Can't sleep, flight tomorrow, and strange emotions have come over me. I thought that I was feeling down because I really do miss my hometown, my family and friends. But I think what is keeping me up this morning is that I've been thinking about, again, my "new" life -- the new environment and change of of pace.
Now that I have a bit of time to reflect I have come to feel that for the most part the MA program may be the right place at the right time -- it's smaller, not too competitive; but now I wonder about this program at Urban U. It's not that I'm unhappy, isolated, and whatnot, but I'm feeling kind of dull, maybe mechanical and just blah.
I didn't think I would say/admit my second thoughts when I was on such a high about classes. It's only been, what, 3 days since my last class, and I think -- how long is my break? -- 6 weeks might be psychologicaly painful to bear. So the self doubt is creeping in slowly: my State U may not the best program for me. I know in previous posts I was raving mad about feeling right at this point in my life and not having doubts about my decision to not enter a Ph.D program, but now I am feeling kind of weepy. Though arguably my State U would probably is a "cool" campus/college town if I were to pick a State U in my State.
But now I said it -- what would I do with this obviously evil thought when I resume classes? What am I saying, really saying though? Quitting is out of the question because I want to continue, but how does one deal with not being at the top choice? I think about Washington U occasionally, and speculate what my life would be like if I had chosen a different program, new faculty. So maybe now I'm angered at myself for not risking enough for the things that could change my outlook on academia. Now this is because I have, more or less, chosen to live my life comfortably, even carefree. Is that so bothersome to me? Certainly there will always be more competetive, ambitious (and smarter) students.
Has this suddenly come over me because I read possibly the most melancholy and painful Joyce short story -- "Eveline" ? No, it's probably not just the story, but just tracing all my decisions. I am too cautious to risk full happiness, I guess. Is it foolish to talk this way? I am blogging in circles--Risks.
I even thought that perhaps I just read to fill the that would send me spiraling downwards into the root of what's really bugging me. It's a sickining feeling, but ah, you love to read and learn -- that's way you are here. So it's the pressure of where i go from after a year. Don't despair -- you just have to dive in and see what happens. That's right, even if you think you aren't good enough for hotshot school. It's funny how books take up a certain amount of time that I can be so completely oblivious, which is always frightening. And because I take public trans I literally just think of getting to point A to point B and feel so rushed.
Sometime I make hasty decisions. Maybe once I start reading I won't feel so down and out. Maybe I just need to collapse when I visit my folks and lock myself in my room and get some real reading and thesis searching.
"I love this one everything but the girl song called "before today" :
I don't want excuses. I don't want your smiles.
I don't want to feel like we're apart a thousand miles.
I don't want your attitude. I don't want your face.
I don't want a phone that never rings. I want your love
and I want it now ..."
Is that it?
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
theory class reflection
What We Talk About When We Talk About Interpreting[1]: Creating an Academic Identity
This semester I found myself attracted to “queer” theory, perhaps because through Butler I also get my dose of deconstruction and post-structuralism without getting lost in Derrida’s jargon. I like that I can trace other theorists influencing each other and see how academics utilize, say, deconstruction, in ways that are more productive. Although ambiguous, elusive works of literature and film intrigue me, I am also troubled by what it means when an author ends a story abruptly, only to leave a reader with no answers. I am, however, acutely aware of the pleasure I get from equivocal works—a criteria for me, I now know, because I often believed it was merely “fun” to be baffled by something that I was never going to pin down, something that will always be in the back burner but never removed.[2]
For instance, I watched a few David Lynch films in high school, which—though cool—had also fallen flat in lots of ways. So these days the idea is that I can revisit the films and find ways to piece things together, but also complicate it even more (always frustrating). It is what I value, which brings me back to the static endings: I like to think and feel that I am piecing things together, doing, moving towards something—this, I think, is where Derrida’s euphoric “play” will end for me. Of course, this is not to say that I think authors should pick a side and resolve endings, but I (a reader) want to resolve the end and come up with my own conclusions if I think there is a reason to pick a side. However, for the moment, I find myself on a real binary kick, and I could probably spend more time trying to destabilize categories. This is also one reason why I thought Butler’s anxiety under a “lesbian” sign interesting. Another discovery in the process of making critical moves is that I can’t escape psychoanalysis if I really want to pursue more queer studies, so the project is to read more dead men and see if I can piece things together. Ambiguous works thus provide me with something to chew on.
