mithical mindi

On Thursday I was having my student workshop their thesis and discuss their paper ideas. While I was milling about offering assistance, one of them asked me if I was on any IM medium. I’m not, but this got me thinking about how ridiculous that question was, and even if I were on IM, I would not want my students to be able to access me like that.

  I’ve already shared my rather conspiratorial theory with some of you: that email demands that we all work more hours. I think about this when I respond to students in the evening or on the weekend. I then think about my own undergraduate experience. Granted, email did exist way back then, but it wasn’t something all of my professors used (some of them refused to use it). I’m grateful for email; it means I’m in my office less, but how much more time am I spending doing work than if I just said “I’ll be in my office at this time, stop by with questions.”? Probably not much, but it’s still a bit invasive of my time.

  As for IM, I’m not planning on doing that anytime soon, and really cannot imagine using that as a way to communicate with my students. It would have to be a completely separate IM handle that I only turned on when I wanted to talk to students. Otherwise, I’m basically at their beck and call.

  Just my thoughts on a slightly-less smoky Saturday evening.  

I’m turning thirty in about six weeks. I have already promised at least one friend that I will not have a nervous breakdown about this fact. So far, I think I’m doing a pretty good job of keeping any anxiety under control. Inevitably, though, I’ve found myself wondering several times over the last few months, why do I feel anxiety? Of course, it’s because society has certain expectations of women at this age, and quite frankly, I don’t really fit any of them. 

I’m okay with this. I’m not going to waste time and energy summarizing what I haven’t done (for whatever reasons). I have decided, however, taking a cue from a good friend of mine, to take this opportunity to do something new. She went to the Surf Diva Surfing School in La Jolla; I’m not brave enough, about water or bathing suits to do this. Instead, I’ve decided to run (yes, I will run it, however you want to define “run”) the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in San Francisco on September 21st. It will be fun. 

I’m really out-of-shape right now, so this also serves as an incentive to get back into exercising. For the last few months, I just haven’t been motivated, so hopefully this will help.  

Now I’m going to go work on that other daunting task: my prospectus.  

A wise person recently told me that PhD programs turn everyone into assholes. He is right, on some level. At least, I am choosing to believe that he is right for the moment. I also, to make this generalization more specific to my own circumstances (and why not? It is my name on the blog.) see this tendency becoming stronger when one is wrestling with something. You could be wrestling with your exams, your prospectus, writing your dissertation (not writing your dissertation), having sweat-inducing nightmares about the job market. Whatever it is, it takes up your whole world, which means we don’t leave a lot of time and space for others. If we aren’t assholes, we are least very self-absorbed. At least for me this is true. I’ve seen other people handle things differently. It usually involves a happy interruption, like partners and babies. Of course, I’ve also seen the unhappy interruption, something like a nervous breakdown (I’ve actually seen this twice, and both times in men…). 

I’m not entirely sure where I’m going here. Suffice to say,  I think I’m going to introduce some happy interruptions into my life; I’d prefer to avoid the other kind. I’m not really sure what this means, and if you know me, it means this may not happen, and I will become even more obsessed with the work I’m not doing while focusing on my happy interruption.

Note: this does not mean I’m intending to either get married or have a baby. I was thinking of taking up the guitar again. Something simple and non-committal.  I even went so far as to name my guitar, Phlox, and have been neglecting it for ages. If I make myself feel guilty about it, maybe I’ll do it.

Guilt is a powerful and long-standing force in my life.Back to work - not the happy-interruption kind of work, but the prepare-to-meet-with-students kind of work, because their papers are due tomorrow.

Ciao!

P.S. If this whole interruption things works well, I hope to look more like this cat, though even I’m not that pale, and I will be wearing lots of sunscreen while lounging in the sun.    

I don’t often remember my dreams. I don’t know if this means that I am a good sleeper or a bad sleeper, or just an unimaginative person. Anyway, I did remember my dream last night. It was rather mundane, but given that this happens so rarely, I thought I would share. 

