okay, so refried beans not, probably, the culprit. still waiting for the alien to bust out. please please get it out of me.
oh right– ides of march. how appropriate.
I am so very very sad at the moment. not only to learn that the father of a dear friend of mine died recently– and, no, I do not include this in this post in any glib way. quite frankly, not only is it awful news, impossible to respond to other than lamely and uselessly, painful to sit by while a friend suffers. also it’s a wake-up call for me with all my blather– that there are far more weighty and grievous things going on in the world, and that perhaps I ought not to be quite so blythe and irritating. also that my own parents are no vernal poultry. and I’ve no idea how I’m going to react when the inevitable comes to pass, as it does more and more frequently for my contemporaries. either that or long-term care necessities. the stuff of real life.
with this perspective, what does it really matter that my new toy only allows membership to the micro-section of the population who happen to have .edu email addresses?… only that I’ve just emailed a whole slew of my favorite people, prompted, probably foolishly, to mash the “Invite” button. and now they’re going to be not only pestered with my group-emailing but also frustrated should they actually attempt to join. gr. and feh.
evidently it’s time for my nap.
who knew? well, okay, so my students know it quite well. also people who’ve been in classes I took myself as a student. the classroom is, apparently, a forum where I feel comfortable, nay, compelled to air my position– I sometimes fear, annoyingly so. but in the rest of the world not so much. not so much online, where I’ve tended to retreat into the un-accountability of my dreams. how’s that for slippery? just try to call me on what I said, buster– it’s a dream! ha! hm. possibly a lame device. I certainly hope that’s not the only reason I’ve been doing it all these years. scary thought. the truth is, there are just very different rhetorical goals and strategies that we can serve by writing or talking– and I’ve tended to largely steer clear of the argumentative. small wonder, knowing my dad. but somehow I feel like I’m coming into it now. like it’s okay– to use more of my palette, work with more of my toolbox. this morning my thought on waking was how cool it would be if I could assign all my students to learn something in an entirely new (to them) mode– for example, if the assignment was on the somatic, to take carpentry or knitting. if the assignment was on the proprioceptive, then dance or one of those trapeze school things like carrie did on sex and the city. on the auditory, then voice lessons or flute or what have you. on the visual, painting or photography. see, this way I could really begin to home in on what working in the various semiotic modes really does for us, heuristically— which is the basis of my dissertation. the only problem would be resources (who to teach these diverse skills?) and, more significantly, time. I mean, a semester’s only so long. and learning is excruciatingly gradual. then again, somehow, through tapping novel modes, it seems possible to make cognitive leaps. like, look at me having opinions. for real. that’s all about the blogging, I’m pretty sure. having my static, fix-it-up-locally-with-dreamweaver-and-upload-it-via-ftp web site just didn’t get me to this particular rhetorical/cognitive place. weird, huh? for years something else, then this. it’s kind of overwhelming actually. kinda tempted to pull the plug, at least for a little bit. maybe it’s NOT such a good thing I have so much undisturbed time on my hands this week… then again, if my phone stays silent and my inbox empty, at least I have someone to talk to.
nevermind the manic laughter and wide, staring eyes.
doesn’t matter what you do. doesn’t matter where you live. people are people and people are high schoolers. through and through. this is the key to the cult popularity of napoleon dynamite, and why I myself adore it. also rushmore (different socio-economic bracket). we don’t ever grow up, silly goose! what were you thinking? maturity? responsibility? well, okay, yeah, so some of us hold jobs, raise kids, balance checkbooks. I know I’m hardly the authority on worldly progress. but I’ve seen how those people behave too. we are all of us high schoolers, for goodness sakes. take my word for it. that mom backstage at the church choral production herding those madcap three-year-olds– she’s the insecure bossy girl who never has the right hair accesories. that marketing manager? she’s the niblet with the four thousand boyfriends and the hot car. that sales guy? he’s a hockey player, I don’t care if he hasn’t strapped on skates in years. and that vivacious guy with the awesome wardrobe and the killer sense of humor? he’s that closeted loser who took art or never came out of the band room. just get us together in one place, trying to work together or at least coexist, and the truth will be made clear unto you. life is high school. we never graduate, not really. and god help the teachers.