The warrant for all of this is that there is, in fact, a real cultural significance/value in works of literature that allow some leeway for multiple interpretations, because it affects readers and writers. I value this because there is something transformative embedded in works that seek to destabilize categories, as with Michael Chabon’s novel. It matters because a project that seeks to think about naming, citing, categorizing makes one think about one’s own position and response—see? I am back, more or less, to Freud's Psychopathic Characters on Stage, which brings to conscious (too see the conflict via reading) my own opinions and asks me to look back at myself (the mirror! OMG), and what I will become in pursuing what I value.
The process of writing (and coming up with ideas—thinking block), however, is still a struggle. I work with pieces of quotes that I find interesting, but making connections between ideas and pushing those ideas further, as well as pacing and breaking this task into smaller, doable chunks is a difficulty—an on-going project that will be manageable through time and more experience, I hope. Really.
update: 12/15/05 -- 2:41 am
This semester I found myself attracted to “queer” theory, perhaps because through Butler I also get my dose of deconstruction and post-structuralism without getting lost in Derrida’s jargon. I like that I can trace other theorists influencing each other and see how academics utilize, say, deconstruction, in ways that are more productive. Although ambiguous, elusive works of literature and film intrigue me, I am also troubled by what it means when an author ends a story abruptly, only to leave a reader with no answers. I am, however, acutely aware of the pleasure I get from equivocal works—a criteria for me, I now know, because I often believed it was merely “fun” to be baffled by something that I was never going to pin down, something that will always be in the back burner but never removed.[2]
For instance, I watched a few David Lynch films in high school, which—though cool—had also fallen flat in lots of ways. So these days the idea is that I can revisit the films and find ways to piece things together, but also complicate it even more (always frustrating). It is what I value, which brings me back to the static endings: I like to think and feel that I am piecing things together, doing, moving towards something—this, I think, is where Derrida’s euphoric “play” will end for me. Of course, this is not to say that I think authors should pick a side and resolve endings, but I (a reader) want to resolve the end and come up with my own conclusions if I think there is a reason to pick a side. However, for the moment, I find myself on a real binary kick, and I could probably spend more time trying to destabilize categories. This is also one reason why I thought Butler’s anxiety under a “lesbian” sign interesting. Another discovery in the process of making critical moves is that I can’t escape psychoanalysis if I really want to pursue more queer studies, so the project is to read more dead men and see if I can piece things together. Ambiguous works thus provide me with something to chew on.
The warrant for all of this is that there is, in fact, a real cultural significance/value in works of literature that allow some leeway for multiple interpretations, because it affects readers and writers. I value this because there is something transformative embedded in works that seek to destabilize categories, as with Michael Chabon’s novel. It matters because a project that seeks to think about naming, citing, categorizing makes one think about one’s own position and response—see? I am back, more or less, to Freud's Psychopathic Characters on Stage, which brings to conscious (too see the conflict via reading) my own opinions and asks me to look back at myself (the mirror! OMG), and what I will become in pursuing what I value.
The process of writing (and coming up with ideas—thinking block), however, is still a struggle. I work with pieces of quotes that I find interesting, but making connections between ideas and pushing those ideas further, as well as pacing and breaking this task into smaller, doable chunks is a difficulty—an on-going project that will be manageable through time and more experience, I hope. Really.
update: 12/15/05 -- 2:41 am
And while I think that I am engaged and excited in psychoanalytic and “queer” approaches, I feel rather limited in lots of ways, if this kind of study is an extension of my own identity, which I guess comes with becoming an expert in an area. I do find it (at this stage, at least) rather bothersome, and feel I could be filling gaps in literature and waiting for epiphanies of some sort.
