Tiny Little Post

So, over at ITM, Karl made mention of the romance Sir Amadace (introduction here), which apparently has a lot of corpses, and I'm reminded of three things: I took to this job for the weirdness; I stayed in this job for the socially oppositional space it allows me to work from; marginal medieval romances are freaking weird and I will love them forever.

Unfortunately, today has to be spent on a Eudora Welty/Utopianism project, with a little Faulkner reading (as well as a bit of grading) mixed in. Non possest omnes facere, sed tempteamus, to misquote Edward Abbey in Latin.

I've been noticed!

So, I read In the Middle on a daily basis, because it deals with things I like: medieval studies, gender studies, and really strange monsters. Today, however, it deals with... er... me! So now I'm popular and famous and will get to, if not hold up the subjects of my poetry in court, at least mill around in Fame's courtyard, right? It's not like I'm out back with the rumor mill.

Guys? Hello?

*sigh* Back to work, then. Why is this wicker house spinning so quickly?

Hallelujah, I'm a Bum?

This article by the former director of the Salt Lake City Public Library points out that libraries are frequently on the front lines of caring for the homeless mentally ill.

Cheesy as it is, I'm reminded of a very heavy-handed pair of early episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, in which Sisko, Dax, and Bashir are sent back to early 21st-century San Francisco. Sisko and Bashir are arrested for sleeping in the streets and sent to live in the city's homeless ghetto, which is locked at night and is far worse than even the original ghetto. Yet despite the sheer isolation and dehumanization everyone faces there, the place depicted in that episode is somehow better than the solution we have now: if you fail in the system, you're out. Sleep on the streets, eat from the trash, and when it's cold, try to make the best of it in the library.

There are some people for whom this is a temporary situation, and others for whom this is a deliberate choice. Even since the earliest days of transience, though, there has been a system for describing the differences between these groups: as Ben Wrightman used to say, "A hobo works and wanders, a tramp dreams and wanders, a bum drinks and wanders." We know what to do with hobos (give them a good job); we know what to do with tramps (let them be tramps). What we do with bums--who drink, who do drugs, who doing neither still murmur down the corridors of their minds--is unfortunately what we do with tramps: let them be bums. And again, Chip Ward is right: we have to do something better. In the words of that old traveling nation poem:

Make the intelligent, organized choice
Get rid of the weights that crush
Don't worry about the bum on the rods
Get rid of the bum on the plush.

Only by taking money out of the hands of the apathetic rich, and putting it not into churches that do nothing or ponzi schemes that do little, put it where it belongs: in shelters full of well-trained people whose sole goal in life is to live in a world where they, and not their clients, don't have jobs any more.

Prepwork

Tomorrow I teach the Morte Darthur. Not the whole thing of course—this is a World Lit course, not one in the History of Literature in English or the English Romance or frankly anything else I'd like to teach but can't thanks to the fact this department runs on "tradition" rather than "job training"—but the "Tale of Lancelot." And I've already decided to write the quiz, because it would be easier to have it done early than to wait until the last minute and have to fight people for the copier. (As you can tell by that last sentence, Caxton's prose has struck again...). Deciding it needed a suitable Caxtonian preface, I went searching for a copy of Caxton's Malory... and discovered that the majority of people have only scanned the modern-spelling editions. Now, I've posted about this kind of intellectual laziness before,* and it's one reason among many that I've tried to OCR the Latin text of Newton's Principia, and have succeeded in putting up a copy of Peter the Nibbler's Historia Scholastica and Boethius' Arithmetica and almost succeeded in putting up his Musica.

I'm looking forward to it, mostly to see what they pick up on. This will be the first time that I've been able to give in-depth coverage to something over which I've written, and in some sense this will be a kind of revision process, except in the class where they look at me blankly. I'm using the big Everyman paperback I convinced Grant to buy, because it has modernized spelling but not grammar. It shouldn't be too bad for them, I think, but then I thought Genji would go well, too.

__________
* Or I thought I had. Surely somewhere there's a post in which I rant about... or was it an email? Oh, damn.

De arte docendi

Or, "Reasons that I really love my job."

Here's the latest: like most of us with a two-class teaching schedule, I have one sheep class and one goat class. Not surprising, the goat class is the (insanely) earlier of the two, and while it does have its moments,* it's largely a dud. Enter the second class, whom I dishonor by calling sheep.

We're discussing a moment in the Tale of Genji today in which Genji demonstrates that he's grown (Chapter Four, for those of you following along at home). In the first class, I can't even get simple answers to questions like, "what happens next?" In the second, however, they sidetrack me into a discussion of aesthetic vs. intellectual knowledge, followed by an attempt to read Genji's actions as having roots in his childhood, which means I have to derail that branch of psychoanalytic criticism with the Bookerian "literary characters don't have minds" explanation. Neither discussion was expected, but both were rewarding, and I was pleased that when they didn't understand, they asked me to explain until they did (or until they got tired of me talking, but don't burst my bubble).

That's the kind of teaching I like. Give me juniors and seniors in the humanities every time!
_____
* One of my favorites occurred this past week. It's the first day back after Spring Break, and we're doing The Tale of Genji, and they're all huddled in the back. So, as you do, I walked in and said, "Neither Genji nor I will bite. Why are you huddled in the back?"
"We're afraid of you," said one.
"Good."
"We're afraid of your talons."
Mind you, these are college-age kids, and this guy's a good 20, 21 maybe. "What talons?" I say, looking at my hands.
"I've seen Wolverine. I know how it works."
Flash forward to Wednesday, when this person's sitting up front. "Ah," I say, "you've more courage today."
"No," he says, "I just have my sword and shield."
See? Precocious--but not educationally speaking.

Neman telleth me ony thynge!

Chaucer has a blog, which he shares with his sonne Lowys and that trewest of lyars, Sir John Mandeville. The best parts: "Take that, Gower!" in the headline, and Mandeville's travel tips.

Envy by proxy

Thanks to a colleague, I've discovered that this sort of business is going on. Now, I'm all for decentralizing Western Europe's hegemony on interpreting the past, but the problem is that it's being done at Berkeley. California, this is the second project of yours I've read about to cause me much consternation and envious gnashing of teeth (the first being the 3d Plan of St. Gaul, which they clearly came up with only months before I did and which we wouldn't be able to do here until the fall at least, that being when the CAST opens). You're on notice for being so damned clever.

Outcome: The Resulting

I'm still alive. The Genji lecture went okay, the leading discussion thingy wasn't too painful, and I did see His Lordship and discuss the fall seminar and a possible future readings in Medieval Arthuriana. Not much else got done today, though when I got home Our Man Flint had arrived. Ah, James Coburn, will your spy never stop rising?

Why I shouldn't post before reading

So roscivs has a salient post about the problem of not enough mathematics in programming, to which I've added the following:

As odd as it might be to hear this, it's nice to see that English isn't the only department with these sorts of problems, and that the whole university system is feeling the "be useful and make things we can sell" push.

The problem is similar: in the department, we have people who study literature (and are thus armed with a lot of abstruse cultural and literary theory) and the people who create literature (and are thus armed with, er, so far as I can tell, pens). In addition, there's a major trend toward separation, putting the writers in one section and the theorists into a melange of "cultural studies." While I support interdisciplinary education—indeed, one of the best courses I took was team-taught by scientists, cultural theorists, historians and literary critics—the point was cross-pollination; the departments remained discreet, and what you were studying was added to by the intercession of these new voices. Making "interdisciplinary" the norm will set up new boundaries, similar to those you described between mathematics and programmers, that are no better than the "isolated department" scheme of the 1950's.

And I mean it. Taking a post somewhere as the "(Late) Medieval Cultural Studies" professor isn't going to be helpful to me or my students: I'm teaching history, social theory, archeology, and half a dozen other things I wasn't prepared to teach and really can't. The point is that there should be boundaries, across which you occasional sally, make a lecture or five, and come home. Tea with the historians, maybe an afternoon over in psychology, but you should always have your own department to come home to.

That said, of course, I'm in no position to complain, and a very large position to beg. If you're a prospective hiring university and found this blog, I love you very much and will teach however you want; I'm perfectly willing to try anything for five years and two books, and won't complain until tenure. Please?

What Got Done

Everything but the notes for Genji. Yes, even the dishes, and even the surprise "Oh yeah, the laundry I didn't fold today" pile.

Working on the lecture notes now, though it's early in the morning and I really need drugs.

The Real Wish List

All my life I've wanted a pet evangelist.

No, not really. Silly me. What I meant was, ever since I saw it, I fell in love. Saw what, you ask? Well, I can't show you for copyright reasons, but it's the best lion-headed evangelist you'll ever meet.

All right, it's this:

Hereford Cathedral Library MS O.1.viii, fol 46. This image (c) the Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral. Unauthorized copying of the copy I made will result in a thrashing.

Look at that grin! He's the most naughty little lion-headed saint! You couldn't possibly resist it. Ever since I saw it in Carol Strickland's Saracens, Demons, and Jews: Making Monsters in Medieval Art, I knew it had to be mine--but it has to be in color.

