. Next thing I new, a Fat woman with long (fake) blond hair was standing in front of me, in a bra-like top that was both too old and too small. Yep, you guessed it folks: I was accosted by hookers. "Hey baby," she called. "Looking for a good time?" "I'm fine, thanks," I reply and hurry to the nearest tube station, trying desperately to escape before she chased after me and pummeled me with her enormous bosom. Next time, I'll try reading the map more closely.
The next day I made another life-threatening decision. Getting off the tube at Russell Square (Piccadilly Line) I realized that there were approximately 50,000 French grammar-school students waiting to use the lift to ground level. Knowing my love for large groups of young children, I considered taking the stairs. A warning greeted me at the stairwell. "Stairs for emergency use only: approximately 200 steps to ground floor." For whatever reason, I decided that this was an emergency. 50 screaming kids: Definitely an emergency. After all, I thought, I'm young. If I do them 2 at a time, it'll only be 100 steps. The heart attack happened at about step 50. Panting, I took the remaining 150 stairs one-at-a-time. During the final 50, I didn't really have the will to live. Lifting one leg after another suddenly seemed like punishment from God for hating children -- well, I don't hate children, but, you know. When I reached the ground floor, passers by greeted me with strange looks. I think they were confused about the color of my skin, clearly purple by now from the burst blood vessels, and by the throbbing of my heart that was visible through my jacket. "I need a drink." So I open my water. The cool splash against my empty stomach made my insides wretch and convulse into knots. Hunched over, the color of violet, I dragged myself another two blocks to the conference where I took the lift up one flight of steps to the conference room.
To end this post, I'll tell you the other "dumb" thing I did in the UK. After checking in to the hostel in Edinburgh, I took my things to my bed. I should have been suspicious when the title above my bed was "Bermuda Triangle" and it was the upper bunk. That night, having gone to bed around 11:30, I was awakened by the floor. One of my biggest fears had come true: I fell off of the top bunk. My right thumb didn't work for two days. I considered: did I break my thumb? Rather than trying to figure that out, I kept my hand in my pocket all day so as to not bang it against anything else. Recently, it has started bending again. In fact, today the pain has nearly ceased. It only hurts when I make a fist.

2005-05-18T16:51:00.000-05:00

Entrance to Edinburgh's Castle

2005-05-18T16:50:00.000-05:00

a cool Edinburgh street

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cool bridge cutting into the "new" section of Edinburgh from the "old" section

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From the "Bank Bar" in Edinburgh

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a classic scene

2005-05-18T16:45:00.002-05:00

Organizing in London (from the conference window)

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cool old guy dancing

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The Castle

2005-05-18T16:44:00.001-05:00

For Pam

2005-05-18T16:44:00.000-05:00

Edinburgh