[1] I borrow part of my title from Raymond Carver’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.
[2] I got the soup(of ideas) on low fire metaphor— always warm, even if other projects are in the way the ideas continue to percolate and never leave one’s head, or something to that effect—probably from a book about writing a dissertation (can’t remember) or maybe an academic’s blog.
Totally Crushed
In haste -- posting a few lines from James Joyce's "The Encounter"
1. The sun went in behind some clouds and left us to our jaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions.
2. He said that my friend was a very rough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school [....] A slap on the hand or a box on the ear was not good: what he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I was surprised at this sentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face. As I did so I met the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at me [....] I turned my eyes again.
3. He described to me how he would whip such a boy as if he were unfolding some elaborate mystery [...] and his voice, as he led me monotonously through the mystery, grew almost affectionate and seemed to plead with me that I should understand him.
sigh. I can wallow in Joyce.
1. The sun went in behind some clouds and left us to our jaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions.
2. He said that my friend was a very rough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school [....] A slap on the hand or a box on the ear was not good: what he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I was surprised at this sentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face. As I did so I met the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at me [....] I turned my eyes again.
3. He described to me how he would whip such a boy as if he were unfolding some elaborate mystery [...] and his voice, as he led me monotonously through the mystery, grew almost affectionate and seemed to plead with me that I should understand him.
sigh. I can wallow in Joyce.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
almost out
I am so looking forward to collapsing this weekend -- just one more paper, one mock-conference presentation, and a 2-page reflection paper. After I recover I can do a bit more reflecting -- did a bit today when I wrote awesome comments for Dr. Ivy League's course evaluation.
Otherwise, I am currently sleepless, under nourished, aching in so many places, and daily caffeine intake that loses its effect to quickly. Must focus -- I will stay up one more hour -- and write as much as i can, then bed by 4 am. Getup at 10 am, i hope, which should give me enough time to get ready and have 5 hours of writing, i hope. But let's not forget to eat here.
Can skip the last day of Fem class? It's not like we have a final tomorrow, but might leave a bad last impression on Prof. fuggidy fug.
Otherwise, I am currently sleepless, under nourished, aching in so many places, and daily caffeine intake that loses its effect to quickly. Must focus -- I will stay up one more hour -- and write as much as i can, then bed by 4 am. Getup at 10 am, i hope, which should give me enough time to get ready and have 5 hours of writing, i hope. But let's not forget to eat here.
Can skip the last day of Fem class? It's not like we have a final tomorrow, but might leave a bad last impression on Prof. fuggidy fug.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
things are a clickin'
James Joyce class was strangely exciting tonight, what, with only two students in Prof's office. We read"The Sisters" and the "Encounter" -- interesting to read him this time around, much more melancholy (sinful!) than I remembered. As usual, prof/psychoanalyst (aka Dr. Joyce) would use some clinical examples about his own patients, noticing small details like the way one patient walked into his office, or how this one Prof was upset about not getting his Grey Poupon (sp?) instead of regular mustard and how that Prof related "Grey" to his black and white existence -- his crummy dept., and loveless life, among other things. And I guess what kept circling around my mind was that nothing is purely random, which I find so bothersome but uncertain why, exactly. I guess I have a strange faith in random things occuring to me. I hold on to a faith that I'll stumble into something that will bring me joy -- but does that really happen without my own effort, I wonder.
Did I say how Dr. Joyce said dreams aren't random? Uh, okay, let me just say that yes, I know how totally naive I sound, but hey, it's not like I ever had massive doses of Freudian classes in college; it's just that I am becoming increasingly self-conscious about what I say, what I do, what I write about, what my body language says -- how everybody else translates my public persona. Self-conscious mixed with anxiety of some sort.
To top it off, I had my second (almost) death dream: 1) I died in school -- die (whoa, I just typed "die" when I meant to write "did" I blog about death dream 1?)