Some years ago, my friend Brooke and I were at Cambridge, and she was touring one of their libraries and came across a ninth-century Irish Jesus. Immediately she shouted, "That's my next tattoo!" to which the curator responded, "No-one's ever said that before." But she got it, and it's damned awesome, and I want a medieval manuscript illumination tattoo as well.

So I find now that Hereford Cathedral is online, and they do let you have prints. But I can't quite bring myself to find if they're going to let me have this--and certainly not for a tattoo, of all things.

However, if you out there in Blogospheria can find a way, you will be rewarded handsomely. Possibly with a handsome cab.

Work Avoidence Schedule
So here I am, less than 24 hours to a presentation on Eudora Welty's The Golden Apples, and what do I do but "rediscover" Blogger. As it turns out, I've been reading several people's blogs, and decided that it was high time to become self-absorbed again. Besides, it's the hot thing to do--notice that of those four linked, two are professors, one is my adviser, one is an author, and one is a long-lost friend who seems to find mathematics and linguistics fascinating to the point of pathology. Also, there were two fathers and two sons--wait, wrong riddle.

(I also have to come up with a lecture on the Tale of Genji, bathe, do the dishes, and get my life in order. Any takers on what gets done first?)

SO:
I'm going to restart this here journal, is what I'm going to do. And I'm going to do it to avoid masturbating make a record of my scholarship and possibly life. My models are JJC's blog (up there), this one, and this one. Wish me luck.

Netflix, what what.

We haven't the heart to do a full-on review this go-round, so let us simply say that The Madness of King George is most excellent, yes yes. Take care, sir, that you should see it, sir, and do be of good cheer in approaching it.

All well, then. Hey hey!

It's Howdy Doody Time

(Stop that.)

The movie review is split into two sections because Netflix have opened a new office in Little Rock, and while they have such oddities as The Seventh Seal and The Prisoner (Disc 1), they didn't have a copy of Carry on Dick, which will arrive Friday from Northern Rhodesia. On with the shew!

Det Sjunde inseglet
Released: 1957
Director: Ingmar Bergman
Starring: Gunnar Björnstrand, Bengt Ekerot, Nils Poppe, Max von Sydow, Bibi Andersson, Inga Gill

A knight returning from the crusades meets Death along the shores of Norway. Challenging the Oldest Friend to a game of Chess, the knight wagers that if he should win, Death will leave him alone, but if he should loose, the knight and all his friends should come immediately with death. The story procedes from there through a world confused by and wracked with Plague, a dark and frightening mondus medium ævum full of human misery and great faces. A blacksmith is involved. Eventually (as of course he should) the knight looses, but not before he makes sure that his actor-friends (named, completely at random, "Mary" and "Joseph") escape Death's notice. Rightfully a classic, especially in the way Death is portrayed and constantly returns.

The Prisoner (Disc 1)
Episodes: "The Arrival" and "The Chimes of Big Ben" (Alt)
Airdates: 1 October 1967; 8 October 1967
Director: Don Chaffey (both episodes)
Starring: Patrick McGoohan, Angelo Muscat, Peter Swanwick, Michael Miller, Christopher Benjamin, Leo McKern

From Six of One:
"Patrick McGoohan plays a man who resigns from a top secret position and is abducted from his London home. He finds himself in a beautiful village where everything is bright and cheerful - the people, their clothes, the buildings, the flowers. But despite this rosey exterior, the village serves a sinister purpose. People are forcibly brought there in order to have their valuable knowledge protected or extracted. Village residents are assigned a number - the Prisoner is Number Six. Chief interrogator and administrator is Number Two, but he isn't the boss - an unseen Number One is the boss."

In these episodes, we are introduced to Number Six, The Villiage, the Number Two system, and Number Six's continued need to escape his prison. We are also led to believe that The Village is in the Baltic, despite its realtively quiet seas and calm weather.

Overall, it's been pretty interesting so far. Continuity errors, especially between exterior and close-up shots, are rampant, and the sound is occasionally off, giving it the quality of a William Shatner monologue. ("Oh, come off it, Number Six, surely you can't escape from The Village.") The stories are pretty interesting, if mildly familiar, and I look forward to more of the show.

And that's it. Goodbye for now. Keep your teeth clean.

Lemming, Lemming, Lemming of the BDA. . .

Prime Minister's Question Time

Yes, that's right, Netflix are back. This week, I bring you Brazil, Un long dimanche de fiançailles, and Scent of a Woman

Brazil
Released: 1985
Directed by: Terry Gilliam
Starring: Jonathon Price, Robert De Niro, Katherine Helmond, Ian Holm, Bob Hoskins, Kim Griest

After a mistake leads to the false arrest (and subsequent death under torture) of an innocent man, a lone, daydreaming bureaucrat in this Retro-futuristic, Chinese-bardo society takes it upon himself to right the wrong. In the process he meets the literal girl of his dreams, and is mistaken for a terrorist by his own government.

This is the kind of world we're headed for, frankly, although without the strange influence of Gilliam's mind. The biggest message of this movie (oddly shared by Scent of a Woman seems to be one of personal integrity. By hiding behind a mountain of paperwork and self-contradictory rules, anyone can avoid having to own up to their own actions--or shortcomings. Jack Lint (Michael Palin) is the best example: as a government torturer (echoing his "Mad Barber" scenes from Monty Python's Flying Circus), his sanity depends on the ability to separate work and family, and whose family seemingly exists solely to provide balance. Without the ability to say "only doing my job," he might have to face up to what his job actually is. However, he, like the rest of this society, is easily distracted by petty details and crass consumerism (e.g. "Consumers for Christ" an excellent little banner that probably hangs in Dubya's closet somewhere).

Oddly, some have said that this is an update or pastiche of Orwell's Nineteen Eight-four, but I don't see it. Not all stories about faceless bureaucracies have to point back to that increasingly outdated book. If you want something to compare it to, try Ted Rall's 2024.

Un long dimanche de fiançailles
Released: 2004
Directed by: Jean-Pierre Jeunet
Starring: Audrey Tautou, Gaspard Ulliel, Marion Cotillard, Dominique Pinon

After The Great War tears two lovers apart, Mathilde refuses to believe that her fiancee is dead, and searches for him by every means possible, finally unravelling the story of his disappearance and seeming death.

An excellent movie, with a lot of action and romance, sure to please both sides of the dating equation. Jeunet, who also directed Les fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain, brings a lot of the same style (and a bit of the same story) to this piece, which doesn't detract at all from the buildup of the story.

Scent of a Woman
Released: 1992
Directed by: Martin Brest
Starring: Al Pacino, Chris O'Donnell, James Rebhorn

Charlie Simms, a prep-school boy in increasing amounts of trouble, takes a job watching over Lt. Colonel Frank Slade, a 'Nam Vet, for the Thanksgiving holiday. Slade takes Simms to New York, where he plans to have a grand old time before "blowing his brains out". They fight over this, Slade has a good time, and eventually the two even help each other out of their rough situations, everybody feels good, and a rainbow pegasus flies out of my ass.

Yes, it's predictable, but it's also pretty good. Pacino gets a lot of great lines: Donna: That's amazing.
Slade: I'm in the amazing business.

Slade: I know exactly where your body is. What I'm looking for is some indication of a brain. Too much football without a helmet? Hah! Lyndon's line on Gerry Ford. Deputy debriefer, Paris, peace talks, '68. Snagged a silver star and a silver bar. Threw me into G-2.
Simms: G-2?
Slade: Intelligence. Of which you have none.

Slade: The day we stop lookin', Charlie, is the day we die.

Overall, it's a bit like watching a combination of the Old Man and every Nam Vet I know: edgy, smooth, and wise all at once. I suppose that's what kept me from being upset by the predictability of it all.

Tune in next week for Carry on Dick, The Seventh Seal, and the first disc of The Prisoner. Same Pravda-time, Same Pravda-channel. Cheerio!

Umberto Eco Time

(suddenly it's all The Name of the Rose in here.)

From the (shoddily edited) Northwest Arkansas News for 17 July 2005:
Although in her June 22 email she said she wanted to "purge" the school libraries of sexually explicit materials, Taylor has an idea for a compromise.

Place the explicit and objectionable books in a restricted area, and parents who do not mind their children accessing these materials can sign a permission sheet allowing them to do so, "Why are educators so incensed at the fact that parents want to have authority over what their children read?" she said.

Why do parents feel the need to control every single idea that their child is exposed to? Maybe it's a good thing in a free society for kids to come across ideas that their parents haven't approved yet. Maybe that's what keeps the society going--kids who put ideas together in totally novel ways, because that one new idea is so radically different from the ideas the child has been exposed to before.

People who are afraid of ideas have not been taught to think for themselves, nor will they teach their children to think for themselves.

And as to the specifics of this case, I say to this woman: what if a child who is questioning their own sexuality--for children do have them, especially those children in school--seeks information in the library to help them understand their feelings? When a child reaches this age, they should not be required to seek only the counsel of their parents in such matters, but those of society as well, and the place many of us still do this is the library. How would it be if, on a casual Tuesday, some confused child came into the library seeking understanding, and the librarian said, "I cannot give it to you because it is evil" when it most certainly is not?

Finally, if these books are removed from the school library but not the public library, what do you think this woman's next target will be?

