Imagine, now, a clearing of the throat

I have nothing to say. That sentence is obviously not true and should signal to you that I'm going to whine now.

Everywhere I start to begin goes poorly. It's like trying to force your way into a scrum, or so I imagine. Three places to begin: the theory, the history, the (or a) film. I've already got my appropriate introductory quotation at least. (In critical writing, it's customary to put an interesting quotation at the beginning of an essay so that the reader can at least have a little fun.)

In any of the ten files I've created, after a page or so, the cursor just blinks. A blinking cursor may be the saddest thing in the world. Blink. Blink. k.

There was a little girl

I accidentally talked to my father last Wednesday. I had spent the week before contemplating whether to call my mother on her birthday. I decided I would. But she wasn't home, so for the fifth time in his life, my father answered the phone. It was the first time we've spoken in about 2 years. 

They're terrible parents. Not Victorian lock-you-in-the-attic bad parents. Not pimp-you-out-for-drugs bad parents. Not even beat-you-all-the-time bad parents. Just bad in a quiet, neglectful way. 

Imagine breaking your leg and calling out to someone nearby to help you. Imagine that person ignoring your call for help, just moving about as if you're not broken and yelling. You might do something extreme to get that person's attention. Something extremely good or something extremely bad.

A little Longfellow verse I often heard growing up:

There was a little girl

who had a little curl

right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good

she was very, very good

But when she was bad, she was horrid.

Funny, huh. Now I don't have to do extreme things to get their attention, because I'm an adult. I can say, "I have to go now, but tell Mom I called. Okay. Bye."

Happy Birthday, Sam

To my best friend: You are the most fun, most loyal, most friendly, most supportive person I've ever known. I could list superlatives until it's time to go to the bar, but what it comes down to is that we rattled through the night from College Park that March toward one of history's great romances. It has to be. It could never be otherwise because your heart is huge. 

Cut to a montage for Sam:

• "The first rule is that if I snore, you have to wake me up."
• Getting lost on the way back from the Silver Springs movie theater
• Going to Dougherty's after seeing The Matrix and getting a shot and a beer
• Planning to go to see The Royal Tannenbaums, but having lunch and a couple of bottles of wine instead. And then some beer. And then some more wine and, I think, duck.
• "Big-by, Big-by, Big-by!"
• "Who's the fucking mayor?"
• Opening Day, then walking home through the snow
• Snow day walks to Fells (or at least Fletcher's)
• One-Eyed Mike's 
• "What about Little Ireland?"
• "Look what I can do!"

Okay, I have to stop. That's just like the first couple of years, and it could take forever to condense the next 7.5.  You've had many moments of greatness. Truly, though, you've also been steadfast, a greatness that lasts through years. 

I love you, Sam, and it is my tremendous honor to say, as your wife, happy birthday.

Productivity

The art of procrastination comes in many forms. One productive kind is doing something else that needs to be done instead of the dreaded task. I wouldn't call that my modus operandi. Instead I've frittered my way through June, with nothing really to show for it except a half-written sonnet, a bunch of blog entries, and a file named aack.docx. 

I've done a lot of thinking about what I need to write, researched, and gathered sources. That can count as work, but it doesn't get the job done. Today, Sunday, I'm going to write. I just have to remind myself that it doesn't have to be momentous or perfect. It just has to be a draft.

As I write this, I have the aak file open, and I'm in my study. I've got water and the support and comfort of two kitties and a dog. (I wish that dogs could purr. Not having the ability to purr is a serious design flaw.) A lot of the stuff I'm going to write ventures into new, scary territory, which is the point of doing it. 

So, I've got everything I need for right now. Wish me luck.

Hurrah for Sam!

He got quite a bit done this morning, including replacing the kitchen faucet. I'm grateful that he did it (and with only a little interference and confusion-making from me). Now we aren't dripping water from the kitchen tap all day. Good for us, the environment, and the water bill. 

Of course, now that the lovely new faucet is in, the sink looks a little cheaper than it did with the crappy faucet. Sinks aren't too difficult to put in, are they?

First, do no harm.

Released in 2001, A Beautiful Mind still makes me angry. I bring it up because Netflix keeps suggesting that I take another look at it. In terms of craft, the film is lovely to look at, and the actors do their jobs. And I don't really care if it remains true to the events of Nash's life. What angers me is its fantasy about schizophrenia and the old saw about mad genius. Critics and viewers alike laud this movie for offering a glimpse into the experience of having serious mental illness. Isn't it pretty to think so.

(For bonus points, name the allusion.)

