Allll alone :( waiting for someone-- it is crazy! Sooooo loud and green! And I didn't get a beer for, tho it is St Pat's- I cannot stand the taste.
Moral of story- going drinking on March 17th may be a tad overrated. Now where's my pot of gold??
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Weird Dreams Lately
Again with the weird dreams last night. Very violent, I'm afraid, but not scary. I'm not sure why, but I wasn't scared at all.
I can't remember the particulars. We were fighting in a war, but I can't remember what it was about, and it seemed rather small. I think that we weren't all too serious about it, possibly more bored than anything.
Well, somehow I knew that I would end up dying on the battlefield. I think I had a vision or something. I went in anyway, with my dog, no less. Very strange to bring my dog into battle (very strange to have a battle inside a building too, I think... well, I guess not so much.)
Anyway, I was hit a zillion times by this guy with a hammer, and I remember the "screen" (my eyes) getting all dotted with blood. And the jerk hit my dog too and knocked him out.
That's pretty much all I remember. Weird dream. I think I might have survived, but my alarm went off before I knew for sure.
I can't remember the particulars. We were fighting in a war, but I can't remember what it was about, and it seemed rather small. I think that we weren't all too serious about it, possibly more bored than anything.
Well, somehow I knew that I would end up dying on the battlefield. I think I had a vision or something. I went in anyway, with my dog, no less. Very strange to bring my dog into battle (very strange to have a battle inside a building too, I think... well, I guess not so much.)
Anyway, I was hit a zillion times by this guy with a hammer, and I remember the "screen" (my eyes) getting all dotted with blood. And the jerk hit my dog too and knocked him out.
That's pretty much all I remember. Weird dream. I think I might have survived, but my alarm went off before I knew for sure.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Environment
Craziness lately. Today, I mean. The office is being reconfigured, so crazy construction is going on and it is LOUD. My ears actually hurt even though I was far away (I think I have overly sensitive ears or something, hrm). I want to try to blame that for my headache- grrrr.
Lady who shares area with me called to complain again. I do like her gumption, calling the complaint lines for various companies, but goodness, it happens so very often. She probably doesn't enjoy listening to my conversations with my mom either... hrm, but anyway, that was very distracting as well.
Code errors in the pages I've been making. Not errors, just glitching in the CMS. Oy. I shall explain by altering code below.
For some reason, text would randomly change color-- I get that our template was set to grey, but that doesn't mean I should have to change it back to black eighty trillion times. My code looked like a terrible mess with all these random
ness. What a mess- my successor will shake her head at me!
So basically, it would look like this:
Random paragraph leaping and looking beautifully black like I meant it to.
Oh, but it fixed itself!
(and no, I'm not messing with the HTML at this point- that would put my example code into real code and you couldn't see what it actually looks like unless I messed around more and that's what I'm going to be doing all day tomorrow so no!
And then, the bulleting-ness messed up.
Long story short, I had to mess with HTML when I should've been able to use the fancy tech and easy do it. Urgh. No more typing- headache from screen looking. Ew.
Lady who shares area with me called to complain again. I do like her gumption, calling the complaint lines for various companies, but goodness, it happens so very often. She probably doesn't enjoy listening to my conversations with my mom either... hrm, but anyway, that was very distracting as well.
Code errors in the pages I've been making. Not errors, just glitching in the CMS. Oy. I shall explain by altering code below.
For some reason, text would randomly change color-- I get that our template was set to grey, but that doesn't mean I should have to change it back to black eighty trillion times. My code looked like a terrible mess with all these random
ness. What a mess- my successor will shake her head at me!
So basically, it would look like this:
Random paragraph leaping and looking beautifully black like I meant it to.
Second paragraph randomly has decided to be grey.
Oh, but it fixed itself!
(and no, I'm not messing with the HTML at this point- that would put my example code into real code and you couldn't see what it actually looks like unless I messed around more and that's what I'm going to be doing all day tomorrow so no!
And then, the bulleting-ness messed up.
- Most lists
- are fancy
- and easy to use
- hurrah
- but then you want a second indent
- in this fancy blog, you can just hit tab, hurrah, so I didn't actually have to mess with the html
- isn't that nice?
- and then you just hit enter twice to go back to this indent
Long story short, I had to mess with HTML when I should've been able to use the fancy tech and easy do it. Urgh. No more typing- headache from screen looking. Ew.
My dream
Part of it was from an 80's movie I made up in my sleep. Some sort of movie called Dream Wave. In it, this movie I invented, a fellow is put into a deep sleep and tries to solve some sort of worldly dilemma in his dreams. The main character of my dream met a real-life equivalent- who played the character in the film, and tried to help him. The actor was merely the vessel for finding the true savior.
There was more- a lot of plot while they were awake. This main character, she was being followed. And people had mated with animals for a long time, so hybrid creatures were created, though none appeared in the dream. They were only mentioned. These creatures were a great shame on society.