If I can come down from this high horse language for a minute, I think this woman has some serious issues with Toni Morrison, and though Morrison is not one of my favorite authors, her novels do address very important themes that should not be withheld from children.

*Bullshit Alert* The concept of a library has long been the target of the totaltarianist movement: who after all would support a place where ideas can be freely got and discussed but dirty commie hippie liberals, and other kinds of Euro-centric scum. You know, all this liberalism started in Europe anyway, what with them Greeks and their homosexuals.
*Bullshit Over*

Okay, back to reading Order of the Phoenix before Half-Blood Prince gets here from Canada in a week.

Stop laughing.

To see what condition my condition is in

=====

Netflix time! This week: The Big Lebowski (1998), Casino Royale (1967), and The Merchant of Venice (2004).

The Big Lebowski
Joel and Ethan Cohen - (1998)
Starring Jeff Bridges, John Goodman, Julianne Moore, Steve Buscemi, John Turturro.

Jeff Bridges plays Jeff Lebowski, aka "The Dude", an aging pothead in LA who likes White Russians, surfing, and bowling. Things go wrong when he's mistaken for the other Jeff Lebowski, a rich man with no legs and a striking resemblance to Dick Cheney. Extortionists, intent on getting money from the other Lebowski, piss on the Dude's rug. He goes to the Big Lebowski to get compensated for his rug, only to get drawn into the kidnapping of the Big Lebowski's trophy wife.

This is a really excellent movie, for a variety of reasons. One is the pastiche of Film Noir (which seems to be a running thing with the Cohens, e.g. Fargo, The Man Who Wasn't There, The Big Lebowski). Another is the trippy way they frame scenes, especially the "Bowling Flashback" (which I'm pretty sure is the only time you actually see Jeff Bridges' eyes in the entire film). Although I couldn't tell you why, this movie is really funny, and is definitely going in the collection.

Casino Royale
John Huston, Val Guest, Kenneth Hughes, Joseph McGrath, and Robert Parrish - (1967)
Starring David Niven, Peter Sellers, Woody Allen, Terence Cooper, John Huston, Orson Welles, and Deborah Kerr

There's no plot. I mean, there are so many different plots that it's hard to tell. Only one is based on the Ian Fleming novel of the same name. While this is a send-up of the 007 genre -- something I'm all for, as my recent Matt Helm and Our Man Flint viewings have shown -- it goes too far. Any film that starts to parody itself has also lost track of what it's supposed to be making fun of, and has thus begun to collapse. I liked bits of it, mostly dialogue ("Are you Richard Burton?" "No, I'm Peter Sellers." "Then you, sir, are the greatest man who ever lived.") and Deborah Kerr's Scots accent just about did it for me. Other than that, it's too silly, and doesn't even have the redeeming camp value of other British comedies (e.g. Passport to Pimlico or the Carry On series).

The Merchant of Venice
Michael Collins - (2004)
Starring Joseph Finnes, Jeremy Irons, Al Pacino, Lynn Collins

One of Speare's more troubling plays, The Merchant of Venice is a kind of half-comic, half tragic farce. Bassanio of Venice (Joseph Finnes) has fallen on hard times, but has a solution: if he can just marry the heiress Portia (Lynn Collins), she'll solve all his troubles. However, he needs three thousand ducats to make his suit, and so turns to Antonio (Jeremy Irons), the Merchant of the title. Antonio, however, has everything tied up in shipping, and thus can't give Bassanio the money—but he does have connections with Shylock (Al Pacino), a Jewish moneylender. Shylock, however, is not fond of Antonio, and so writes a compact stating that if Antonio be forfeit, he shall pay with a single pound of his own flesh.

The acting was spot-on, and much of the dialogue was intact (as was Titus, but not, say, Richard III). I suppose the only thing that bothers me about the play is the play itself, and in this day and age, I suppose it should. Though the director goes to pains in order to make Shylock more sympathetic, his case against Antonio is not entirely clear; does he also blame the merchant for the loss of his daughter? Has this loss—not a clear connection to begin with—driven him insane? Why does he suddenly convert, when moments before he was willing to let the Duke take his life? It doesn't hang, and maybe that's the point: if Shakespeare had let Shylock remain resolute to the end, then he may well have seen fit to kill him onstage, too, and incite the groundlings to further violence. Not, of course, that there were officially Jews in England in the early 17th century. It's a mess, though, and a really tough thing to stage, though that doesn't excuse Pacino's occasional hackneyed recitation of his lines. Watch out for Gareth Keenan as Leonardo, and Jason Sidor—er, Joseph Finnes as Bassanio.

Misfirings, or Cleaning up my scribblings file

=====
Because the novel is fundamentally bourgeious, set up to espouse the value of that class, any novel which purports to present values counter to those is flawed--and any novel that presents fully and accurately the values of, say, the Roman elite, the Carolingian empire, Zulu tribes, Marxism, or the Queché, is not a novel. Such a work is also therefore speculative fiction, because it experiements with the underpinnings of modern "accepted" literature.

********

Entering a completely virtual world where everything is under the control of the individual could well result in a world where no-one is connected at all, where isolation is the norm, and where the basic definition of human is "one who creates" But is it enough to be the creator? Might we not move on? If so, what happens to the created?

********

Everything is ritual. Going to the store is a ritual. Going to the movies is a ritual. Everything has to be done in its order, its place, its time. We are creatures of habit, the habit of stereotype and performance.

********

The second-person singular pronoun is the rhetorical equivalent of grabbing someone by the lapels of their coat and shouting in their face. It's too agressive.

********

       The Debate on Homosexuality continues:
       "What does Jesus say?"
       "Well in Leviticus--"
       "What does Jesus say?"
       "Well, St. Paul--"
       "What does JESUS say?"
       "Well, there's this bit in the beatitudes about adultery--"
       "Is that homosexuality?"
       "Well,no, but--"
       "Does he say anything or not?"
       "Um..."
       "Oh piss off."

********

"So that's it? I've made my contribution to the gene pool, and now I'm no longer needed? Sort of a 'Wham, bam, thank you m'am' to Mother Earth?"

"I can't belive you just said 'wham, bam, thank you m'am'."

********

Part of being a teenager means discovering irony, which—unless you're British and doing it properly—most people will drop when they're about twenty-five or so. For the rest of us, there's a quick move into sarcasm—unless you're American, in which case you were doing that already—followed by the development of odd hair, myopic vision corrected by black-framed glasses, and a "pop sensibilty" (whatever that is).

********

I must be getting old: self-conscious irony is no longer sexy. Actually, most forms of sarcasm aren't that sexy, either, although it is nice to hear banter. I'm not only turning into my parents, I'm turning into my parents circa Red & Kitty Forman. Not that that's a bad thing, right?

********
A craving for breakfast foods can indicate serious levels of bordennia morbidis, which is a disease akin to the virus that causes lethargy (sarcopsychos princeps). You should see your pop culture specialist or neighborhood quack dealer right away. In the meantime, 4 out of 5 sober doctors recommend lunch; the fifth recommends martinis, and therefore doesn't count.

********

There should be a statute of limitations on how long after a relationship withers one is still allowed to contact the members of that relationship, e.g. "Oh, well, I'd love to stay and chat, but frankly it's been five years since I saw you last so this friendship's gone off. Sorry." or "After the break-up, the party of the second part is allowed to call the party of the first part until six months do pass."

********
And finally, for Opa:

From the Oxford Encyclopaedia of Mythical Beasts, 11th edition (2003); Oxford: OUP. Volume 7, page 832:

OUSKEHOBIN (var. oskahoben, owskehobbin, pl. -öben or -obens.) Any variety of the Family Mark-trollar, Genus Michegandiae. The ouskehobin is usually mottled tan or brown, about .5 - 1m tall, with thin, almost fairy-like extremities extending often the length of their bodies, forming their main survival camouflage as saplings or branches; their faces, like most trollar, are knobby and wide, and their bodies vary from squat to twig-thin. They have a knowledge level of three (somewhere between two and eight years old) and generally feed off of roots and berries. As with most trollar, they are usually nocturnal, although some vareities seem to be able to survive in daylight under the forest canopy. Their range, geographically speaking, is no farther south than the Ohio and no farther west than the Twin Cities; although some were sighted in the Ozarks, and there were reports of a few in the forests of Osaka, Japan, these remain unconfirmed.
During the early 20th century, it was belived that these creatures were descendants of the long-thought extinct Ent race; subsequent interviews with Redsage Treeshaker and Ironskin the Fair (Genivive Michelsson, She Spoke to Trees, U Chicago 1973) revealed that the Ents had not produced offspring for seven thousand years, and had no memory of the Ouskehöben race.
Following the genetic survey of Bill O'Woolfe, the troll-ancestor of the Ouskehöben appears to have been brought to the New World with the Icelanders in the early 11th century (Keitel Blackhair, "Voyage to Markland", ch. 39; cf. "The Saga of Hronbiter the Odd", ch 17). Few survived the crossing, and those that did quickly interbred themselves to near-extinction before the arrival of the Cornish and Swedish Knockers (1789-?1820), with whom the weakened markland-trollar crossbred to produce the Ouskehobin. The current population is stable, although rarely seen.
Attempts at preservation, including a captivity-breeding programme outside of Stockholm and an attempted transplant to Finland, have yet proved unsuccessful due to the particular energy of the forests of the Upper Midwest. They cannot survive outside of forests without special care.
Status: Endangered but stable.
Warning: DANGEROUS. Owing to their almost-pixie like nature, Ouskehöben are very mischievous, often to the point of extreme danger. These trollar still posses "iron skin" and will not die easily; their "fun and games" can often be quite deadly.