 So, I dreamt that I was changing the sheets on my bed (I know, edge-of-your-seat action), and before I put the clean sheets on I walked away. I don’t remember what I did. When I came back, I made my bed. Without realizing it, however, I put the dirty sheets (which weren’t dirty - it was just time to change the sheets) right back on my bed.  Then, my mom and sister suddenly appeared and while they were talking to me I realized what I had done. I don’t remember my dream-self’s reaction, but I woke up immediately and thought to my semi-conscious self: Yes. That is precisely the kind of thing I would really do. My mom suggested to me once that if I ever write my memoirs, it could be called Memoirs of a Domestic Goddess. She was being facetious. I don’t really mind.  

 Then I thought about my mom and my sister. They are always fighting - not in any serious way, but in that passive aggressive way that permeates my entire family, or at least the women. We don’t want to actually hurt anyone’s feelings, so we complain to other people. I get both sides of this from my mom and sister. I don’t mind that too much, either. It allows them to vent.  Anyway, they have this problem with each other a lot more than I do. In part because I live 2000 miles away from them and only see them twice a year. The other thing is my sister has seriously turned into my mother since she herself became a mother. It’s eerie.  

 No dissertations update. The word methodology is overwhelming  me too much right now.  

So I’m taking more steps towards an actual dissertation. Right now I’m preparing to take reading hours with a prof. in my department. I’ve been freaking out a bit (which isn’t that unusual - anxious is a permanent state of being for me), though. I’ve suddenly become worried that I’m about to write a dissertation that won’t get me a job! I think my concern has to do with the fact that the trajectory I’ve chosen is pretty different from everything I’ve done in the past. While I’m keeping everything (or most everything) in English, I’m not really working with British literature in the way I’m accustomed to. It’s becoming a project around anglophone literature, though it’s still more anglo-centric than american. It’s like all of a sudden I need to be a post-colonialist, and I’ve never really been one! I know the field in the way you must know it doing 20th-century literature, but am I ready to write a dissertation like this? Wait, let’s just get the prospectus done. One thing at a time.   Here’s my reading list over the next couple of weeks, just to give you an idea of what I’m up to. Coetzee’s The Life & Times of Michael K Gordimer’s Jump and Other Stories Said’s After the Last Sky, Kikamba’s Going Home, Sebald’s The Emigrants (and yes, I know it wasn’t originally written in English, but apparently one cannot write about refugees without it), and Walk in My Shoes by Alwyn Evans. All of these texts address the question of the refugee. We’ve agreed to start here and see what develops. I know I will have a chapter on statelessness/refugees, so this is a great start. I’m also leaning towards a chapter on dystopic fictions of the future and how the state conceptualizes human rights. Slowly but surely, this will all come together.    I just finished In a Free State, which was considerably better than The Enigma of Arrival, but I don’t think I’m a Naipaul fan. I understand that space is going to be a theme, but I’m not into these extended descriptions of the countryside. Thankfully, such meanderings (wait, they do serve a purpose, elucidating people’s views of Africa and the tensions that result from different perspectives) are more minimal in the earlier text.   Now, I’m going to go read Coetzee. See…I’ve posted three times in the month of March, and there is still one day left.  

My March resolution is to post more often.  

So far so good, as I’ve decided to post again, within ten minutes. While my digression on Joyce was fun, it reminded me of all the anxiety I have about the actual dissertation. As I told a friend recently the potential of writing on almost anything, and just working through ideas is awesome, if at times intimidating. The reality of putting together a committee is overwhelming. I feel paralyzed by fear that I will make the wrong choice, when in reality, it comes down to me more than them. Still, what if I make the wrong choice? (As if there’s a simple right or wrong choice.)   

Anyway, let’s talk about my dissertation. No, seriously. I have taken on such a large and amorphous task right now that I think writing about it a bit will help. I will appreciate any and all feedback or comments, even if you hate it or think I’m never going to be able to pull this off. :) Randomly, then. I’m working towards a discussion of human rights, ethics, nationalism (maybe?) and accountability.  As some of you know, this past summer we talked about a lot of these issues under the guise of transnationalism. However, since I am hoping to get a job teaching literature, I’m looking to position this as a discussion of how literature participates (duh!); specifically, some of the questions circulating right now in my head are the question of the crisis. What constitutes a crisis? Who decided when there is a crisis? As both a category of justice and an imperative to action, what is at stake in calling (or not calling something a crisis)? Right now I’m working through ideas of who decides on the crisis. Obviously the state or some sort of supra/extra-state power, like the UN does. But the crisis is then narrativized, either as news or in literature. What happens then? 

