Out of the Drawing Room and Into the Jungle

(Ummm...I forgot to post the beginning of my paper, but here it is!)

My head is now packed full of warring images associated with Mary Kingsley. At any given moment, I may call to mind plush Victorian costumes, or the African jungle (or both, at the same time). I see a devoted daughter caring for her parents, and a fearless explorer. I see a wit and a serious ethnographer. The cover of the 1988 reprinting of Kingsley’s Travels in West Africa offers no help in reconciling any of these pictures. A fuzzy painting of native Africans is the dominating image, showing dark natives in loincloths perched atop the blinding white of an enormous rock. The rock stands between two drastically different environments: the impenetrable African jungle and a placid beach. Obscuring the corner of the painting is a thumbnail photograph of Mary Kingsley: with her own whiteness, she too provides a sharp contrast to the dark-skinned natives. Her clothing reflects the traditions of her Victorian upbringing: the collar of her dress alone seems to have more fabric than all the natives’ clothing put together; it looks stifling, crawling up her neck and finally pausing for rest at the base of her chin. Rendered in black and white, she looks every bit the serious minded-ethnographer, poised and ready to comment upon these frolicking natives who have taken up residence on her book’s cover. As a reader, it would be easy to anticipate that Kingsley’s writing would be a reflection of this cover. It would be reasonable to assume that this woman, this black and white, serious-minded Kingsley that calmly surveys the bathing natives on the cover of her book would suck the color out of the natives she observed. It would only be natural to imagine that happening. But then you open the book.

what I wrote for Larry

For me, this course has been about finding things. Certainly it's been about finding new places, people and species, but above all that it has been about finding truth. Beautiful, simple truth: something we can hold on to, touch, make real. Something that gives us a foundation, a horizon ahead of us, or something to come home to.

I believe in the stunning, excruciating simplicity of truth. I believe that nothing holds more power than something honest, real - good. Some people turn to science. Some people turn to God. I turn to words. When I find them - the ones that have magic - their value is almost always impossible to define. I can find no common thread to help me find the other words that are waiting somewhere for me. I have only one way to recognize them - it's a feeling in the pit of my stomach. My stomach jerks and squirms, as if it has registered the presence of some unadulterated piece of greatness. And so I write the words down, saving them to a bit of scrap paper and making them real and tangible. I secretly wait for my office to turn into Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium. I imagine one day these words, all these scraps of paper, will swirl around, shuffle and reorganize and become an answer to the big bad world with its confusion and complexity. It hasn't happened yet. Until it does, I'm happy with my bits of paper.

Presentation Comments

Julie: "America's ready for a party, not an empire." I love it. Why can't we be ready for both? I know that a voice like that, all opinionated like, might compromise the scientific integrity, but still I love it. It seems so...deliciously human. I've gotten all free-love, hippie, embrace-the-world-for-all-its-faults-ish recently (a side effect of too much time with good literature, perhaps?), but I can recognize the problem with subjectivity. But for now, I don't know, I'm just choosing to ignore it in favor of embracing the beautiful flaws that come with being human. Ok. Sorry. I'll stop typing now and go and make a daisy chain or something.

Jerry: Wow. Where to start? I guess, barring any intrigue, I'll talk about the "motives of curiosity" of which you spoke. You know, back when we thought this was a straightforward story. I couldn't get over the idea that the text was written on behalf of the captain, rather than by the captain. I wonder what we can say about someone who has boundless curiosity, but not the will to share it. I can't decide how I feel about it. I mean, I'm all talk-talk-talk. I can't help by share my discoveries. Since our course has been so focused on travel narrative, it seems we wouldn't think much of someone who travels without writing it down. But should we feel compelled to share, if the results could help someone out? Seems unfair.
Of course, I don't know what anything means now, because it was all fake James Bond-y stuff. So...put another layer on my existential crisis.

Hillary: Obviously, Hill, your presentation was particularly interesting to me because Arctic travel has been such a big part of my life (not that I personally have been cruising around on ice floes or anything). I never, ever stopped to consider how dangerous my father's work was, or the people who came before him that made his career possible. It's interesting to me also the attitude that some people (the ones who spend time there) have with the Arctic/Antarctic: it's an exclusive environment, and it takes a special breed of person to go up/down there. My dad took my mum to the Antarctic last year, and he was piloting the ship through the ice while they were there. My mum said she was scared out of her mind because he'd go down these dangerous, tiny little channels. My dad just shrugged and said his time in the area gave him a different perspective on what was possible and how far he could go. For him, it was a question of paying your respects to the area; once you acclimate, he says, it doesn't seem so harsh. It seems to me there would always be a balance though. Creating a relationship with a place like that must be like taming a wild tiger and keeping it for a house pet. It's beautiful, and you perhaps can get away with doing things that others can't, but the question remains: will you eventually push your luck too far, and get bitten? It seems Parry was aware of this balance when he made the decision to abort the journey.