Crazy White Man

I watched Dead Man today. It's really interesting, and I may have to watch it again to really get some of it. Full plot over at Wikipedia (click above).

I also have a pretty good thing going with Glendale apartments. I filled out an application and gave them a deposit. The only shaky part is that I'm buying out a guy's lease, and he's moving in with his girlfriend, but when I met them both today they seemed okay, so hopefully all will be well. Barring cupidial intervention or the discovery of a criminal record as yet unknown to me, I should be moving on the 25th of July. I don't want to jinx it too much, and I certainly won't feel okay until I'm standing in the middle of the apartment with all my stuff in it, but things look to be possibly heading in the direction of being okay.

Now to discover the Leading German Medieval Literature Journal.

Frühling für Hitler und Deutchland!

=====

For those of you who don't live in my head (and I'm pretty sure that's most of you), the USPS decided that my order to forward mail to my parents after the first of July meant "as soon as possible." As a result, I lost two days of mail, and had it start up just in time to get a letter saying the University wants my building gone (that's another story--and a hell of a weekend of waiting for 8:00 on Monday). The upshot of the mail bit was that it started on a day when Netflix was due. So after many long days of me wondering just where in the hell my Netflix DVDs went, I got them today: Richard III (1995); The Producers (1968); and Dead Man (1995). The last will have to wait, since it's late right now and I do have school tomorrow, but the other two were pretty interesting.

Richard III stars Ian McKellen as the title incarnation of pure evil, and it damn well shows. In fact the movie is almost entirely McKellen and his Dr. Evil smirk, so much so that when the play ends (spoiler) with his plunging to firey death, it... ends. Right there. No "and Henry Bollinbroke became King of All England and Order was Restored in time for Catholocism to fall and Capitalism to Rise." In fact, though it's been a while since I've read the play, I'm pretty sure there were other speaking parts. Don't get me wrong--it was great acting, great sets, great idea (hm, Fascist 30's Britain = the late 15th century), it just didn't work out well, and was so tied up with R3 that a lot of the usual 'Speare story got lost. As a reviewer at Netflix said:

This is an "alternate history" version of the play, a lavishly realized fascistic England in the '30s. I don't see that this aspect of the film really "says" much about either element: Shakespeare's vision of calculated and self-conscious villainy, or the director's vision of Nazi Germany. It's elaborate but insubstantial window dressing which will delight some (i.e., me) and distress or annoy others. [T]his is streamlined Shakespeare, with a substantially reduced word count, which is likely to be distressing to some viewers and indeed troubles me.

The Producers was also pretty good, except that it felt rushed toward the end. Otherwise, though, it felt, well, exactly like a late-sixties camp comedy, complete with drag, drawn out musical numbers, and random fetishistic scopophilia.

A Max Byalastock production.

Bonus: Latin Ramblings

=====

Quaestio: An amor labor est.
     Majus: Labor omnia vincit (Vergil Gerogics 1.145).
          Labor > omnia.
     Majus: Omnia vincit amor (Ovid, Amores)
          Amor > omnia.
     Minus: Labor non est omnia. (Aristotle)
     Minus: Amor non est omnia. (Aristotle)
     ERGO: Amor est labor; labor est amor.
     Quod eras demonstrandum.
Quaestio: Quod labori est amor?

Omnis Mulieres sunt semper nuptiis; si non, sunt non boni cognoscendi.
All women are married; if they ain't, they ain't worth knowin'.
-- Samuel Johnson (on a tuesday afternoon, well into his cups)

Mulieres mirant quomodo viros irrumatores esse. Vir omnis qui irrumator est ob solis. Solicitia torquat; solicitia ob eros pertorquat.
Women wonder why it is that men are bastards. Every man who is a bastard is so because he is lonely. Lonliness twists; lonliness on account of eros twists the hardest.
-- Charles Bukowski (on a tuesday afternoon, well into his meds)

Quod est libertas, ut peramatus est?
What is liberty, to be so loved?

The Vinyl Kings: A Little Trip

(CD Review originally posted at: CD Baby).
=====

One of the things that's so interesting about the Beatles is that they spanned a wide variety of music in their relatively brief musical career, and continued to do so well after their breakup ("... and Wings" notwithstanding—sorry Paul). This is important to keep in mind when approaching The Vinyl Kings, a band whose biggest sell is that they sound like the Beatles—and they do, all too well. A Little Trip, their first album, is jam-packed with the kind of songs that make us dig out the old LPs, pointy boots, and the marching band jackets, and like Rob Fleming in High Fidelity, listen to the music that belongs to us, that will "make me feel something, (but) they won't make me feel anything bad."

And that's all well and good, but with A Little Trip the Vinyl Kings have captured the Beatles sound in a hyper-compressed form—which is to say that it's a great disc, but the Beatles of Meet the Beatles are not exactly the same as those of Sgt. Pepper, and entirely different than those of The Beatles (aka The White Album). A Little Trip is exactly as advertised: it is a collection of Beatles-esque music that feels like someone's mix tape of personal hits. This is fine, up to a point: "Bang Bang" feels wrong, as if in the midst of the singer's tirade against the industry the Lennon mask has slipped a bit; and "Chocolate Cake" is a pastiche of both "Strawberry Fields Forever" and "Savoy Truffle" that manages be more confusingly strange than both. This album has the overall feeling of demo tape, a sort of "look what we can do" to the world, and while that is no doubt the point of A Little Trip, it doesn't quite gel as an album. Nevertheless it's good to hear this kind of music again, and I look forward to hearing their next album.

Gladly would he learn, and gladly speech

=====
Well, I'm pulling this York stuff together for Quinn, and it looks to be really fun. I'm also hoping to take it to SEMA this fall--which means I should probably get that abstract sent off soon. I meet with Quinn to discuss abstracts this week, and once that's done, hopefully I'll go ahead and send the blasted thing off. Of course, I should probably also write the paper. That would be good.

I'm thinking of dusting off the conference version of Masculinites in Question and maybe sending the abstract to the Leeds Conference people. I don't have a chance in hell of getting in, but it should be fun nevertheless--and imagine if I did get in. . . . Mmm. . . Britian. If I did get in, I'd have to start buying currency NOW so it's not $500 to the pound like it will be in 2006. I need to start playing the game, though, which means kicking my way toward that House of Fame:

They gonne doun on knees falle
Before this ilke noble quene,
And seyde, 'Graunte us, lady shene,
Ech of us, of thy grace, a bone!'
And somme of hem she graunted sone,
And somme she werned wel and faire;
And somme she graunted the contraire
Of hir axing utterly.
-- Geoffrey Chaucer, The House of Fame III.1534-41

In the immediate future, however, I've also got a paper to write for Booker on Iron Council, and some kind of paper for Cohen that should also be worked on, erm, real soon. I did get an outline up for the Booker paper, but I may have to block off a week of solid research to get both of those going soon. Yay for Spring Break, in which I will rest, fix the car, visit my folks and my other folks, and not get a damn thing done.

No other real news. I'm kind of woozy still from Liam and Jessica's "Wine and Cheese Snob Party" yesterday, and I have a minor headache that may be dehydration and may be sinuses (the weather was 70*F yesterday, and is roughly 43*F today--with Snow expected by tomorrow evening). *sigh*

Blue Monk

======
So, what can I say, but it's been a long time. This weekend has been especially capitalistic. For some reason I was knocking about on (An auction site which shall remain nameless) and bid on a few Ipods, all of which were underbid from me in a span of microseconds. That set off a reaction involving those free-ipod sites (especially since they're offering the photo-Ipod now), which turn out to be all above-board and legal except that they want you to a) sign yourself up for evil junk-mail; b) want you to refer ten (count 'em--as if I had that many enemies) friends to the site, and then they have to sign themselves up for spam. I just don't want an Ipod bad enough to jeopardize my relationship with ten people.
I finished Mrs. Dalloway today (London Lit); it's a bear to read, but it's both a modernist novel and stream-of-consciousness. I'm not a fan of stream-of-consciousness novels (not that you'd believe it reading this). My own thoughts are hard enough to deal with on a daily basis; I don't need other people's thrown into the mix. I also graded a few exams and have started Orwell's Keep the Aspidistra Flying, which looks to be funny. It also starts with the main character complaining about the small amount of coin in his pocket, which made me realise once again that I don't have specimins of shillings (1/-), happence (.5d), or threpence (3d), and sent me back to the auction site for the odd experience of paying money for money that's not money any mon- er, more.
I should probably get back to "work," especially since I need to figure out what I'm doing tomorrow. I leave you with this:
"Jesus MUST be Mormon--look how many brides he has!"

Good night, Mrs. Calabash--wherever you are!