I’m sorry for the cynicism, but you know it’s entirely age-appropriate.
so, thanks to daniel, I’ve joined the collective. no, not stoopid poopy friendster, bastion of the socially mercenary– I’m talking about thefacebook. where you can connect via your skooooool connections. college/grad school AND high school. it’s just like that publication we had at hotchkiss, names & faces, which we (girls) used to pore over literally for hours– memorizing who was who, who was dating whom, identifying cute boys. and the boys, well, they in all likelihood pored over the thing, too, just not in our sight line. it was kinda like the yearbook, as a resource, only way better because it came out at the beginning of the year. each new school year you’d go in to the registrar’s office on the first day to get your picture taken for your i.d. card (what did we even do with those things when I was in h.s.– late 80’s–? me, nothing. except collect them in a box as testimonial to my vast improvement over time) and apart from laminating your photo in rigid plastic, They’d used it to fill the pages of names & faces, with name and home address beneath each photo– which was, frankly, quite useful at boarding school. not only for sending christmas cards, but also for identifying who else came from the midwest, who the super-fancy manhattanites were, and who hailed from darien and greenwich (tho to be honest that was pretty self-evident). and who came from the midwest but seemed, or wanted to seem, like they came from darien or greenwich (aka, lake forest and grosse pointe). and who came from places just completely off the map of the known world (“tennessee? kentucky?? florid– now, wait just a minute here, this has to be a joke– do people acually live there? I thought it just shut down when we left.”). I always craved a names & faces of college and grad school– especially when I was in the writers’ workshop, which is every bit just like high school otherwise, so why the heck not. it might have helped me get a lay of the social landscape. cuz, my friends, make no mistake: it’s a minefield out there. it helps to know where to step and where to tread carefully. yeah, so. but thefacebook.com isn’t entirely the same thing, then. I mean, beyond the obvious, digital and what-all. it’s more, I dunno, Proactive, I guess. the rabble taking the printing press into their own sweaty grimey hands. you know– like the web used to be. power to the people. unfortunately, you can’t necessarily count on seeing what people look like, since some of us are uncooperative and put up photos of our front porch. but come on! what if that cute boy in biology class thinks I’m vain?
so while everybody and their cousin fred is traipsing off this week to san francisco (where I should be, if I hadn’t so badly budgeted cash that I couldn’t afford a plane ticket) for professional composition conferences and visits to friends and excellent restaurants and so on, I shall be cooling my heels right here in iowa. now, now, I’m not complaining—and I forbid you to feel the least bit sorry for me—the fact of the matter is that a span of days undisturbed in my lovely home with zero outside obligations and even few (but a couple, so not to despair entirely) friends left in town to offer distraction is precisely what the doctor ordered. and just how am I using these great glorious lakes of undisturbed time? glad you asked: working on my web site’s appendages, joining lovely new cybersphere communities, playing with pots and pans and my excellent new blue mixer in the kitchen, working on several collage boxes, getting class-teaching stuff squared away at a sane pace, and bringing my brain back into line on the diss: sifting through the beginnings of my AWESOME student data, gorgeous multimodal projects, and doing little manageable bits of writing that, over time, are accumulating into a larger whole. how excellent! couldn’t be better, now could it? see, told ya not to feel sorry for me. aaaaaahhhhhh.
for days, even weeks, at a time I’ll forget to open the curtains in my bedroom. for one thing, I don’t spend a whole lot of time in there during the day. for another, the curtains are semi-translucent, so it’s hardly dark in the room. but there’s a big difference between direct and indirect light, and I know it, even if I tend to forget about its importance through busyness and neglect. neglect, in particular, of charlie the cat. I mean, I don’t single him out for neglect or anything—hardly, in some ways he’s even my favorite (tho I don’t like to advertise the fact around the others). I’m simply prone to extensive albeit unintentional neglect of those I love, and it’s always been that way. I’m dramatically periodic in my attentions—when I remember to do so, I’m all about the cuddle and wide-eyes-only-for-you—but the truth is, I’m in this space rather infrequently. far too infrequently for my ex-husband, let me tell you. and the evils of this tendency in the current case are compounded by the fact that charlie the cat lives most of his time upstairs, in my bedroom. so, you know, he doesn’t literally get to see much light of day. fortunately, my most excellent $1 armchair from the auction sits right by the best window in the bedroom and makes for an optimal snuggle spot when I do (appropriately enough, on a sunday) get recalled to my senses and scoop him up for a few minutes’ injection of love. and its lovely and easy enough to reach up and snag the curtain back behind the iron holder, so we can bask in the bath of light together. I mean, for gracious sakes, it’s no wonder the poor cat is so durn fat—he’s probably deeply depressed.
oh, laptop, how I love thee. when my body is exhausted, joints sore with insomnia, susceptible to chill, sneezing and blowing, but the racket in my brain sprung in small hours won’t kindly shut up, I can lie most pleasantly abed, muffled in flannel, propped by pillows, and give vent to the odd bits I can’t seem to slough. like projects in compulsive collection. like interstellar transcriptions. ibook, my trusty buddy, so shiny and white, so portable and flexible, so handy with usb and firewire ports for flash drives and dv recorder downloads. the best debt ever. debt being something I have a degree of expertise in.