Kellan: I think Debbie made a really good point when she noticed the differing tones in our texts. Both our authors consume their area, but in different ways. Your author was concerned with turning a profit, and mine was concerned with...how stupid he looked on a donkey. Ok, mine was concerned with more than that, but you get my point. I realize that Edward Dicey's account of Egypt was that of a consumer, and yet I still think that my text had more warmth. Yours was filled with objective information, but as you presented, I couldn't help thinking that it seemed a bit cold. So perhaps The Morning Land is too filled with the human - warts and subjectivity and all - but I wonder if your text went too far in ignoring the human in favor of the fish or the ram. Maybe our authors should get together for a collaborative effort? I'm sure Edward Dicey would look equally ridiculous on a ram as he did on a jackass:).

I'll update with the paper section of this prompt -- promise!

an immoveable feast

My whole life has been about being “half and half". This distinction makes more sense when you hear my mum say the first “half” in her plummy British accent, and the second “half” in what she thinks is an American accent. I don’t know if there are Americans in the world who speak in my mum’s American accent, but if there are, they must be a fearsome thing to behold – that accent is horrendous. At any rate, the P.O.M.E* side of the family likes to be represented; I think they feel they’ve somehow betrayed the Mother Land if I start sounding “too American”. I’ve never quite determined what “too American” means, but I know that my grandmother is sorely disappointed (and legitimately surprised, oddly enough) that I speak with an American accent. My grandmother’s relationship with my accent could take up a whole separate blog post.

Anyway, the point of all this is that because I’ve spent a lot of time there, and because I’m allowed to be there without a visa, I feel very much at home in Europe. I hate writing things like that, because I realize they can sound spoiled or snotty, so I should be clear: I am really grateful that I’ve gotten to spend so much time there and I do appreciate my time there…just in a slightly different way. So anyway: I mapped Europe.

When I think about Europe (and last year in particular) words – random words, flashes of memory – crowd into my head. Usually these things are completely inappropriate for say, a Rick Steves book*. Monuments and museums are usually only secondary thoughts – I think of the people I met and the things I lived on and the quirks about the place. I think about the things that surround you when you’re constructing a place as a home. Since I can’t read maps anyway*, I decided to map these places out as I understand them. As Cher from Clueless would say, these maps are “a full-on Monet…From far away, it's OK, but up close, it's a big old mess.” From far away they could be maps of Europe, France, and the British Isles. (At least, my parents both assured me they look like real maps from far away. But they both wear glasses.) But when you get up close, they’re just border-constrained explosions of words and memory. They’re messy and non-linear. They’re not in chronological order; I wrote them in the order they came to mind. They are song lyrics, stray thoughts, faces and jokes and experiences. They, more than the Eiffel Tower and Stonehenge and Mannheim Piss, are my Europe, my France, and my British Isles. They are my life through travel.

I committed these maps to a piece of furniture because I wanted it to be solid and difficult to move. I wanted it to be something that couldn’t fit in my dad’s green backpack. I earned the words on the maps by moving around every couple of months. A lot of Western Europe was mapped on the back of a one-month interrail pass. I have flashes of words because I saw these places in flashes of time. The experience was fleeting, but the effect was permanent.

(There are real maps on the inside of the chest to represent the contrast between my representation and the common representation)

(I do realize this is kind of ginormous...I can bring the whole piece in if anyone wants to look at it more closely. I'll try to get some more pictures up soon as well.)

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* Prisoner of Mother England
* Also, I love Rick Steves with the fire of a thousand suns. Seriously. If loving Rick Steves is wrong, I don’t want to be right. He’s so adorably dorky.
* Technically, I can read maps. I just usually choose not to. They seem very math-ish to me.

Welcome to...wait...where?

Approximately no one will be surprised to learn that I accidentally flew into the wrong airport.
Except, I was a little surprised. First I was impressed that the Burbank airport got so much larger. Also I was a tiny bit confused about the big sign that said WELCOME TO LOS ANGELES. I thought, Hmmm, a sign like that would be more appropriate for LAX...

Apparently I became a one-woman security threat to Southwest Airlines a few minutes after we (re)took off in San Jose. I would like to point out, in my own defense, that at Sea-Tac the gate attendant took both of my boarding passes and then told me to stay on the plane instead of switching in San Jose. You know their tag line (you are now free to move about the country)? They must take that whole thing really seriously, because no one bothered to a) check my ticket on the second leg of the flight or b) inform me that I was in fact on the wrong plane. Which means I could have taken that plane all the way to Reno and no one would have cared (except me, maybe).

Possible conclusions to draw from this experience:

1. Nobody really cares about airport security, even though I now always have to pack in ziplocs and take my shoes off when I go through the detector.

2. Am far less capable/intelligent than I look to the outside world (or flight attendants, at least).

3. I would make a good spy (and was therefore justified in keeping Walt Disney on my list).

Paper Musings

Somewhere in my room I have a notebook with all my beginning of the semester scribblings. Things from orientation. Things from first meetings. Things from almost any gathering we had during that first week. I'm not sure why I bothered to write them down. Was I trying to translate graduate school into something easily contained in a marbled composition notebook? Did I think I could put it into instruction manual rhetoric? The method behind my madness is unclear (as per usual). Maybe I just needed something to do with my hands. Anyway, there's a list in there - acquired during a first meeting of a reading group - of Early Modern journals. Ones to read. Ones in which to be published. "You can feel smug while you're sitting on an airplane reading these," we were told. "At the very least you'll feel smarter than the people reading Harry Potter."