LAST TRAIN TO NUREMBERG
Pete Seeger (1970)
Revised 2004

Chorus (and after each verse):
Last train to Nuremberg!
Last train to Nuremberg!
Last train to Nuremberg!
All on board!

Do I see Sadir city?
Do I see Abu Gharib?
Do I see Tony Blair and all his crew?
Do I see The Reverend President?
Do I see both houses of Congress?
Do I see the voters, me and you?

Who held the rifle? Who gave the orders?
Who planned the campaign to lay waste the land?
Who manufactured the bullet? Who paid the taxes?
Tell me, is that blood upon my hands?

If five hundred thousand mothers went to Washington
And said, "Bring all of our boys home without delay!"
Would the man they came to see, say he was too busy?
Would he say he had to watch a football game?

Epistola Alexandri
(...I don't even have a little dog Toto...)
=====
And so a new week begins. In celebration of this fact, I got up nice and early (5:30 or so), did some Tai Ch'i -- which I was glad to see the old body still remembered -- and did some reading. Pretty soon I'll head up to the office, get the Magtape that has Peter the Nibbler on it, do some serious printing, and then teach.

I finished a great book this weekend: Kim Stanley Robinson's The Years of Rice and Salt. It's an Alternate History set in a world in which the Black Death all but annihilated Europe, and history continues unabated as a conflict between the Dar-al-Islam, the various Chinese empires, the Sind between them, and a united front of Amerinds. It was one of those books when, upon reaching the end, you just kind of sit there in a glowing daze for a couple of hours, disappointed that the book has ended but so grateful for its existence in the first place. It comes highly recommended.

De Docendo Compositionis Primus
=====
Well, since you folks have asked, and since I've been remiss, here is my impression of the first couple of days of class.
(ear-shattering scream)
Only more so.
Seriously, though, it hasn't been so bad. They're a good bunch of students, really they are, and I'm looking forward to the semester. It's rather a lot like teaching at the Scout Camp was, only they don't go home after a week. I've almost got their names memorized (almost).
Aside from that, things seem to be shaping up vis-a-vis classes and such. I really don't know what to say (which may be an indication of what's going on -- my brain is fried at the moment).
Comments are welcome.

A Century of Fakers
=====
Today will be my first day of teaching. Gods help us all.

More later.

Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner
=====
Yeah, I know I haven't posted anything about the last day of "boot camp", but it's been kind of rough the past few days. Nothing serious, just having to scrap with the Grad School about my status as a Graduate Student (the system has me listed as an Undergrad, and apparently the installation of She Who Must Be Obeyed has caused more trouble than it's worth except to HE my lord the chancellor's dick size). Mea Koopa -- er, Culpa (damn Catlicks).
Anyway, Thursday went rather quickly -- we only took half the day -- but was not without event. After walking down the hill and practically on to Sixth Street to find the key office, several of us discovered that the simpering fool behind the counter would not accept our cards because there was a smudge over part of the signature. Trekking back up the hill, we found Chad in a state of high dudgeon; after he finished chewing out the key shed guy, he signed our cards, and some of us went back down the hill, only to discover that Key Shed Guy didn't have any building or mailroom keys. It's the key office. Shouldn't they have the ability to make keys?
That was Thursday. Friday found me shuffling around the Grad School offices, trying to straighten out my good name -- a feat made impossible by the imposition of ISIS. My paperwork, like so many people's, is lost in the shuffle, but should be sorted out really soon. I'm hoping damn soon, because after next week I'll be in dire straits vis-a-vis financial aid and billing, not to mention the fact that classes start next Monday. I'm going to find the engineer who designed ISIS, as well as the administrators who decided to impose it on us, and I will eject them bodily into space. Perhaps twice.
But I also bought books yesterday, which made me feel ever-so-nice, especially since I'll be in the Grad Seminar on Science Fiction. It'll be like sixteen weeks of candy.

Boot Camp, Day Three: Hurry Up and Wait
=====
Today consisted of a brief meeting with the folks at the Writing Center (where I worked before, of course, and so was well aware of the resources available to teachers and students), followed by going over the papers we had to mark up the night before. For the most part it looks like we've all got some idea of what to look for in a "good paper", as we've reached consensus a lot in terms of grades. After an early break for lunch, we sang "Happy Birthday" to Dr. van Sycoc, who casually mentioned himself to be 78, ending much speculation on our and Dr. Slattery's part. We then did a bit on writing workshops, which I'm still unclear about running but am all in favour of doing in-class, and then he let us go early (quarter to two). While this was a boon for some people, I had to see Dr. Booker at 4:45, which meant I had three hours to kill.
Luckily I had gotten a copy of the York Plays (and the N-Town plays) from HE My Lord the Doctor Quinn earlier in the day, and had those to read & research on, which I did, mostly. I also tweaked the syllabus some more, adding a nifty background and adjusting some of the point values for the assignments. I've also begun to understand why Dr. Dave graded the way he did -- if I've got forty students' five-page essays to grade by the class after next, I'd put a bunch of checkmarks and "Good!"s, too.
No other news to report, as of yet; I'm hoping to get 706 as an office. It's pretty cool in that all of the 7th floor of Kimpel is English faculty and TAs, which makes a pretty tight-knit group as far as I've heard.
It might rain tonight or tomorrow, which would be great, as it means I might sleep continuously from 10-6. Oh, the luxury!
Anyway, I'm off to grade and read more of these essays. Cheers!

Boot Camp, Day Two: Why Johnny Can't Read
=====
Tuesday's session went fairly well. The morning was spent going over policies and procedures -- our own, mind you -- and looking at Slattery's Teacher's Syllabus, which starts out really explicit and grows more taciturn as the semester progresses. The more I looked at my p&p, the more I began to wonder if I weren't talking over my students' heads. That may end up being a problem. One bit of advice we got on Monday was that it might be good to issue an anonymous survey to your class in the first few weeks, just to see how things are going, and I may try that.
After lunch (provided by the department), we got the general policies and procedures lecture from Dr. van Scyoc, who's somewhere between your ultimate commanding officer and your retired old grandad, and who's definitely a hoot. Actually, in all that plus his facial gestures and his smile-that-turns-into-a-laugh, he reminds me of PawPaw (a lot, really, which is somewhat unsettling). Anyway, there are a lot of do's and dinnae's, some of which are obvious and some not.
We finished out the day with some roundtable grading, which was helpful, in that I'd misread some of the practice papers (and discovered that I've a bad habit of making assumptions about students' papers). Still, that's all part of the process and will come out in the wash, to be sure.
I have also uploaded my policies sheet, syllabus, and the University's Academic Dishonesty sheet to my webspace; go to http://comp.uark.edu/~jcl08/, go to "Composition I", and play around from there. I'll probably jazz it up after a while, but hey, I don't even have students yet.

Boot Camp, Day One: Basics of Teaching
=====

Yesterday was the first day of TA orientation, and for me that meant meeting everyone briefly, then going to the Business college for the general orientation session. There were a few classes on things like ethics, learning styles and teaching tips, and for the most part they were really helpful; the biggest things I learned were that the first day isn't going to be all that bad, and that a well-thought out syllabus can really cover your ass. Then there was lunch, and another session in which Dr. Slattery introduced the department and then outlined how Comp I would go. Last night I spent writing up a syllabus (harder than you'd think, especially since you have to come up with a grading scale, attendance policy, weather policy, and academic dishonesty policy), and then did a little practice grading. I think I was also supposed to start looking for a story to assign the students for their first paper, which I'll do shortly.
[Edit]: I forgot to say that Dr. Quinn approves of my idea to look at vernacular culture in the Medieval Mystery play, and has now commanded me to go forth and find a mystery cycle to work on.
Not much to report aside from that. I'm feeling slightly better about teaching, but not by much.

In the Jailhouse Now, No 2
=====

Well, I'm back. (I know, you were missing the blog so, like a teenybopper without Elvis, like Spinal Tap without their cocaine.) And yes, the rumours are true: I have an assistantship, and will be going to the Uni as a TA for an English MA. I've also moved back into my old apartment, and will spend most of to-morrow assembling shelves, re-organising my apartment, and cleaning up. Right now, though, I'm dead tired, and will have to get some sleep -- just as soon as I've cleared off my bed. Cheers.

This is just a little note to say...

=====

I'm officially putting the blog on hiatus until I get back in Fayetteville, which should be around the *ulp* fourteenth.

Oh, and I did, finally, get an assistanceship, which is why I can return to Fayetteville, my head held high and debt-free.

Cheers,
Jacob

Apologies

=====

Things have been kind of rough lately, what with Morgan's funeral and trying to comfort the greiving and doing a little grieving myself. I will post more later, but for now, well, *shrugs*. We're all a little lost, here.

Gone are the kings of the days of old:

Morgan Hetrick
07 December 1931 - 14 July 2004
(Pearl Harbor Day - Bastille Day)
=====

þa ymbe hlæw riodan      hildedeore
æþelinga bearn      ealra twelfa
woldon cearge cwiðan      kyning mænan
wordgyd wrecan      7 ymb wer sprecan
eahtodan eorlscipe      7 his ellenweorc
duguðum demdon      swa hit gedefe bið
þæt mon his winedryhten      wordum herge
ferhðum freoge      þonne he forð scile
of lichaman      læded weorðan
swa begnornodon      geata leode
hlafordes hryre      heorðgeneatas
cwædon þæt he wære      wyruldcyning
manna mildust      monðwærust
leodum liðost      7 lofgeornost.