The main character went to lunch with an older friend, who kept getting letters-- someone was pregnant. I remember it was the friend, a woman's, animal partner who was pregnant. Little messages on paper kept appearing, and the friend finally left to the bathroom to rip them up and flush them.
Best I can figure, I was thinking about Edward Albee's The Goat and Afterschool Nightmare. Strange, but possibly usable to some extent.
Night.
There was more- a lot of plot while they were awake. This main character, she was being followed. And people had mated with animals for a long time, so hybrid creatures were created, though none appeared in the dream. They were only mentioned. These creatures were a great shame on society.
The main character went to lunch with an older friend, who kept getting letters-- someone was pregnant. I remember it was the friend, a woman's, animal partner who was pregnant. Little messages on paper kept appearing, and the friend finally left to the bathroom to rip them up and flush them.
Best I can figure, I was thinking about Edward Albee's The Goat and Afterschool Nightmare. Strange, but possibly usable to some extent.
Night.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Script Frenzy!
Okay, so some of ya'll ought to know that I've done Nanowrimo for the last few years-- writing a 50,000+ word novel every November. I've been pretty successful for '09 and '08- hurrah!
Well, the lovely creators of Nanowrimo also do this event called Script Frenzy. Basically, you have all of April to write 100 pages of script for pretty much any kind of story (movie, tv, comic book, etc.). Now, I've tried to write a script a few times, but get frustrated by the FORMAT. I'll need to figure that puppy out- 'cause I think I'm going to try to do Script Frenzy next month.
I have an idea for a short film. It kinda came from seeing Paranormal Activity and having an "I can do that!" vibe. I want to do a thriller/horror/creepy film about a stalker. To account for crap video quality, though, which makes things much cheaper (hurrah!), I think it will be from the stalker's perspective- basically, we're watching the video s/he takes of the stalkee as s/he stalks.
Yeah, that's all I've got. Hrm.
Anyway, I'm wondering if I might want to try getting sponsored- since they have it for this event. Basically, it's like a walk-a-thon- people support my efforts to get the 100 pages done by donating to the cause, which supports youth writing programs (my capstone is meant to be a writing program with transgender teens- so obviously this is something I'm passionate about!).
Anyway, I'll try to put a button somewhere on here. Next month will be crazy- full-time grad studying plus Japanese tutoring plus Spanish class on weekends plus TAing plus this script! Yeek, happy busyness! :D
Well, the lovely creators of Nanowrimo also do this event called Script Frenzy. Basically, you have all of April to write 100 pages of script for pretty much any kind of story (movie, tv, comic book, etc.). Now, I've tried to write a script a few times, but get frustrated by the FORMAT. I'll need to figure that puppy out- 'cause I think I'm going to try to do Script Frenzy next month.
I have an idea for a short film. It kinda came from seeing Paranormal Activity and having an "I can do that!" vibe. I want to do a thriller/horror/creepy film about a stalker. To account for crap video quality, though, which makes things much cheaper (hurrah!), I think it will be from the stalker's perspective- basically, we're watching the video s/he takes of the stalkee as s/he stalks.
Yeah, that's all I've got. Hrm.
Anyway, I'm wondering if I might want to try getting sponsored- since they have it for this event. Basically, it's like a walk-a-thon- people support my efforts to get the 100 pages done by donating to the cause, which supports youth writing programs (my capstone is meant to be a writing program with transgender teens- so obviously this is something I'm passionate about!).
Anyway, I'll try to put a button somewhere on here. Next month will be crazy- full-time grad studying plus Japanese tutoring plus Spanish class on weekends plus TAing plus this script! Yeek, happy busyness! :D
Friday, March 12, 2010
Things to Read Over Break
Class
Intersex in the Age of Ethics
Gender Outlaw
The Testosterone Files
Whipping Girl
Nobody Passes
Travesti
Fixing Sex
Imagining Transgender
Capstone
Social Work Practice with Transgender and Gender Variant Youth
Pedagogy of the Oppressed
Transgender History- Stryker
Gender Trouble- Butler
Feminist Theory from Margin to Center- hooks
The "Sissy Boy Syndrome" and the Development of Homosexuality
Selected articles from Transgender Studies Reader
Fun
The Yiddish Policemen's Union (Started)-Michael Chabon
Colette- Break of Day
Toni Morrison- The Bluest Eye --- and A Mercy
For Colored Girls who have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow is Enuf-Ntozake Shange
A Single Man- Christopher Isherwood
The Possession- Annie Ernaux
At the Bottom of the River- Jamaica Kincaid
Disquiet- Julia Leigh
The Malady of Death- Marguerite Duras
Unlucky Lucky Days- Daniel Grandbois
Beauty Salon- Mario BellatÃn
The Moon Opera- Bi Feiyu
Letter to My Daughter- George Bishop
If I have time...