One of the primary questions is blame, but I want to extend it to the more theorized category of responsibility - consider how responsibility is assigned. Obviously, others have thought about this, notably Derrida (who let’s face it, has apparently thought about everything), Arendt, and Hegel to name a few. This relationship is often thought in terms of the state/nation paradigm of modernity, but what about those outside of that paradigm (e.g. the stateless, the refugee - hello Arendt and Agamben)? That’s actually the focus of the short paper I have to write for my final seminar. Maybe I’ll post about that specifically in the next few days when I get a chance to organize my thoughts more. I know there will be a chapter on it in the diss. At least at this moment.

Oh, one more thing…the geographic areas I’m thinking about are South Africa, the Balkans and probably Northern Ireland (and maybe the Middle East - specifically Palestine). I’ve been working a lot on the theoretical questions, but I’m starting to get anxious about the literary archive. I’ll keep you updated on what I discover. There’s a random book from an Icelandic author on my bookshelf - bought at the suggestion of an employee at Cody’s. Too bad I cannot write about that.

Bon Nuit mes amis. 

For those of you not in the know, which is really no one, JJ refers to my long-standing relationship to James Joyce. While I’ve had only very frustrating experiences writing on his famous book (the perennial number one book of the 20th century on all sorts of lists), the novel and the man are continuous presences in my life. Once again, I want to affirm that I am not writing my dissertation on Joyce. At least not yet. I’m sure it will work it’s way in somehow.  

The reason I am writing this is I was checking out Monica’s blog - Strangled Sleep - and discovered that she tagged me. I’m not even entirely sure what this is, but I like it. I’m assuming that I’m supposed to mimic her entry to some degree, at least formally, so here goes. 

1. Pick the nearest book (of at least 123 pages). 

2. Open the book to page 123. 

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the next three sentences. .

5. Tag five people. 

Of course, the book closest to me was Ulysses. I’m actually working on writing a lecture on “Nausicaa” and “Penelope” that I’ve been asked to give to an undergraduate class next week. Should be fun. Here’s what you get:

“Heavy greasy smell there always in those works. Luke-warm glue in Thom’s next door when I was there. He took out his handkerchief to bad his nose. Citron-lemon? Ah, the soap I put there.” (123 Penguin edition).

Of course, the soap. It’s a very sensory moment in the text, but then again, what isn’t sensory in this text, at least where Bloom is concerned. It’s such a wonderfully visceral and scatological text. I guess we should just be happy Bloom’s smelling soap and thinking about luke-warm glue.  

Ah, Joyce. I love all the shit, blood, booze, and food. Not necessarily in that order. 

So, now I have to tag five people - I’m assuming any five people, not just bloggers (I don’t know a lot of bloggers), but we’ll start with Benjamite Sandwich (though I feel as if I shouldn’t associate baby Ben with all of this, then again, at two months, isn’t it all about discovering what his little body can do?). Tracy C., just because she still randomly checks my blog. Richard Noggle, who needs to think about books, not movies. Just because you’re done with your dissertation. Kip Smilie, who will never know I tagged him because he fears technology, and Sammy Parkes. I feel like I just dedicatd a song on the radio in junior high school. I suppose all of the reasons and explanations are totally unnecessary.  

 But I did it anyway.

P.S. I just had to post this picture for Katie. I found it online. I’m not sure Jonathan should see it, though. Could this be Ben’s first Halloween costume? Is it funny or disturbing? You all decide. 

After finishing my preliminary exam (Yes, I passed. Yes, you all knew I would, but I did not), contemplating both the narcissism of blogging as well as my own profundity (or lack thereof), I have decided to return to my blog.  

I went out tonight and met up with some friends who had just seen There Will be Blood. I had to forego the pleasure of seeing the film in favor or reading part I of The Origins of Totalitarianism, though now that I think about it, perhaps the film may have been a good addendum to the reading. Probably not. I’m just looking for a way to justify spending two and a half hours of my already over-scheduled life in a dark theater. 