Then twelve warriors rode around the tomb,
Chieftan's sons, champions in battle,
all of them distraught, chanting in dirges,
mourning his loss as a man and a king.
They extolled his heoric nature and exploits
and gave thanks for his greatness, which was the proper thing
for a man should praise a prince whom he holds dear
and cherish his memory when that moment comes
when he has to be conveyed from his bodily home.
So the Geat people, his hearth companions,
sorrowed for the lord who had been laid low.
They said that of all the kings upon the earth
he was the man most gracious and fair-minded,
kindest to his people and keenest to win fame.

-- Beowulf (Seamus Heaney tr.)

Morgan Hetrick has passed over. He was like a grandfather to me; he occupied a special place in all the hearts of those who knew him, and now that place is as empty as an ocean drained of its water. He led a good life -- no-one can deny that. He saw and did things many of us will never see. He won and lost more fortunes than any of us would care to contemplate. More importantly, he saw to it that those around him shared in his good life and good spirits.

Forever imparting his seventy-two years of well-earned wisdom, Morgan knew the best ways to live, and the one secret to a good life: every morning, rain or shine (preferrably shine), you've got to get out there, strap on an airplane, and get the hell off the ground. Flight was Morgan's real passion, despite everything else in his life, and so long as he had an aeroplane to fly, nothing could faze him. And indeed nothing did: staggering from the wreck, Morgan told the EMT's that, if they could save him, good, but if not, well, that was all right, too. Because, you see, every good pilot knows that any landing you walk away from is a good landing -- this may not have been the best, but to the last he made sure that everyone else was all right.

So, cheers, old man, and as you fly the friendliest skies in the universe, remember to clip the angels' wings for those of us still here (and I hear the Magdeline likes Carribean boat trips).

We will miss you.

I Fought in a War
-----

Suppose we should do the whinging now and get it over with. I haven't heard from the realtors in two days, and while that isn't much considering they mail doesn't come on Sundays, it bothers me. I mean, I want certain things fixed up before I go (I've said this before, I know), and the fact that they won't be is infuriating. On that note, I had a dream last night (sound of thousands of people cheering) that I talked to Mark in the English office, and they offered to let me teach a section of 2003 (or something odd, like 2843) but for only $2800 a semester without fee remission. Brilliant, no?

Also, I've been kind of stuck on the latest story, and actually realised that I need to go back and rewrite a page or so of it, because as it stands the plot doesn't make sense.

I've been reading The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens, and finding them quite enjoyable, unlike Mr. Joyce's Ulysses.

They Might Be Giants have a new album out called The Spine. It sounds rather much like a return to their indie-pop roots (and a turn away from their odd *waves fingers about* mainstream pop nonsense, e.g. "New York City" from Factory Showroom and the like).

Also, Brooke (who I haven't mentioned at all in this blog and who will continue to remain anonymous... er... sort of) casually mentioned a band called "Iron and Wine", and they're quite good as well.

Because I'm an idiot and forgot to buy tortillas, I went off and made "Mexican Pasties" last night, which actually turned out quite well. I may have to try the pasty thing again.

Swastika attack on French mother

French politicians have reacted with horror to an anti-Semitic attack on a woman and her baby on a train.

A gang of young men cut her hair, slashed her clothes and drew swastikas on her body, before overturning the pram in which her infant was lying.(more)

This kind of stuff is simply frightening, for two reasons. One is that I thought we were past all this kind of violence, this idea of the subhuman/superhuman, inferior races, etc. The other is the disturbing fact that she was attacked by six men, and no-one else on the train intervened -- shades of Kitty Genovese. Plus ça change, non?

Fiddler's Green, or
Puttering all around the house (A maid?)
-----

Not much else to report at this time, aside from the fact that it's rained almost every day (albiet off and on, not constantly) for a fortnight. I've gotten bored and decided to move most of the furniture in my apartment around, plus buy more furniture (bookshelves) in the future. I even had a Sketch-Up model of the room built and ready to go, but I hit the wrong button and the damned thing disappeared on me. Ah... technology.

So I've pretty much talked myself out of going up the Hill tomorrow, except that I need to print the Change of Address form off and I ought to buy a little half-gallon of milk (I know, I know, you're thinking "Geez, you wanker, you just went and bought groceries last Thursday, what's wrong with you?" but I put a lot of milk in my tea and coffee, you understand). I'll probably go up the hill, but not stop by the English Department and see what's going on, because, well, I should trust Mark, right? He's in a better position to know about who's in the program and who's not than Booker is. My only concern is that I haven't seen paperwork from the department yet, and I'd like to see that before I leave for Conway. I guess the problem is that I don't know what the next step is going to be, and I don't know who to ask about that. And then there's financial aid, for which I cannot apply until I am enrolled as a student, and that could be as late as the 16th of August. (grabs hair, pulls, makes various angry, frustrated noises) Incidentally, my estimated need for the coming semster is about $6000, including Tuition & Fees for 9 hours (three classes), Room & board, and books. It's not that bad, except that I'll need it really soon, and I'll have slightly less than 1/6th of it by the start of Fall term.

Nothing else at the moment, except that the pie was exceptionally good, as was the curry I made yesterday. I'm actually getting better at this whole "cooking" thing, or at least more experimentative, which is fun considering I never really got to play around before.

Your one-stop blather shop
-----

All right, so a couple of updates:

1) I got a letter (via my folks) from MOHELA again, this time letting me know that they know where my parents live, thus precluding me writing them a letter to that effect.

2) I called Faucette Properties to let them know I hadn't gotten a new lease yet. The lady on the other end said they were very short-handed, but she'd get that out to me asap.

3) No word from the English Dept yet; I'll go in on Monday and ask them if there's something more tangible about me being accepted in the MA program, i.e. paperwork or suchlike. I need that stuff for funding.

4) I founded a new nation. No, seriously. Go here.

Also, I realise that my earlier statements re "being a writer" may, in light of recent posts, be somewhat questionable, and rest assured that I agree with you. On the other hand, there's all this stuff, so judge as ye are wont. I did get another three-quarters of a page written today, but then got sidetracked by British Adverts from the 80's.

Finally, I made an apple pie. It is baking as I type. Mmm... pie.

Pigs, Sheep and Wolves
or, how I learned to stop worrying and Love the Right.
-----

Al-Qaeda 'targeting US election'

Al-Qaeda is aiming to attack the US to try to undermine the presidential election in November, Homeland Security Secretary Tom Ridge has warned.(More)

Al-Qaeda is aiming to "disrupt our democratic process" -- so we'll do it for them. Ladies and gentlemen, this is how Fascism works. The party in power lies to stay in power, trading security for freedom. If they get away with this, mark my words, we'll have 5% of the population in a standing army, a draft, and suspension of habeas corpus. It's coming.

I know this sounds paranoid, but these people are pulling shit like this right out front and nobody squeaks. Madison, Adams and Jefferson are rolling in their graves. We've got to do something about these people -- they're taking what's left of our country and making sure no-one else gets it. I mean, honestly, if Reagan wasn't obvious enough (actor in the White House? Shall we make it more plain?), then Nostro Duce and his spoonfeeding by the Compassionate Republicans is pretty well evident.

Consider, too, the Republican Party's knee-jerk reaction to Kerry's selection of Edwards as his running mate: they began at once to run him down. Is this the kind of leadership we want, that will focus on destroying its opponants rather than building its country? I don't think so.
###
While I'm thinking about it, this is the downfall of our civilization. "Oi! You fat fuck! Were you screwed over by your completely voluntary surgery? We'll get you money!"

"You try keeping your mind in a pair of Ravens."
-----

Not much to report. Called the hospital yesterday, talked to Ana for a good half-hour. Grizz seems to be getting better by the second -- although that's to be expected, given that he's no longer got giant bone spurrs growing into his spine and muscles. She says they might go home either today or tomorrow, depending on how his "war wound" is doing.

I aim to get some writing done this morning, maybe dig more through Aristotle. I'll probably talk to some folks in the Eng Dept soon, see what's going on there, but mainly I'm going to watch the mail for the next couple of days. If I don't see anything from Faucette before Sunday, I'm giving them a call on Monday for sure. I've got to have that lease signed before I go.

Project Britannia timeline is moving along. It's been fun, getting these kinks ironed out.

Finally heard from Ross (waves to Ross), who hasn't disappeared, only gone quiet for the time being. Still waiting to hear from Carlos and Jason, the latter of whom we may have to write off entirely. Ah, well.

the wanker.

You don't too often see a Sunbeam any more.
You never see a Fuller Brush man, or a dinosaur.
The voice of reason rules with an iron fist.
Please forgive me if I'm not prepared to handle this.
James McMurtry, Fuller Brush Man

"If you could read my mind, love..."
(or, Too Much Lightfoot Makes the Baby Go Blind)
-----

Not much to report today. Still too muggy to sleep properly, although I caught a nap this afternoon in the "Alpha Male of the House" Chair. I also worked through the first and second chapters of Aristotle's Politics, which I was supposed to have read for PLSC 3953, Ancient and Medieval Political Thought way back in the Fall of 2001. God, I was such a waste back then. I'm going to pretend the majority of the past, oh, twenty years haven't happened (except for occasional moments with my parents, Scout Camp, Ana and Grizz, and roughly 30% of college), for the simple fact that it wasn't until I was about 20 that I stopped being a wanker (metaphorically speaking).