---

In other news, last night M asked me about how a person determines whether a poem is good. I talked a little too long about "One Art," then said that it's easier to show with a selection of poems, rather than a list of qualities. Our conversation makes me think about how I approach teaching poetry in 102. I don't care for the approach lampooned Dead Poets' Society---I'm not going to make a bunch of graphs. But I do believe that one can tell whether a poem has merit. As a pedagogue, I try to make the concepts we talk about as concrete as possible (e.g., handouts for 6 steps to a good thesis statement, 12 steps to a close reading, 6 right ways to use commas). Students like lists and handouts. So, it's not enough for me just to say that these 10 poems we've read are excellent because I say so and anything with 14 lines is a sonnet, no matter what anyone else says.

Poetry is a long and vibrant mode, such that its forms, variations, and ambiguities are much more difficult to quantify than any more recent form (e.g., novels). A traditional Shakespearian sonnet contains 14 lines of iambic pentameter, organized into three 4-line stanzas and a couplet, with a standard rhyme scheme, and a turn of some kind at the end, usually somewhere in the last 4 lines.

Using this description of the form, a person can still write a poem that will make your eyes and ears bleed. In fact, that's the most likely outcome. (Ooh!) It's like giving a person who has never cooked a bare-bones recipe for hollandaise sauce or pastry creme. Something's going break.

So I don't think I can write a list of elements to look for in a great poem. I can only repeat what has been said to me: Great poems are revelatory. They don't conform. Here's a list of terms you can use to talk about poems. Now let's look at one. 

Wilfred Owen (written between two tours in WWI. He himself became one of these youth just before the war ended.)

Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen. 

(He died in WWI a week before Armistice Day.)

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,

Nor any voice of mourning, save the choirs,----

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Rest peacefully, Mr. Russert

Tim Russert died this afternoon. You can turn on any t.v. channel or look at any website for the obligatory language of public grieving, but, watching MSNBC, I was deeply moved by the expressions of loss by those who knew him as a man. 

To me, Russert has only ever been a face on the screen, yet his integrity and curiosity were always evident. As much as I will miss him as a journalist, his family and friends must be devastated. 

Sam and I were talking about it just now, and he said what I've always felt as well: When you part from someone you love, even just to go to the grocery store, you should say, "I love you." The future is inscrutable. Our lives are short in time's span. But we become meaningful through expressing our connections with each other, however fleeting and however flawed.

From Yeats's "The Circus Animals' Desertion":

Those masterful images because complete

Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?

A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,

Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,

Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut

Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,

I must lie down where all the ladders start

In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

The erstwhile planet

Remember when the astrologists destroyed a planet and a time-honored mnemonic a couple of years ago? (In our school, it was "my very eager mother just served us nine pickles.") No more pickles. When they debated, they determined that either Sol has 8 planets, 12 planets, or potentially dozens, depending on one's view of the Kuiper Belt. Had Pluto been retained as a planet, schoolchildren across the country would have had to figure out a mnemonic for Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Ceres, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto, Charon, and UB313. Another suggestion at the time was that Pluto and Charon be named a double planet. (They share a center of gravity between them.) 

Instead, the IUP created planet rules that exclude Pluto. 

The reason I bring this up is that Newsweek online recently published an interview with Venetia Burney, who named Pluto in 1930, at age 11. While breakfasting with her grandfather, Venetia suggested that the planet be named for the Roman god of the underworld. Old Grandad happened to be the head librarian at the Bodleian, so that all worked out rather well. 

Venetia Phair is now 89 and unperturbed about Pluto's demotion. Other things have been named for her since, like planetoid 6235 Burney. So, astronomically, she's had a pretty exciting life so far. Tonight raise a glass to Venetia, namer and named. 

A lovely gift

One of our family members hunts for fun. He thinks that dead animals make the perfect gift for any occasion, and it's even more fun when the gift is a surprise.

That family member is Dave, our cat. The most recent small animals include a rat, a bird, and a rather large lizard. The bird is pretty impressive, I'll admit, especially because he managed to sneak it into the house when we weren't paying attention.

It's disgusting. This is one situation in which it is not the thought that counts. (Not that much complex thinking is going on. Cats have walnut-sized brains, most of which are dedicated to their eyes and reflexes. You never know when you might have to land on your feet.)

Nora appreciates Dave's thoughtfulness the most. They're buddies. She's just the right height: Dave likes to arch his back and walk under her belly, which rubs him just right. She likes to lick him in the face, which he'll sometimes allow. He brings home dead animals. She likes to eat and play with stinky things. They don't sleep curled up together yet, but I say, give them another five months. Four if he keeps bringing her presents.

Why, bless my stars!

As you might imagine, internet abbreviations (e.g., IMHO) get under my skin. But I've recently noticed a use of LOL that intrigues me. 