Interesting. So people do in fact notice stuff. Particularly, they notice other people wandering around in shared spaces. I suppose that should make me a little more self-conscious about sitting in 24F with US weekly or Cosmo or the latest in the Jackie Collins canon*.

We're not talking about airplane culture in class, but we are talking about travelers. What if we view travel literature not as literature written about travel, but rather the literature consumed during travel? We would no longer be talking about national, cultural or scientific development. Instead, we would be dealing with personal development. Marilyn Monroe once said (ok fine, it was in a movie) "it's a terrible thing to be lonesome, especially in the middle of a crowd." I think it's true that we feel alone when we're in huge crowds, but it's a false sense of security. The fact of the matter is that other people are looking around; they see us. Impressions are made. That's the whole point of people-watching. So what do the books we read (particularly the ones we read in public, when traveling) say about us?

This is particularly interesting in our class time period(s). Trevor has been collecting yellowbacks from the 19th Century - the books people bought before boarding the train. It's filled with advertisements, and the stories are easy to read. They're made for consumers, not critics. And they were made during an age of some incredible canonical works. So why were these books so popular? And what does that say about British culture? (The books were published in London.) What were people looking for in a book? An escape? An adventure?

Also, I'd like to do some research into train technology and (maybe) commuter culture.



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*Please note, I don't actually read Jackie Collins. But she did have some impressive hair, back in the day.

I am sitting in the cell phone waiting area of the Spokane airport, casually staring at the other drivers waiting for their phone call and wondering whose number will come up (or be dialed) first. Parking lot purgatory.

From the tinny speakers in my little red phone, Peter Gabriel announces he'd like to be my Sledgehammer. I'm up.

Sarah is waiting too, under the Southwest arrivals sign, scanning the road for the car her friend used to drive to frosty morning practices in upstate New York. Same car, different podunk. "I could tell it was you," she tells me when she finally settles into the wrinkled grey leather of my passenger seat, "you were driving like you were looking for me but had no map to find me. Like you'd zoom right past me if you got too sure of yourself and accelerated." I smile because she's right; I was terrified I'd miss her, as if passing her by (even just once) would make her disappear - poof! - back to LA. So I had to be careful, because I so desperately wanted to see someone who knew me.

The strange thing about living life as a wandering academic is you're always doing the first days. Hi my name is. I'm from. Wanna sit together at lunch? I love and hate these days. I love sitting amongst my friends-to-be and knowing some will become precious to me. I hate wondering how long it'll be until we get there. I'm something of an open book, but still, there are a lot of pages. It takes a little while to really know me (or anyone), I think. Sarah's a speed-reader, though - she knows and has always known my story. I don't remember going out of my way to make friends with her; it was a recollection rather than a creation.

IhadacrappydayandIcan'tfigureoutwhy one of us will say. Ineedtomove-stayput-makesomething-usemyhands-getdirty-writewritewrite-breathe, you know what I mean? And the other person will say Yes. I know exactly what you mean. I get it. Here's what to do.

Back in the Volvo, I am still a little worried, because I don't know how to make this visit a vacation for her. Even knowing that she's here to see me, I still don't know how to make Pullman Worth the Plane Ticket. I'm pondering this, and measuring the potential excitement value of a can of Cougar Gold, when Sarah squeals and presses her hands up against the chilled glass of her window.

"You've got HILLS here" she coos. And I know she'll get along with Pullman just fine.

Sarah constructs Pullman as a tourist, whereas I construct it as a home. She looks and sees everything LA can't give her - there are conversations to be had in coffee shops, the football game this weekend is the most important thing on the list and people smile with unaltered faces. I realize I've been taking for granted how easily I can breathe here. I look for grocery stores and bus routes. She looks for the greengreengreen she's be craving. What will I be on the lookout for, when I go to LA? What will I gloss over, because I see it every day on my way to school? What has Pullman done for me lately? I should take a moment to figure it out.

what would you write IF, or WWHBD (What Would Harold Bloom Do?)

Harold Bloom, speaking through a friend of mine, had a comment on my last post:
"In the finest critics one hears the full cry of the human. They tell one why it matters to read."

I would like to buy that man a drank. 

I (gasp!) think Harold's right. 

Now, I'm generally not a huge fan of H-bomb's opinions, but I adore him anyway. Confused? Let me explain. I love, love, love to argue with people. You know, in a nice way. I believe we are at our most passionate when arguing. So I like Bloom because he just says whatever he wants, without any concern for how others will feel about it. I dig provocation. It helps me figure things out. And to a certain extent I can see that criticism is just a written version of an argument. I still believe we would all be better scholars (and, people) if we spent a little more time creating actual literature, but I also absolutely accept that criticism is an important part of what we do.

I do, however, question the value of criticism in which the "full cry of the human" is conspicuously absent. It seems we generally only get this kind of full-throated criticism from people whose the celebrity status allows them to be blunt, cantankerous and generally offensive.

