Preparing for the semester

I taught 100 last spring, and I'm teaching 102 in the fall, which means I have a returning student who's willing to show up at 8 for my class. This makes me happy.

My goal as a teacher this semester is to have a better attitude about grading. 

I like teaching, however much I complain, and I look forward to every semester: learning names, eliciting the first tentative comments, getting the students to engage each other. I'm especially looking forward to teaching The Good Soldier. One day is reserved for an exercise in which I split them into groups of 3 and assign each group a major character to defend. The four major characters all have questionable motives and values, so the conversation can be pretty raucous as each group tries to get its say. The exercise requires them to read closely and helps them see the novel's intensity and brutality. 

And it's fun. No, really. It is as Leonora describes the girl: "not no good."

Baltimore

Mobtown. Charm City. Rat City. The Greatest City in the World. The Murder Capital of the Country. The City that Reads. Get in on it. Believe. 

Party politics; or, soapboxing it

Standing on your principles can be pretty lonely.  I'm not going to the Londkes' party this afternoon. [long pedantic paragraphs grudgingly redacted. Short didactic paragraphs to follow]

It's simple: The Oxford American Dictionary defines prejudice on three levels: unfounded opinion, biased behavior, and the consequence (hurt or injury) of such behavior. 

Speaking is a behavior, for example.

I understand that a person's culture forms many of those irrational opinions and that no one can escape culture's force. But you must try to recognize your irrational opinions and personally work against them. Part of being an American, for example, is being chauvinist but condemning bigotry.

A person—even a friend or acquaintance—who chooses to embrace his or her bigotry rejects the possible benefit of your doubt. (Yes, T, even the benefits you wish to extend through doubt, although I know you mean to act through generosity and charity.) Taking a person at her word means acknowledging that she is responsible for her behavior. It's a way of honoring someone's human individuality, even if she rejects someone else's. 

As a consequence, I don't go to a person's house if he or she exhibits prejudice without reservation. Even when no one else chooses to act on principle. Even if my choice makes me lonely, unpopular, or sad. I refuse.

Eats

Some of my favorite dishes and meals are simple: real ice cream, which can have as few as four ingredients; an arugula salad with lemon vinaigrette, baguette, and wine; scrambled eggs; goat cheese and figs; crab cakes with remoulade; anything pommes; mussels with mignonette; steamed shrimp coated in Old Bay; a good, crusty NY strip. (It's a much longer list, but this time I'll exercise some restraint.)

Simplicity requires great technique and a good palate, however, and I've lost my touch a little after having cooked so little over the past several years. I don't think most of our friends in Nash know this, but I used to cook a lot, experimenting with new ingredients and approaches. The cookbook collection I cultivated in Baltimore began its slow transformation into mere theory during my first year at VU. No more time to prepare meals with courses or to host cocktail parties with several hors d'oeuvres. (Sometimes in the winter I crave bagna càuda, but who has the time?) The Pines' kitchen has little counter or storage space, so my favorite small appliances are out of reach and it's hard to keep all of the parts of, say, the ricer or the mandolin in the same place. 

Nostalgia wields a strong hand in any good memory, I realize. But thinking about our personal food microculture in B'more makes me conscious of how lucky we were: gas stove, space for the cuisinart, a Whole Foods a few blocks down and next door to the wine store, a selection of small specialty stores, like the Italian bakery up the street. (There was a bit of a language barrier between me and the couple who ran the bakery—they were recent emigrants—but it was always worth going and they usually threw in a couple of buttery, delicate, small cookies.) I look forward to going to Baltimore in August, and I hope we can hit some of these places or at least one of the markets. 

The inspiration for this post, as rangy as it seems, is the simple, delicious meal that Sam prepared for me last night: grilled steaks and vegetable kebabs; a green salad with olive oil, white wine vinegar, and flakes of parmesan; and a great Côtes du Rhône. Prosecco before dinner and GM after. I loved every minute of it. 

Because a birthday can be a personal New Year's Day, I'm resolving to give a greater effort to cooking and enjoying it during our last years in Nashville. Let's see how that goes.

"A birthday is the annual anniversary of the day on which a person was born."