The drink was pleasant, on most levels. It was cold enough that I felt I could wear my red wool coat…not an everyday occurrence out here. Anyway, on the walk home, I had two encounters. Normally, I cross the street to avoid walking down a block with an inordinate amount of overgrowth - I’m convinced if I am going to be attacked in the relatively safe town of Davis, it will be on this block. Tonight I did not in order to watch a random person standing in the street performing with a large baton that was lit on fire on both ends! This is actually not that unusual here in Davis, but normally, they are in the park. Such a moment endeared Davis to me, making me feel like it’s not that bad of a town, and almost - though not quite - reminding me of Lawrence. This young man playing with fire, with his hippy-esque haircut reminded me of Lawrence. A conservative acquaintance once said that Lawrence is where old hippies go to die. Then, the moment was shattered by a rude reminder of one of the drawbacks of Davis as a man almost hit me with his car! I needn’t remind you I was wearing a red coat, not my usual black fare, so I was probably relatively visible in the evanescent light of the fire-baton. 

 In short, people in Davis don’t know how to drive. I know I say this as part of the non-driving population, but it’s a serious problem in a town full of pedestrians and bikers. That’s my rant. It’s not much of a rant, but I’m not really a ranting kind of person. 

 On a more pleasant note, I had to buy some cold medicine today at my local Rite Aid, and was carded. I believe they do this to track purchases so that I cannot start a meth lab. No danger there - let’s be honest, I cannot even make dinner without almost burning down my apartment. Anyway, the slightly irritated and over-worked cashier found it hard to believe I was born in 1978. Whether or not it was true is irrelevant. It made my afternoon. 

There we have it. I could update you on my life, but there’s not much to update. Over the next few days (or weeks), I’m going to try to envision what I want this blog to do. It may become a sounding board for my dissertations ideas, it may just continue to be a running commentary on my life in general, or a combination of the two. For now, I’m going to contemplate doing something else before I get too tired. 

Me

Okay, so here’s what I’m doing. Song lyrics fascinate me. As much as I like to think I know a lot about popular culture (and I do) sometimes I just don’t get it. I figured I cannot be the only one. I know a gazillion people who interpret language for a living (and even those who don’t are pretty frickin’ bright and creative), so I thought it would be fun to post some lyrics and see what people thought of them.

So, this goes back all the way to 1984. When I was a kid, I was obsessed (okay, maybe mildly fascinated) with Boy George and Cyndi Lauper. I imagine my parents lived in mortal fear of what would become of me - probably worried about what I would do to my hair. Ah…the 80s.

Anyway, if you want to shed some light on these lyrics:

Loving would be easy if your colors were like my dream
Red, gold and green
Red, gold and green

There you go. Speak!

I’ve recently started living by myself again…it’s great. I’ve moved into a complex that looks strangely like a converted motel. There is even a kidney-shaped pool in the middle. I’ve yet to swim in it as all I can think about is the panopticon when I walk past it. The place often smells like Indian food. Since I spent the whole summer eating Indian Breakfast, and had Indian cuisine for my birthday, I don’t really mind. I’ll post a picture later. (Note: that’s not a guilt trip Jonathan, I know you’ve some pressing obligations.)

I think on an episode of Sex and the City, Carrie Bradshaw coined (among many other terms) SSB - strange single behavior. For her, it was eating Saltines with jam over her kitchen sink. I think what you do has to be habitual - not on a daily basis, but something you do regularly, when you are by yourself. There’s a great liberation to living by yourself. You can do whatever you want, when you want. This could be anything from talking loudly on the telephone to eating ice cream naked while watching a movie late at night (that’s Katie’s suggestion).

Well, as I’m living by myself again, today I did an odd thing that I don’t know I would have done if I still had a roommate. It’s not bizarre, just strange, though I don’t think it qualifies as SSB. Enough people think that I’ve gone all hippy-dippy out here in California that this shouldn’t surprise many: I washed my hair with avocado. It moisturized my hair, which was the whole purpose. Mind you, the directions were to blend the ingredients, but I don’t have a blender, so i just kind of mashed it all up. So there were big pieces of avocado in my hair. But it was strange. Imagine avocado in the shower. It’s kind of like that episode of Seinfeld, where Kramer does dishes in the shower. Kinda strange.