We spoke in class about the cult of personality, and how the people who get noticed in academia are the ones who throw caution to the wind, shimmy out on that limb and hope someone else follows. The problem being of course that we're not necessarily encouraged to break protocol (or shimmy, if you will). I wonder how many times we remain silent in class, or play it safe with our seminar papers because we're afraid to be wrong. Or because we imagine that we're less intelligent than everyone around us. Or because we're terrified we won't get into a PhD program or get a job offer.

A few weeks ago I got really frustrated with this idea. Why is it that when we come to grad school we seem to lose all our confidence? I put a post-it up on the wall in my office that says, "what would you write IF?" to remind me that I only get one shot at this. What would I write if I wasn't concerned about being accepted by someone else? 

"sufficient knowledge" is a crock.

I remember sitting around one day with my best friend, talking about our futures. She's your typical engineer: carries her graphing calculator in her purse, loves mass transit and sustainability, and is already firmly ensconced in the adult world. It's a wonder that we're such good friends, because we really are polar opposites. I pointed out that I likely would be jobless until I was thirty(ish), and she said "Really? I dunno, Tor. Thirty seems too young to be a believable college professor."

This, for obvious reasons, got me to thinking. What do you need to be believable?

In college, I always assumed that my professors knew everything. And that was BEFORE I realized that they were all PhDs. Seriously, I thought they were all MAs until my last semester, when my roommate pointed out that our school only hired PhDs. And fine, I didn't know anything about academia, but my point is that when I was an undergrad I thought an MA meant you knew practically everything. A PhD, I imagined, made you some kind of intellectual deity.

Now that I'm in an MA program, my impressions have changed a little bit.

Now, maybe it's just me, but whenever I accomplish something, part of me thinks, "See now, you got through it. That wasn't so bad." Which makes me think that most things are possible, you just have to decide to do them. It's like the Beatles said: "there's nothing you can do that can't be done." Good point there, John. I'll admit that when something loses the sheen of impossibility, it loses the "wow" factor a little bit. Example: when I get my MA next year (or if/when I get my PhD), I probably won't think of myself as being at the same level of intellectual awesomeness as my college professors. I can, however, hope that my students think of me as some sort of intellectual bad-ass. Which brings me back to the point I was making in my last post: if all your students think you're an intellectual god, but you realize that you're anything but...who's right?

It seems (to me at least) that the farther along you get in life, the more aware you become that you don't actually know anything. Now, a lot of people find this idea annoying and frustrating, and I was initially in this camp. But now I think it's kind of cool. It's nice that we can't know everything; it makes us human. It's good that we're never finished, because if you've got nothing left to do, you're not living hard enough. One of my favorite characters on one of my all-time favorite shows (Sam on the West Wing) explained it this way, when he was asked about the importance of going to Mars: "'Cause it's next. 'Cause we came out of the cave. And we looked over the hill, and we saw fire. And we crossed the ocean, and we pioneered the West, and we took to the sky. The history of man is hung on a timeline of exploration, and this is what's next."

See why I love this show? Anyway, as per usual, Sam is right. And I think that education is just a form of exploration. "What's next" is hugely important. It keeps us interesting.

So what does the mean for graduate programs? Surely anyone hoping to mold the minds of tomorrow should have some formal training. To be honest, I don't really know what that training should look like, or how I'd shape it if I had the opportunity. All I know is that I get sad to see unhappy colleagues. I wonder if we'll snap out of it and remember how we felt about books when we decided to come to graduate school. That feeling needs to be protected. Maybe it starts by creating rather than just criticizing those who do. I worry that criticism robs us of something crucial and humanizing. (Just look at the food critic from Ratatouille.) Sure, professors need to be book smart, but I think it's more important that a professor be whole-heartedly convinced that books can save people.

I'd rather be a believer than I smarty-pants.

I think, therefore I wig myself out

I once read a book in which the whiny butthead of a main character (Briony in Atonement, for anyone interested) has this huge and rather disturbing moment in which she realizes that she exists. Now, for those of you thinking existence is kind of a duh and something dear Briony should have taken note of before puberty, let me explain. What we're talking about here is the idea that we exist in a world that's larger than the one we create in our heads. People respond to us; people notice what we do and what we say and they respond. It's that whole "no man is an island" thing: we cannot exist without being influenced by other people, and similarly we affect people just by existing. There's really no way to control it. You will be affected by others, even if you'd prefer to develop all by yourself, thankyouverymuch. Similarly, you'll affect other people, even if you don't want to. Does that make sense? I just wrote a philosophy paper, so there's really no telling if I'll be coherent today.

Anyway, this whole "existing" thing is really shocking, if you ponder it long enough. It's surprising to realize that you exist in a meaningful way for more people than just yourself. But then I think about the people who actively exist in the little world I've created for myself, and I realize that probably not all of them know how important they are to me, or how highly I think of them. Don't worry guys, I'm not going to send around mushy and belated valentines or anything. But I do wonder how many people would be surprised to meet the version of themselves that survives in my head. And I wonder how many incarnations of myself are wandering around out there.