Of the dozen or so composition classes I've taught so far, that's my favorite terrible first sentence. It seems à propos. 

If you imagine the course of a life as shaped like a bell curve, birthdays become less and less remarkable the closer to the middle you get. 

But not for being less happy. Sam. What can I say? You always kno

w what to tell a girl. And it's always heartwarming to get birthday wishes from friends and family. It usually rains on my birthday (maybe about 70% of the time), but this year, the rain is holding off until tomorrow. So, my baby and I are dining al fresco, with the puppy under the table and four inscrutable kitty eyes staring at us through the window. (Dave is currently to my right, draped over a stack of papers and books, as only a cat can be.)

Today's been lazy, which is great. Time for thinking is essential to me, and it can feel luxurious. Over the past hour or so, I've been thinking about a story I'm going to write called "The Designated Hitler" and a movie concept based on that Michael Pollan book everyone talks about. Really, what if all our corn crops failed, forever? Might it not yield a slow apocalypse? I'm imagining a Michael Bay–style blockbuster. Now I just have to figure out a few things, like the resolution of the conflict, the cinematic time of the story, and what everyone says and does.

I think after I finish this post, I'm going to go outside, lie in the hammock, and listen to the end of a crap post-apocalyptic novel. Maybe I'll take some iced tea with me. I'll just relax and think about the end of the world as we know it. It'll be fine.

Blew

This was the week of Blowing Things Out of Proportion. Maybe last week, too. I won't say more about almost getting into a mishap with the lady at the airport or that woman at the Kroger. Instead, I'll tell you a story. Many of you have heard this story, but it stays with me and I like to tell it and it's my blog.

Lo, many years ago, there was the last boyfriend. A Greek, he was dramatic, an Achilles in his own mind, complete with the unattractive pouting. We lived in different cities. I lived in the Republic of Tacoma Park, outside of DC. He lived in Bay Ridge, under the Verrazano Bridge. We fought over the phone a lot. 

One night, after a particularly vicious fight, I needed to feel more clean, on the inside. I went to the Giant (at about 4 am) and bought lots of citrus-y stuff—tangerines, lemon cookies, lemon gelato, lemon icing, lemonade, and a Cosmo. 

The check-out lady took one look at my assembled goods and said, "Oh, honey. Man problem?"

 I usually keep a pretty good game face, but when she said that, I started to sob again. "Y-yes."

 "How long you been together?"

"About nine months." I tried to snort back the snot.

"Do you have any babies with him?"

"No." I could hear my voice hitch.

"Hon, you need to toss him out and get you someone good. I'll put the cookies and the ice cream aside. Don't want to get fat now."

I don't think I ever saw her again (she worked the third shift), and I don't remember her name. But sometimes I still hear her voice. "Oh, honey."

She saw what was happening and intervened. More than the advice, what made a difference was the fact that she noticed and took care of me. She was a friend, mentor, mother for just that moment. Even though it was a brief exchange, she changed my life. 

I did get me someone good after that: Sam. And I kept the gelato. 

Not a rhetorical question

A couple of weeks ago, I was having a conversation with Sam and two good friends over drinks after a nice dinner out. One of the topics that I keep thinking about is the way in which a blog's structure determines its content. Blog anonymously, and you can say whatever you like. Blog under your real name, and you have to think about whose feelings you might hurt or who might disapprove of your opinion or behavior. For example, I wouldn't complain about Sam. Not that there's anything to complain about. I love you, baby!

So that leads me to ask myself why I write these entries to begin with. My stated purpose is to construct a place for all of the jumbled ideas in my head that don't find exit in other ways. But when those ideas overlap with (for example) questions or problems with family or friends (my main audience), I find myself resorting to coded language. When you come across an entry that doesn't make much sense, it's probably evidence that I'm concealing something. I edit these entries (as much as it might seem otherwise), and sometimes I edit them out of comprehension.

That somewhat undercuts my purpose for doing this. Writing helps me work things out. But I need some kind of audience—implied or otherwise—to write to. So diary or journal writing isn't that appealing. Writing about some thought, idea, or situation using clear language helps me clarify my thoughts. Wanting to write about something but having to obfuscate the true subject may only muddle it more. I'm never really going to write something very raw on this blog, like a sonnet I'm working on, but I'd like to be more direct than I have been. 

