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.