I (like most people, I imagine) like to think that I'm the authority on myself. Even if we're still in the process of defining ourselves, it seems that we're the most likely to succeed in coming up with the correct definition because we're the only ones with direct access to our inner thoughts and emotions. But then you have to realize there are hundreds of other versions of you floating around in the world - the different perceptions people have of you. So which version is the real version of you? We want to say it's the version you have of yourself, but how often have you looked at someone else and thought you could "see" them better than they could see themselves? Maybe it's arrogant to think we can know someone better than they know themselves, but, if everyone around you thinks of you as as one thing (smart/creative/funny/boring/any subjective descriptor) and you disagree, who's right?

It's something to consider. Now, if you want to freak yourself out even more, say your name over and over and over again. Or stare at yourself in the mirror for a really long time. It gets weird, after a while, and not just because you start feeling really narcissistic.

<3 Montaigne <3

Even though I really hate those digi-hearts with a fiery passion, the hearts in the title are to simulate the ones I put around Montaigne's name when I was taking notes in Dr.Hamlin's class today. Caitlin laughed at me, but  whatever, he's totally awesome. Look at that! I found someone less sketch-tastic to adore. He's so deliciously common-sensical. And that's good, because today one of my friends informed me that embodying most of the people on my list would be "frightening". He also mentioned that Henry VIII wouldn't be as fun at a party as I imagine. But I think that ordering beheadings all over the place could be a fun party trick. Maybe I'll wander into Valhalla and give it a try. 

p.s. that same friend also told me that Montaigne had kidney stones - I guess a good man really is hard to find.

merde alors.

Today in class Debbie said "we're attracted to the historical figures we embody" and I liked it so much I wrote it down in my notes. Seems like an interesting idea. But then we were talking about Humboldt so I kind of forgot about it until the end of class when I looked over my notes again. And I thought of the historical figures I particularly enjoy:

1. Socrates
2. Henry VIII
3. Anne Boleyn, while we're on the subject of Hal
4. Nietzsche
5. Shakespeare
6. Walt Disney

Crap.

Guess I'm in the market for a generally loved, rational, non-manipulative and totally sane historical figure to enjoy. Preferably one who lived to a ripe old age without any encounters with hemlock, gout, syphyllis, an executioner's sword, or lung cancer.

Bonus: Apparently, Walt Disney was a spy for the FBI. An Epcot-creating spy, no less. That's sweet. I don't care if some people think he was a fascist; he can stay on the list.

Collectioning

Some things you just feel you're meant to do. Usually they're irresponsible in some way. Or at least, my impulses usually feel irresponsible in some way. Generally that's because my impulses involve flitting off somewhere and avoiding adult behavior. But I figure, what with modern science and all, that I most likely have a really long time to be an adult. And there's no point in being a really boring 80 year old. That won't do.

So my most recent "meant to do" was my interrailing trip. I had a month-long train pass and since it was ridiculously expensive I was on the move pretty much the entire month. I wandered around France, Belgium, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Austria, Slovenia and Italy, and I did it alone. It was a big step for a sheltered girl from Bellevue who normally doesn't even go into Seattle by herself. I'm pretty sure my mum was hyperventilating for the entire month.

Now, that's a pretty big stretch of space, even considering that nothing is that far away once you're on the continent. I logged a lot of train time. I became very attached to my ipod. It was one of those first generation neolithic bricks, so it only had about two hours of battery time. That meant that on every leg of my journey I inevitably had a really traumatic parting with my music; I dreaded that empty battery/hazard sign picture the way most people fear the apocalypse. Ok, not really. But I was sad every time.

The ipod helped me with my touristing, too. I am one of those sketchy tourists who tries to blend in as much as possible, furtively ducking into alleyways to peek at a map, and shunning typical American dress (helpful hint: wearing running shoes with jeans is essentially the same as wearing a neon sign in the shape of an American flag). But the natives, I noticed, usually walk with a purpose around their city with their ear buds in. And since I'm a huge poser, I did the same thing. I was lost around 90 percent of the time, but it was worth it because it made me seem more French/German/Danish/whatever. A real live Dane even asked me for directions in Copenhagen (!) so I know I at least looked legit to that dude. And if you're thinking that I kept the ear buds in even when the battery was dead, you are totally right (I told you I was a poser).

Since I was on the move and homeless for a whole month, I didn't have any access to new music; I listened to the same things over and over and over. The songs were my souvenirs, in a way. I mean, obviously I still bought stuff, but since my trusty green backpack was bursting at the seams, I had to catalog my trip in a way that wouldn't take up any space. And I like looking back on these songs, because now I'd listen to an entirely different playlist (I'll put up a then and now).