How?

Dave the cat and Sam

I love Dave the cat. He snores and makes little dream sounds, and he often keeps me company in my study. He has a deep purr and isn't miserly with it. Dave's patient with Nora the dog (mostly), and sometimes even affectionate. His coat is soft and glossy. He shares a common delight with other cats, the desire to sleep in a box that is too small for him. Also, he likes to drink out of the bathroom faucet, licking the porcelain as the water drips onto his head and down his face. 

Unfortunately, Dave's paws are dirtier than his head, and when he gets out of the sink, he leaves prints on the bathroom counter. His meow is whiney. He also has the habit of pissing outside of the boxes (for which I feel partly responsible because we waited too long to get him fixed). So, in summary, Dave is not a fastidious cat.

If it seems like the endearing traits outweigh the traits that make you want to throw him out, you're not alone. Sam feels the same way. But because Sam loves me, and I love Dave, the cat stays. But I caution Dave, by paraphrasing Emerson (from "Prudence"): the trick to skating over thin ice is speed.

Flight

**Disclaimer: This post is not about anything that happens on an actual plane. If you're have any fears about the act of flying, read with impunity.

Sam and I went to Albuquerque this past weekend. It was lovely to see Rory and Kim, and I look forward to seeing them when they come to visit. Or if we drive out there. But I'm never flying again if I can possibly help it.

Everyone has a terrible airflight story to relate, mostly because it's an incredibly painful experience. But this one threw me into all kinds of mental directions. I'll give just a quick description of the very worst part and bore you with the wretched details later.

We went to the airport, got tickets, made it to security. I put my computer into a bin, as you're supposed to do. I went through the screener without problems. As I was reshoeing myself, I looked up just in time to see a woman knock my computer bin off the conveyor, with enough force that it landed upside down. The TSA did their best to intervene, and I didn't actually do anything unreasonable, even though the woman was not the least bit contrite when she acknowledged that she had, in fact, knocked my computer onto the floor. I cried the whole way to New Mexico.

Tomorrow at some point, the computer will be ready for me to pick up at Mac Authority, and then I'll send my receipt to TSA, and they'll eventually send me some small amount of money not equal to what this all actually cost. It's not the money, though. It's feeling out of control, out of touch, and away from work I've put hundreds of hours into. And I feel like a total ass for even talking about this because Rory and Kim's reception was beautiful and should be the focus, not my crazy-ass, yelling at strangers, crying in public, generally embarrassing self.

Sam was wonderful about the whole thing and continues to be supportive and caring. I'm using his computer right now. So although I don't seem like it today, baby, you are the turtles all the way down.

Serious language

I take language seriously. When Sam and I had lunch together this afternoon at B&F, we had a great conversation with Matt about writing, of all things, and I enjoyed hearing him talk about the writing he's doing. He's serious about it.

Being serious about language (and about literature) means that I can be a little intense, and it means that I read carefully, as I've been trained to do, as I've chosen to do. When it's rewarding, it's really rewarding. 

But taking language seriously can isolate a person or distance her from others. For example, no one's supposed to mention book club to me. I can deal with that. It hurts only a little to not have the option to say no. 

It gives the clarity to see when others are trying to use language to occlude an issue. It's not a seeing through the occlusion; it's a seeing because. 

I'm facing the salient fact that many of Sam's friends are not my friends. Maybe even most. I knew that before. (How could I not when I typically take a couple of Klonipin before going out?) And now that I'm feeling healthier, which makes me more me, I'd like to have my own friends, people I see outside of the context of the group. Going to brunch or a wine tasting with someone is a good start. I just don't want to waste even more time with people whose eyes glaze over when I begin to answer the question, "So how's your work going?" 

So, here's some Wallace Stevens, king of alienation:

Anecdote of the Jar

I placed a jar in Tennessee

And round it was, upon a hill

It made the slovenly wilderness

Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,

And sprawled around it, no longer wild.

The jar was round upon the ground

And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion every where.

The jar was gray and bare.

It did not give of bird or bush,

Like nothing else in Tennessee.