2) this week the dream was: I am flying home and suddenly I am writing a mass email announcing my impending death, that is, that the plane is going to crash b/c of a wing malfunction. So in my email I joke around and apologize for writing frantically when it's quite possible that I might actually live the crash, but then I write that I might hit the ocean and freeze, and then I insert some dumb movie about sharks eating me alive (I forget the title of the flick, but had a couple scuba diving in the bahamas). Then I start acknowledging loved ones and friends and -- get this -- then I say, oh by the way, you can check out my blog (with jazz hands flapping in the air). Ah. So okay, I'm totally bonkers.
I wanted to transcribe a section of "the Encounter" that I really enjoyed but my book is hiding.
Time's up anyway. I'm bloggin' when I should be writin' my paper!!! Hard to face it when I just don't feel like sitting here and doing some more work. Crap.
Did I say how Dr. Joyce said dreams aren't random? Uh, okay, let me just say that yes, I know how totally naive I sound, but hey, it's not like I ever had massive doses of Freudian classes in college; it's just that I am becoming increasingly self-conscious about what I say, what I do, what I write about, what my body language says -- how everybody else translates my public persona. Self-conscious mixed with anxiety of some sort.
To top it off, I had my second (almost) death dream: 1) I died in school -- die (whoa, I just typed "die" when I meant to write "did" I blog about death dream 1?)
2) this week the dream was: I am flying home and suddenly I am writing a mass email announcing my impending death, that is, that the plane is going to crash b/c of a wing malfunction. So in my email I joke around and apologize for writing frantically when it's quite possible that I might actually live the crash, but then I write that I might hit the ocean and freeze, and then I insert some dumb movie about sharks eating me alive (I forget the title of the flick, but had a couple scuba diving in the bahamas). Then I start acknowledging loved ones and friends and -- get this -- then I say, oh by the way, you can check out my blog (with jazz hands flapping in the air). Ah. So okay, I'm totally bonkers.
I wanted to transcribe a section of "the Encounter" that I really enjoyed but my book is hiding.
Time's up anyway. I'm bloggin' when I should be writin' my paper!!! Hard to face it when I just don't feel like sitting here and doing some more work. Crap.
Monday, December 05, 2005
why it is worth it all
Sometimes I forget why I am grateful to be at place that nurtures the mind and soul, and it's only at odd moments in time when I think about why I need to get the most out of my program. Last Wed I ran my tentative argument to Dr. Ivy League during the last 10 min. of class (we had writing groups that day), which carried on to another 20 minues in the hallway. I don't know if I can ever describe fully what moments like those mean to me. I was a mess at the time, frantically trying to piece an argument which seemed like it was going to fall apart the night before it was due; but standing there listening to Dr. Ivy give suggestions inspired me in so many ways. I am grateful that Profs are THERE. Strange how some days things seem to be just right, so maybe I am at the right program after all. I wish I can always feel this good.
Two more weeks and I start anew -- but first 2 final papers this week, and I'm on the flight back to ma and pop city, where I will do nothing but watch films (and the Sopranos) and hang out with old friends.
Two more weeks and I start anew -- but first 2 final papers this week, and I'm on the flight back to ma and pop city, where I will do nothing but watch films (and the Sopranos) and hang out with old friends.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
chronically sleepless
Two more week of classes and I can resume to reading equally fun stuff -- here's on my winter reading list:
- Hollinghurst's the Swimmingpool library (or maybe the new one?)
- Foucault's I Pierre Riviere ...
- Foucault interviews
- Some of Butler's Bodies That Matter
Maybe I should read another Winterson since Written on the Body was quite nice to read. Also, I am thinking of getting a Cultural Studies introduction or reader -- must ask Prof.
What else? O yes, I have 2 paper due this week, and a draft due tomorrow. It's also 2:32 am, and I'm thinking of another snack break.
I feel awful that my reader will be waiting ....
I could just sleep now and wake up early, since my poor eyes are ready to fall off but maybe do 1 more page and then shower many thanks to reader.
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