Here's what I listened to:
3 x 5 - John Mayer
Into the Dark - Ben Lee
California Stars - Billy Bragg and Wilco
Vienna - Billy Joel
Mambo Italiano - Dean Martin
(Night Time is) The Right Time - Ray Charles
Father and Daughter - Paul Simon
You Know I'm No Good - Amy Winehouse
Try Not to Breathe - R.E.M
The Tower of Learning - Rufus Wainwright
Different Names for the Same Thing - Death Cab For Cutie
Swallowed in the Sea - Coldplay
Sing - Travis
When I Laugh - The Glands
Look After You - The Fray
Rebellion (Lies) - Arcade Fire
Father Figure - George Michael
Chicago - Sufjan Stevens

Now I'd listen to:
Brothers In Arms - Dire Straights
Jenny Don't Be Hasty - Paolo Nutini
La Femme Chocolat - Olivia Ruiz
Shhh - Donora
Love Song - Sara Bareilles
Feelings Show - Colbie Caillat
I'm Hit - Greg Laswell
Merry Happy - Kate Nash
Be Gentle With Me - The Boy Least Likely To
The Hat - Ingrid Michaelson
More Time - Needtobreathe
The Galway Girl - Steve Earle
We Get On - Kate Nash
Last Train Home - Ryan Star

Hey Lloyd - Camera Obscura
Not the Same - Ben Folds
I'm Amazed - Greg Laswell
Love You Till The End - The Pogues

Ok, so I tried to figure out how to upload the mixes so people could download them, but I'm not that smart. So I burned the songs to a disc instead. Let me know if you want it!

Bumpkins from Bampton

London-town or bust!

Last week (or, the other day in the 1600s, for the sake of argument) Emily and I went to London. Easter was just around the corner, and being the pious individuals we are (I'm super pious. Just ask Andrew.) we decided to make the trip to Westminster (we'd had just about enough of St.Mary's, our local church in Bampton):

(Side note: we decided to be from Bampton because that's where my grandmother lives and I know where that is [Oxfordshire]. Plus, it's close-ish to London. Or what Emily and I thought was close enough to travel by horse. Bonus: real-life toria [as opposed to 17th C toria] has in fact fallen asleep in this church. [It was midnight mass, to be fair, and I was little. Well, littler.] Also, the bishop once locked my grandmother in here overnight. She claims it wasn't on purpose.)

We hopped on our horses and rode into the sunset, riding for two days straight. What would you know? My stinkin' horse died! Maybe a 70-ish mile trip was a bit ambitious for two days - but hey, Em wanted to do it in one. That was a bit of a bump in the road, but we did eventually make it in one piece. Later on in our trip, we went to the market at Smithfield to secure a new horse, and Emily got particularly saucy with the gentleman seller. But on our arrival, I was still grieving the loss of my dear Morris, and so we moseyed down the streets looking for some small consolation. The doorways were punctuated by brilliantly colored coats of arms, and finally we found the one we wanted:

Lovely, charming individuals.

After a lunch of bread and fowl, we took in a play. "Representations of Miracles" or "Representations of Torments"? Easy choice!

At Easter time, (faux) battles are fought on the Thames. Competitors stand at the bow of their boats with shield and lance in hand, and the whole thing looks like an awkward, slow joust. The pace may be slow, but the drama is there: the loser falls into the river. Much more exciting than being thrown from a horse. Less painful too, I'd imagine. Although, who knows what's floating around in there besides the losers and the "fat and sweete salmon".

Our visit to Westminster Abbey certainly didn't disappoint. It's easy to see why every King (and Queen) has been crowned here since William the Conqueror and his wife, Matilda.

This is where the magic happens! (The Coronation Chair)

While we were there we visited some other notables who are buried there: Mary, Queen of Scots, Chaucer, and Henry V (what a dreamboat!).

Just before we left, we took part in some May day festivities. "In the moneth of May, namely on May Day in the morning, every man, except impediment, would walk into the sweet meddowes and green woods, there to rejoyce their spirits with the beauty and savour of sweete flowers, and with the harmonie of Birdes, praising God in their kinde" (page 79 of John Stow's London survey). One of the greatest examples of this tradition involves Henry VIII and ROBIN HOOD! In the third year of his reign, Henry was bopping about in the wood with Katherine (of Aragon, not Howard) and a bunch of his peeps when all of a sudden, Robin Hood popped up with 200 of his men, all in green capes and hoods. Robin demanded (seems a little risky, demanding anything of Henry, but it worked out for him so that's ok) that the King and co. watch a demonstration of the archers' prowess. Henry agreed, and his party was delighted with the show. Afterwards, Robin took everyone into his forest den for a venison feast! A dinner party with Henry VIII and Robin Hood? That would have been totally sweete (did you see how I added the extra e there, since I'm supposed to be from the 17th C? I know, I'm doing a pretty good job).

Feeling at one with both the city and the surrounding wilderness, we saddled up again (me with my new horse, Cyrus) and started back for Bampton (taking it at more of an amble, this time).

Mr. Poppins

My initial inclination, when dealing with this idea of presence in absence, was to take Debbie's suggestion and try to re-imagine a trip where I collected nothing...but I couldn't do it. My brain rejected it as unnatural, the same way it rejects vegetarianism, or calculus. Just kidding! Kind of. Now, I'm a pack rat, and I've already talked about my compulsion when it comes to amassing stuff, so my trouble imagining a trip without souvenirs shouldn't come as a great shock to anyone. As you'll see...I'm still kind of bringing this back to the physical (which is why I posted this separately). But wait! There's a twist.