Anyway, never mind that. Aristotle is surprisingly understandable this time around, and I may end up writing a
Treatise
on the Origins and Causes
of Justice
in both Man and his esteem'd
Government.
I have to write to MOHELA to tell them I don't live in Little Rock anymore, and I have to talk to the University to get some official pronouncement of my Grad School status. I also have to talk to Faucette about a) getting a new lease for the fall and b) getting them to come and fix my ceiling before the winter (so I don't end up heating the entire outside world). Don't let me forget, okay?

I've got the number for Grizz at the Hospital and will probably call him tomorrow. Ana's blog posts are increasingly more optimistic, although she won't tell me what his surgery scar looks like (too squeamish) -- did the cut all the way around, did they make a grid, what? Ah well.

And then there's this sort of foppery:

"Caith Maighe Tiuradh" - The Second Battle of Moy Tura, when the Gaels fought the gods of Ireland, won, and relegated them to living in barrow mounds for the rest of eternity. This is something beyond simple atheism; to the atheist's "God is dead," the Gaels added "Because I killed the fooker." Whether this is a profound insight into the nature of the Divine, or just the whiskey talking, is hard to say... (-- Witchvox.org, "Sean Ciall")

Back to Aristotle!

The Tempest, or
"Blood, Gore, Guts, veins in m'teeth."
-----
Well, the old bear came out of surgery all right, got a new spine and not near as much pain as he used to have.

Not much else to say. Had a rough night last night -- lots of heavy thunder & lightning, woke at about 2am to somebody calling for their cat (unless they hate me and were just calling "here pussy, pussy puss!" in a high-pitched voice through my window). Strange dreams, too: back at camp, I had to deal with moving in to a crummy tent with Eric Stewart, plus I lost my chance at "the most beautiful woman in the world". Ah, dreams... if only they made sense. Woke up to discover the wind had knocked my ginger plant down the steps, breaking the pot in the process; it gave me the excuse to repot the rosemary I'd bought last week, so something good happened. I finished sorting all my files, and most of my paperwork is in neat and tidy hanging folders which I will summarily ignore.

Started reading Henry V today, in tandem with the Tao Te Ching (we'll see how long that lasts). I also discovered a factoid (about Leibnitz of all people...) that will help cement the backstory for Telax Moral.

Finally, I am now a registered voter in Washington County, which means I can vote this fall and not have to drive 150 miles just to do it.

(PS: do not in any way shape or form give money to "Food for the Poor, Inc". While they purport to be a Christian-based needs organization for pitful looking children and starving kittens in the Carribean, they in fact seem to do little else besides beg for money in every print and electronic medium imaginable. I've gotten notes from them on average about one a month for the past two years, and I only gave them a one-time $250 donation.
If you want to give money to somebody worthwhile, give it to Heifer Project, Intl.)

"Check again, Mr. Hayhurst -- are you sure you're walking?"
-----
Well, the old bear is going under the knife this morning. I hope he does all right. Not that waking up early in the middle of a heavy downpour and severe thunderstorm makes me fell any better about it, but... we'll see.

Cheers, old man.

The Madwoman Rant:
or, Grievences Against Doing Right.
CAUTION: Vitrolic, Twentysomething-Angsty Rant

Okay, so, I dated a girl in High School (gasp! shock!) and we got along all right, but it never went anywhere. Flash forward a couple of years, I'm finishing up school, she's married and has had a child. Then her husband turns out to be an abusive drunk and she starts calling me, and I'm such a nice guy that I try to talk her through some of the mess she's made of her life. There you go -- nice guy. But now, because I'm a nice guy, she thinks I'm "the right one" and has latched on to me like the Old Man of the Sea. See what being nice fucking gets you? A bridle and a bride.

It's not that I don't want to be married, you understand. It's that if I ever do get married, she has to conform to certain standards. Interest, for one -- we have to both interest each other. This doesn't apply here: She's heavy conservative and I'm libertarian left, she doesn't have much going for her beyond the fact that she's a nurse, she's not intersting as a person, and -- of all things -- she said, "Oh, it's okay, see, I don't understand your Medieval thing and you don't understand my knitting". Excuse me? You don't understand the major facet of my life, and you think that because I don't understand one minor hobby of yours (despite the fact that I do, it's a physical escapism, I do talk to Ana occasionally while she knits, you know), that's all right?

In many ways she's like a Madison Avenue caricature of a housewife: old-fashioned, conservative, stylish, cooks & cleans & loves without question, "pumping out another unit every nine months", as George Carlin said. But look, it's like Vivian Gornick and Barbara Moran write: "adorable in her not-very-bright submissiveness, charming in her childlike delight in shiny floors, even forgivable in her spiteful competition for the whitest, brightest wash, Madison Avenue's girl-next-door is all the American male could wish for -- unless, by some miscarriage, he should fancy human companionship." Put cruedly, if I wanted a maid I could screw, I'd audition for the role of Senex in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

I've come up with a good line: "I can be your friend, even your confessor, but lover no and husband never." She doesn't seem to -- or want to -- realize the difference between a good friend and a lover. But when I delivered that liine she cried, and started whinging about how I never gave her a chance. Well excuse me, but there's no stipulation I have to give people "a chance at a relationship". There's a serious difference between being nice to someone and wanting to shack up with that person.

On the wall in my desk area I have most of a Christian bookmark tacked up which reads, "After a while you learn the difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul. You learn that love isn't leaning but lending support. You begin to accept your defeats with the grace of an adult, not the grief of a child. You decide to build on tomorrow's roads, for today's ground is too uncertain." I made this distinction with G-- C--, my "pain-in-the-arse (non-) simultanious-orgasm woman", and it's remained part of my philosophy since then. It is, however, an essential distinction this woman seems to be missing.

I'm a writer. I've written as characters all of my friends and family. I've shuffled their traits and dealed them like a tarot deck. But I do the same thing with everybody -- people I don't know, character traits I've only vaguely encountered, etc. In the process, I've written some pretty kick-ass women, many of whom, for whatever reason, manage to go on having functional (or dysfunctional) relationships with the male characters they're written with. And the truth of it is, this girl, this... K-- M--, she shares very few of the character traits I've written about. And this is important, you see, because all of those kick-ass women, those heriones, they're all distorted versions of the woman that I'd like to settle in with. Don't you see? She's not in my books, therefore she's not in my dreams, therefore... she's not The One. Not even close.

I realise, of course, that she wouldn't understand this in any way, shape or form, but then, I wouldn't expect her to; she wasn't written that way. She's like Brigit O'Shaugnessey in The Maltese Falcon: come on strong one minute, melt in your arms the next, and the whole time you feel like she's got something else going for her. (Astute readers will note that this puts me in the position of Sam Spade, a.k.a. Humphrey Bogart, but astute readers will also note that there isn't much of a happy ending to The Maltese Falcon, either.)

I just feel... I don't know... vageuly monkish about the whole deal. I want to help her out of her misery... but in many ways she reminds me of those old stories about the seal-women or mermaids, who seem to be drowning but will drown their prospective saviours instead. I don't want that.

Hello, what's this?
(blows dust off blog, coughs)

Ah, the old blog. It's been, what, a year or so now? Cor blimus, but that's no fun. Well, a lot has happened since then:
1) I've been to England.
Yes, it's true: unlike certain minor dramatic characters believe, England does exist. I've seen it with me own four eyes. Cambridge was especially lovely and I'd like to live there and/or be reincarnated there about 1889 or so, let's say. Lots of fun.
2) I've completed my thesis.
And boy was it ever worth it. Dam-ned thing. Horror! Horror!
3) I's gradumidadted!
They let me walk onto the stage and everything. There are pictures. You may not see them.
4) I am going to Grad School.
After three tries at various institutions (Berkeley? More like Jerk-ley! Ann Arbor weren't that bad, actually -- it sounded like they'd read my packet and thoroughly hoped I'd get in) for Classics, I'm now going to... stay here, and do the English thing, moving on to Grad School in something literature-based and possibly Medieval.
5) ... but they're not going to pay me for it.
Yes, that's right, the assistanceship hasn't, if you take my meaning. So I get to either a) duke it out with other Grad Students for "unexpected openings" at the Orientation Session in August, b) find some fellowships (hobbits and wizards notwithstanding) and/or wealthy dowagers who believe in the power of education, or c) beg on my knees at the loans department. Sadly, c) looks to be the option I take, which sucks SO HARD. Of course, now is the time to mention that donations to your public Grad Student's Educationary Fund are accepted.