The following will initially seem like a diversion. Bear with me. When I was in college, I worked for the theatre department's costume shop under a Mr. Lou Bird. (I'm not kidding.) Lou is an interesting guy, and one of his theories was that a person can perfect a laugh that will get him out of any social bind, even one he himself creates. Lou often experimented in order to find this perfect social laugh by saying things like "Oh my god, your ass looks enormous today! What have you been eating? Chocolate Cadillacs?" Then giving a laugh of some sort. It was funny, unless I was the butt of the experiment. I don't think he ever found that perfect laugh.

The laugh derives from a long, genteel tradition of using a mitigating phrase in conjunction with a cutting remark: "Oh, you're so pretty when you fix yourself up!" Or, in an indirect form, "He has the worst breath I ever did see, bless his heart." Regional variations of "bless his heart" include "bless his stars" and "bless his little cotton socks." Sometimes a small touch on the forearm or knee accompanies these phrases. 

Southern uses of "bless your heart" are often quite complex, shifting from affectionate to biting and back within one conversation. But the suppressed kiss-off gets the most play, as in a shortened version of a long joke. 

Southern Lady 1: My husband just bought me a big diamond ring. 

Southern Lady 2: Oh, bless your heart. 

Lady 1: What did your husband get you? 

Lady 2: He gave me a trip to finishing school.

Lady 1: Poor thing! Why ever would he do that?

Lady 2: So I could learn to say "bless your heart" instead of "fuck you."

So, to bring it back, I think sometimes LOL is a new manifestation of this social form of veiled hostility. You can write anything on the web, no matter how petty or pointed, so long as you follow it up with LOL. The reader can't hear which laugh you're using.

Disclaimer: This post in no way comments on or accuses any commenter on this weblog of engaging in the rhetorical device I describe.

Proper

I've been thinking about words to do with "uptight." My online American Oxford Thesaurus gives a number of synonyms (close and far), including 1) tense, nervous, on edge, anxious, hypersensitive; and 2) straitlaced, prim priggish, rigid. 

Further exploration of the definition of "prim" yields "stiffly formal; feeling or showing disapproval of anything regarded as improper." The AOD pairs it with "proper" in its example, as in a "prim and proper lady." Synonyms range from "formal" to "prudish" to "governessy," if you can believe that one.

Now, I disapprove of a lot of things that, naturally, I think are improper, in the AOD's first definition. Personally, I think that makes me a bit of an asshole, not a prude. But what is quite interesting is the constellation of these words around the notion of femininity. To be proper is to be prim. I know this isn't news (always cross your legs at the ankles, darling!), but the persistence of the association between being anxious and being a woman still surprises me.

Hysteria had its diagnostic heyday in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Symptoms included weakness, fatigue, inappropriate appetite (too much or too little), gastrointestinal discomfort, other pains unassociated with injury, and extreme sensitivity or (paradoxically) insensitivity to sensory perceptions. The symptoms were unfeigned and unexplainable by any other diagnosis. Until recent updates to the American Psychological Association's differential diagnostic criteria, patients could be diagnosed as hysterical without complaining about symptoms, a phenomenon known as la belle indifference. 

Essentially, hysteria was a catchall for bodily complaints that couldn't be explained by a physical examination. Or let me phrase this a different way: hysterical women were women who complained or didn't act like ladies. The APA, in the interest of reform and equality, has retained hysteria as a diagnosis but labeled it "conversion disorder" instead.

So the associations of "uptight," "nervous," "anxious," and "high-strung" with  "high-maintenance," "prim," "prissy,"and  "prudish" gestures toward hysteria, and you don't have to be Freud to see that it all still points to sex.

Do any of these terms (or terms like them) make you feel dismissed or belittled? How do they affect men (e.g., by feminizing men who worry a lot)? Can they be re-incorporated, as the word "queer" has been? I'm interested to hear your responses and ideas. 

Canoeing

We went to the Buffalo this weekend, which was fun (but would certainly have been more fun if someone hadn't backed out. M.) The water was high, and the canoeing was fun. I think I'm getting better at it, partly because I'm not so worried about dumping the boat and partly because I have these new magical water shoes. I don't have the best balance, and these shoes keep me from falling down so much. 

Serious water at the end of our run. It was awesome, and I'm proud of Sam's and my communication through the whole thing. He's a good instructor. 

On the second night, I slept on the hammock. It's super comfortable, even if you're a restless sleeper. I got through the night pretty well: I only fell out once.

And then there's coming home. It always feels good to come home, as clichéd as that might be. I think we'll go canoeing again weekend after next.