I can do the basic math required of this exercise in imagination. I mean, this particular model of Toria doesn't come with Calculus, but subtraction comes standard (along with cupholders and air conditioning). So I can remember a trip, and then subtract the foreign objects I acquired during that period of time. Here's the problem: that's not enough to negate collecting. We're always collecting things, aren't we?

The first thing that popped to mind was my dad's green backpack, because it came with me on all my big trips last year. My dad loves this thing. Like, seriously loves it. It's been with him all over Africa/China/Antarctica/South America/You Name It, and he swears up and down it's the model of perfection in terms of size and layout. He thinks this thing has mythical powers. If Mary Poppins had a husband, this bag would be his incantation of the carpet bag. You get my drift. He lent it to me when I went to France, and I'm not joking when I say that he'd inquire as to the general health and well-being of his backpack at least every third time we talked.

And now, through only a little fault of my own, it smells like Givenchy perfume (not super manly). (Also, not my fault - faulty atomizer.) You can imagine that I've been given a sufficient amount of grief about this. I would like to take this opportunity to point out that the pack wasn't the picture of pleasant aromas before I got to it, but that's besides the point. My point is, I've added to the history of the backpack. The smell of that backpack is Croatia for me. I can remember exactly discovering the problem perfume bottle, and from there the rest of my trip spills out at my feet. In terms of the backpack, I also contributed tears, grease spots and frayed straps - and each imperfection translates roughly to a different leg of my interrailing. And fine, the backpack is a physical object, but I wasn't intentionally collecting anything - just changing what I already had. And isn't that the point of travel? To change ourselves in some way?

Puntarenas

One summer evening, my dad came home, looked at my mother and said "How would you feel about me going to Puntarenas?" (That's in Costa Rica. I only mention it because I just had to Google it to find that out.)

My mum, who is very calm and stiff-upper-lip about most things, said "Sounds okay. When are you leaving?"

"In three days."

"When are you coming back?"

"January."

That was how my dad got started with the Coast Guard's icebreaking program. I was three. When he left on the first deployment, I asked him when he'd be back, then he told me "In six months" and then I said "Ok. See you at lunch!" So okay, I didn't really get it at the time.

My dad served on the icebreakers, on and off, until I was about 18. These ships usually have hectic schedules, so it wasn't uncommon, when I was growing up, for him to be gone for six months, back for eight weeks, and then gone again for another four months. Now that I'm "grown up" he'll sometimes make comments about how he missed my childhood. And I know that's true, for him. But for me, it's not. Because it always felt like he was there. I've tried to explain it to him a million times, but it still doesn't make sense to him. Or to me, if I'm feeling particularly rational at the moment. But the truth is, when I was upstairs in my room, it never occurred to me that my dad wasn't sitting downstairs, like normal. He was always very present in the house, even when he was in Antarctica. I didn't need to see him, or have any physical proof of him, to have him around. (That sounds weird, in a Crossing Over with John Edward kind of way, but I don't mean it that way.) That was just my dad - present in absence.

I'm not invited to Utopia. But whatever.

So the other day in Dr.Hamlin's class we were reading Utopia, and one of the main things about Utopia is that there's no private property (or so they claim). Also, gold and silver are worthless to them; they use these metals to make their chamberpots. And because this semester I've developed the unfortunate habit of saying things in the least sophisticated way possible, I said something along the lines of "PSH! What about the cat-like people who like shiny things? All I'm saying is, I would totally be hiding bedpans in the folds of my laborer's cloak."

And then Dr. Hamlin told me I wasn't invited to Utopia, because I would be "a troublemaker".

Ok, he has a point.

I know it's not particularly flattering to admit this, but I like stuff. I always have. When I was younger, I went through a phase where basically everything I owned was grouped into one collection or another. I had knickknacks all over the place. I won't even talk about how traumatic it was to clean/dust my room. The weird thing about all this is that I don't feel like a materialist. But then, when Dr. Hamlin suggested I give up all my stuff and move to Utopia, I couldn't decide whether to laugh in his face or curl up in the fetal position in the back of the classroom. So, would Paris Hilton and I actually be best friends? Maybe I should stop judging her.

Or, maybe I should explain myself a little better. I can in fact survive without all my stuff. I'm a mover (conditioned from an early age). I've said before that right now the idea of more than a couple of years in one place makes feel panicky. The panic is almost like when you see something in a store, decide you don't want it, put it back down and then FREAK OUT when someone else picks it up because you feel you've been foolish and now have maybe missed your chance. I hate it when that happens, so my general rule of thumb is to try to avoid missing chances (this of course bearing in mind that we're always missing chances, because when we decide to do one thing we also necessarily decide not to do many, many, other things). It's difficult, though, to at the same time need to amass stuff and move every couple of years. Compromises have to be made.

Normally, when I decide to peace out of America and live elsewhere, I'll only take what I can fit in the two suitcases the airlines allow. Technically speaking, those suitcases are usually filled with about three articles of clothing and then selected items from the Aladdin's Cave I call my bedroom. But still, two suitcases is pretty good for a pack-rat like me. Especially now that the baggage allowance is 50 lbs per case instead of 70.