So, "What are you doing right now, you dirty layabout?", I hear you ask. Well, I'll answer that in just a second. (walks off) (sound of flushing) There, that's better. For starters, I'm doing a lot of writing, by which I mean not that much. I've an essay to rework for publication, with which I hope to be done by, oh, Friday. There's also a lot of photocopied handouts that I want forma digitalis, so there's a couple more weeks' worth of work. Plus I'd like to actually complete a Telax Moral story one of these days, so there you go. Plenty to do. There's also plenty to read, most of which I am likewise ignoring because it's tiresome (e.g. Ulysseys, The Art of Courtly Love, etc.) Instead, I've taken up playing the Final Fantasy games, and am in the middle of FF3 (FF6 in Japan).

Other News-related limericks:

Justice: Sharing Data Would Crash System
We have secrets. You may not see them. Go away.
Voting official seeks process for canceling Election Day over terrorism.
Great! Iraq got democracy, all right: OUR democracy. Wondered where it'd gone.

Remember, if nothing else, get out and vote. Vote for, vote against, vote lesser of two evils, I don't care. Just do it!

You might want to check out Grizz's blog, over at http://grizzsgrowls.blogspot.com/. It's more rant-y, but he's having major back surgery, so hopefully that will taper off. Hopefully.

Well, it's been a quite week in Lake Wobegone, my home town, out here on the edge of the prarie...

Wait, that can't be right. Anyway, it really has been quiet. I've gotten another book (actually several, but only one's arrived so far) which I needed for my thesis, and I've been ploughing throw that; otherwise, I've been spending my mornings and early afternoons at the Writing Centre, in part because they let me sit somewhere quiet, drink their coffee, and enjoy their air conditioning whilst I pretend wholeheartedly that I'm going to do work. In the coming week I'll be leaving for Little Rock, to recieve my truck and see about seeing some folks (and getting an eye exam, but the one has nothing to do with the other). I've sent the change-of-address form, and set it for Wednesday.

The ceiling is still leaking, but it stopped for several days this week, which is nice, as the floor has had a chance to dry out some. Starting Monday (and sadly going only through Wednesday), I'm calling Faucette Properties EVERY MORNING to let the gormless gits know they NEED to come fix my ceiling. YESTERDAY. Some people, eh?

Speaking of which, I am down to a solid four pages, but I did get to compare the entire Roman aristocracy to a littler of puppies.

Back at you in a week or so.

Well, I spent the past few days in LR, like I said, and the air conditioning was nice. The house only partly felt like a home; as my folks move their stuff out and into storage, the memories get packed away as well, and that's the way of things.

Quite a few things came out of the excursion, though: for one, I now have clothes I can wear in public (I'm down to six shirts that don't have paint on them) and my first suit (mom cried -- well, almost). I also received the boon of three boxes of my grandfather's old books, which he no longer even acknowledges exist, and probably would have shipped off to St Michael's like the rest of the library. The sad thing is that, going through his library, I realised that my grandfather was a very intelligent man -- I emphasise the was, for although he isn't dead, he's certainly given up on thinking. It is frightening to think that I never met the compassionate, liberal vicar he revealed himself to be in his writings, that such a person, turned from forestry to God's work, LIVED the way of Christ, the loving truth, and then... poof. One anyerism, and he disappates into slovenly madness. tis de bios, ti de terpnon -- and what if that happens to me?

*sigh* Now I'm all depressed.

On the other hand, I've been reading Joseph Campbell's Hero with a Thousand Faces, and between that and the Gender Troublesit's had a profound effect, let me tell yow. Listen to this:

Gender does not imply desire. One can be 'male' without desiring 'female' or 'male'; thus, simply because the gender one carries assumes a cupidious gaze does not mean there is copulation behind it. One can desire Christ, desire to be penetrated by Christ, and mean it a metaphysical, spiritual way. By expressing agape with the terms of eros, bishops and other fathers are subverting the norm, and 'elevating baser desires'. As my father always said, 'Get your Mind out of the Gutter!' -- and it is no different here. Deisire is in the lexicon of both eros and agape, and it is use by both indpendent of either gender of sex of the subject or object.

Pretty nice, eh? That's probably going into the thesis.

I just realised (heh) that tomorrow is July 4, which means that a) the Writing Centre will be closed, and b) the Library will be closed, so I have to stay indoors and find a way to drink gin quietly without quinine. ('quietly without quinine' is (tm) and (c) Jacob Lewis, 2003).

Well, I'm in Little Rock now, as thanks to the loans (and a few gifts from people -- I also accept paypal donations, but I don't know how to tell you that yet (grin)) I can now afford to have the truck repaired. I won't be in the city for too long, though - with or without that truck, I'll still need to tie up loose ends in F'ville before it's on to Glorious England.

Classe(s) are done; the hole in my ceiling has widened; I bought a new fan (with its own mind, now, so it can turn itself on WHENEVER IT FEELS LIKE IT) and a new CD Burner (it made an audio cd in FIVE minutes. I wept openly.)

My mother will drag me to church, because she's like that, but it's only church, and I can put up with it for a little while. Besides, it's interesting.

I received my British Harry Potter on Thursday at 1632, and finished it Friday at 1327, with six hours of sleep and a little bit of work thrown in there, too. I'll have to read it again, since the hype made me fast forward through it.

I saw the property my folks are buying yesterday, and aside from its tick-infested nature and the fact that Mother Green has seen fit to make a new form of insect-slug-minnow hybrid grow in the ichor that used to be the pool, it looks all right. In another month, the fruit trees will be in bloom, and their blackberries will be doing nice indeed.

Off now. Shoo!

Well, the asceticism didn't go too well, the nearest desert being about a thousand miles away, and perhaps human beings aren't so bad anyway. Aside from that, well, Cambridge took their d**d money, and I talked to the loans people and found out that they're a bunch of clueless gits, but they have accepted this and are easily corrected, so that's all right. Following the news that I would get (insane amount of money deleted), I went off and -- hedonistic me -- ordered the two books I'll absolutly need for Cambridge.

Old English is still, well, old and not really English. I have a work-around, but it bugs me that I can't construct things in the language, such as sentences and complex thoughts (not too bad, though, as a truly complex thought beyond 'Hurr... Hrotwulf thrash with mighty, jewel-encrusted, sweet-killing sword, forged of blood and iron, with a sharp edge, how daddy loves his sword, yes he does (direct quote from Beowulf) -- anything beyond that would require, well, words such as 'complex' and 'thought'; I do, however, like their literal-mindedness sometimes: 'And Grendel, with his hate-thinkings, busted the door in two.' And besides, how many pices of authentic literature can start with the sentence fragment, 'was busted'?).

Mad as it may seem, I've decided to live in this flat for another year -- hence I sent off the signed lease on Saturday, along with a cheque for this month's rent, and a little note saying 'Please send someone round to fix the holes in the celings in my kitchend and living room', with judicious use of underline.

God, what a shitty week this has been. I've spent most of it in Old-English limbo, flailing about and not doing a bit of decent work; Quinn seems to think I'm doing well, but I know that I don't have the grammar down, and it's starting to show. I've begun working on Beowulf, and it's not going well at all.

I've also spent most of the week loosing sleep and having my insides liquidated over the fact that Cambridge, an otherwise noble and respected institution, has yet to debit my account the £975. It was supposed to be on the 6th -- and all of their literature stated explicitly that they would do so ON the sixth. I haven't seen the transaction, I haven't heard anything from them, just dead silence and me worried that I won't get in. If that happens, I don't know what the next step is.

I also said something really stupid and vaguly sexual (and clumsy) to an otherwise lovely and wonderful person, and, after heavy drinking (or rather before, since that's what brought it on), have decided to become a desert ascetic, because this whole living-among-human-beings thing just really isn't working out. Jesus Christ.

*blows dust off of blog*

There. Geez, it's been a month. I suppose I haven't written in a while as there's not much to say. The thesis is coming along slowly, but it *is* coming along; I've decided to rewrite the opening significantly. As I said to Quinn, 'I'd like to build a bridge from Classical Antiquity to Late Antiquity by demonstrating what has changed and what hasn't. I will then examine the gender roles of men in Late Antiquity and compare them to CA -- pointing out that, again, little *has* changed, save that the return to an oligarchy heralds a return to the Late Republic and Early Empire.' Later papers, like Master's Theses and Doctoral Dissertations, will build on this, and, if I'm lucky, eventually grant me tenure. As Terry Pratchett says, 'There is always a spare study somewhere, and a seat in the Great Hall (though to bring one's own napkin and utensils is a mark of wisdom).'

I have decided to -- once and for all -- give up on searching for keen, awakened women. There are too many failures, and outright blind alleys, dead ends, and dangerous pitfalls involved in the quest, and it's not fun anymore. I'm getting old, after all (I was tweleve when I was six, and twenty when I was twelve; at that rate, I am now approximately 47.398199e6), and you only live thrice. I'll just go on being myself, and let HER find me.

Other than that, not much news. I'm waiting on loans, and Cambridge to debit my account, which they said they were going to do yesterday but apparantly didn't get around to doing, because for all my duck-and-cover, end-of-the-world gloom, there's still (censored) dollars in there, so I'm safe. I may even buy groceries (mwahahah!).

Also, I discovered that reality is merely a fiction wrapped around an even scarier hollow shell, which is just the other side of this wall. Weird, no? I'm shocked.

The fundamental things apply early.
-- Frances Synotre, Things You Should Have Learned in School.