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?