Why do I need all this crap? Because that's what it is, for the most part. It's not like I wander around buying designer kitsch. I'm talking about cheap coffee cups, art prints, POSTCARDS (anyone who's seen my office can confirm that) buddhas, costume jewelry, and even a box full of sand. I take these things with me so I can remember where I've been. I should also admit that my attachment to stuff is weird, because I actually like people the best. I'm obsessed with people, but the bummer of it is that they don't take too kindly to it when I try to stuff them in my suitcase. So I have to come up with packable placeholders, because I can't bear the thought of forgetting anyone. I need my collection of crap, because it tells my story for me (even when I forget some of the lines).

I wish the "occupation" part of my passport wasn't laminated

"How can you know anything about literature if all you've done is read books?"

Dear Geoff Dyer: I love, love, love you. Kindest regards, Toria.

I'd love to be able to offer a defense of academia, in the face of my new best friend's commentary on "the academic way," but reading Dyer's writing was like having someone suddenly show up on the desert island you've been populating by yourself. I've recently been having a lot of trouble wrapping my head around the field-wide obsession with the production of a very specific type of text. From the first day of orientation here, all I could think of was my depressingly blank vitae and the conference papers and publishable articles I should have crafted yesterday.

But then, here's my beef. We study these amazing people, and read these incredible works. Debbie has a good argument against Dyer's huffiness -- we are often the only ones reading this stuff. That's got to count for something. But for the most part we study people who are long gone. Frequently, we wait until a text has yellowed at the edges before we deem it worthy. What about those people out there - people who still have a pulse - churning out incredible stuff? Who are these people? What does it say on their passports..."Writer"? Does it ever say "Academic"? Do we have to pick a team here, or can we do both - be the academic AND the producer of the texts studied by academics? Shouldn't we be hybrid models? Hybrids are, after all, very "in" this year.

In 101 I tell my students that to become better writers, they should read, read, read. And I'm not just blowing sunshine up their skirts...I really do believe it. People learn from example. So I ask them to read examples of personal memoir when I want them to write actual personal memoir. NOT when I want them to write ABOUT personal memoir. But why don't I practice what I preach here? I read literature and then, instead of writing it myself, I write ABOUT it. And fine, 101 is a writing class, and I'm in literature. But wouldn't we have more to say about literature if, instead of just reading it, we wrote it as well?

place matters.

Place. It must be important, because the word has been rolling around in my head for days. Everytime I think about it, I think of something different. But I keep coming back to this: "I'm in a weird place right now." People say that all the time, but it gets strange if you let it sit in the back of your head for too long. Place. Is it a moment in time? A location? A general descriptor of your mental/emotional development? Are we ever NOT in a weird place?

In class we're dealing with intellectual work, travel, home, place, and "the field". Oh, and scientific work. Could you push all those things in a room together and come up with a functional party? If scientific work and I were at a party together, I imagine I'd be oh-so-casually hiding behind furniture in order to avoid an awkward social confrontation.

I've never been a science girl, except for a brief, shining moment with the theory of relativity in my high school physics class. Even that, I suspect, was due mostly to a truly incredible teacher. And that - that a teacher occasionally has the opportunity to make a believer out of even the most reluctant student - is what interests me most about my love affair with relativity. Isn't the idea that we may someday be "that teacher" to someone in our classes the reason we spend hours upon hours crammed in our little offices, just reading and pounding away at our computers? It's my reason, at any rate. Science - though we now only have a passing acquaintance - reminds me why intellectual work so wholly dominates my life right now. Sometimes the memory of my rock-star former teachers is the only thing that can keep me in my chair in Avery 386 and override my desire to scuttle to the airport and see something other than the postcards on my wall (oh, that I had Mary Poppins-like powers to step into pictures). I stay in my chair to be more like my old teachers. Well, and I'm also secretly hoping that one day I'll be sitting in there and the patron saint of academics will send me a sign (or an email or something) indicating what "my field" should be. That's bound to happen if I just sit still long enough...right?

But sitting still has always been a foreign concept to me; I've always, always been on the move. When I was a baby, my parents had to walk miles in little circles around the dining room table - just to get me to go to sleep. And even though we didn't move as frequently as other military families, the notion that I might be in the same place for six years straight in order to get my MA and PhD is mind-boggling, and not as comforting as I think maybe it should be. But that's strange, because I love roots. Sometimes I even think I want them, in the traditional sense - a home with walls I can paint, a garage full of junk, dusty suitcases in the attic, puppy dogs and all those lovely life-perks that come when you stay put for a moment and take a look around. My home has always been people - and so, portable. So I keep moving, wandering into towns and countries with the fervor of someone looking for far-flung puzzle pieces. Is this going to work out like Legends of the Hidden Temple? Do I just have to wander through the temple, pick up and assemble the pieces along the way, avoid the scary temple guards and then come out triumphant on the other side? And since a game show host won't be just around the corner, waiting to give me a walkman and a trip to SeaWorld...what will the prize look like, when I do finally figure out the best route?