Transparent- Cris Beam
This Bridge Called My Back
Donna Haraway
A is for Alibi
Intersex in the Age of Ethics
Gender Outlaw
The Testosterone Files
Whipping Girl
Nobody Passes
Travesti
Fixing Sex
Imagining Transgender
Capstone
Social Work Practice with Transgender and Gender Variant Youth
Pedagogy of the Oppressed
Transgender History- Stryker
Gender Trouble- Butler
Feminist Theory from Margin to Center- hooks
The "Sissy Boy Syndrome" and the Development of Homosexuality
Selected articles from Transgender Studies Reader
Fun
The Yiddish Policemen's Union (Started)-Michael Chabon
Colette- Break of Day
Toni Morrison- The Bluest Eye --- and A Mercy
For Colored Girls who have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow is Enuf-Ntozake Shange
A Single Man- Christopher Isherwood
The Possession- Annie Ernaux
At the Bottom of the River- Jamaica Kincaid
Disquiet- Julia Leigh
The Malady of Death- Marguerite Duras
Unlucky Lucky Days- Daniel Grandbois
Beauty Salon- Mario BellatÃn
The Moon Opera- Bi Feiyu
Letter to My Daughter- George Bishop
If I have time...
Transparent- Cris Beam
This Bridge Called My Back
Donna Haraway
A is for Alibi
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Shiney Planet Version #2
Waves.
That was the first clear thought to enter my mind. The sand cowering away from the sun, running frantically through the air. Clawing sharply at our faces, trying to cut its way into our skin to hide itself away. Trying to out-trick and manipulate its destiny into non-existence, of course the grains failed, the light touching their tiny forms and sending tiny rainbows all around, into her hair and reflected in her eyes, the color of waves, a deep blue that desired nothing more than to be green.
"I can't stand this fucking sand," she said, shaking her head to the left with a jerk that sent the sparkles sailing down her cleavage. "This heat. The goddamn sun." As she continued her list, the woman began to walk away from me, her tiny shorts and sweat-logged tanktop clinging to her every movement, taking in more of the shining grains. "This place, these rules, my hair-- God!" She ran her hands messily through the dark brown waves that nearly reached her waist, flowing freely in the sticky breeze. "I should just chop it all off." She inhaled tightly and exhaled through pursed lips to emit a loud squeak. "Fuck," she added.
I shook a bit of the sand out from my own clothing and stepped forward to stand beside her. "We'll get used to it. Our bodies will readjust to the new temperature. Even the sand will seem representative of home soon." I want to take her hand. I move closer to her still, looking at her, and my breath catches her hair, waving it lightly.
That was the first clear thought to enter my mind. The sand cowering away from the sun, running frantically through the air. Clawing sharply at our faces, trying to cut its way into our skin to hide itself away. Trying to out-trick and manipulate its destiny into non-existence, of course the grains failed, the light touching their tiny forms and sending tiny rainbows all around, into her hair and reflected in her eyes, the color of waves, a deep blue that desired nothing more than to be green.
"I can't stand this fucking sand," she said, shaking her head to the left with a jerk that sent the sparkles sailing down her cleavage. "This heat. The goddamn sun." As she continued her list, the woman began to walk away from me, her tiny shorts and sweat-logged tanktop clinging to her every movement, taking in more of the shining grains. "This place, these rules, my hair-- God!" She ran her hands messily through the dark brown waves that nearly reached her waist, flowing freely in the sticky breeze. "I should just chop it all off." She inhaled tightly and exhaled through pursed lips to emit a loud squeak. "Fuck," she added.
I shook a bit of the sand out from my own clothing and stepped forward to stand beside her. "We'll get used to it. Our bodies will readjust to the new temperature. Even the sand will seem representative of home soon." I want to take her hand. I move closer to her still, looking at her, and my breath catches her hair, waving it lightly.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Programs- tbc
MFA
UW Seattle
?
Cornell
UW Seattle- Women's Studies
UW- PhD in English
UW- PhD in Communication
UW Seattle
- Transcripts
- GRE
- Statement of Purpose
- 3 Letters of Recommendation
- Critical Writing Sample
- 3 Copies of a Creative Writing Sample
- TA/Fellowship application
?
Cornell
- Statement of Purpose
- Three letters of Recommendation
- Transcripts
- GRE
- Creative Writing Sample
- Transcripts
- Letters of Recommendation
- COMPLETED Manuscript Submission Form
- Autobiographical Sketch
- One self-addressed stamped postcard
- 3 Letters of Recommendation
- Official Transcripts
- Porfolio
- Artist's Statement
- Resume
UW Seattle- Women's Studies
- Statement of Purpose
- Writing Sample
- Three Letters of Recommendation
- Transcripts- PDF or Word documents???
- GRE Scores- 4854
- Intended Research Focus- 40 words or less
- Match with Scholarly Interest of Faculty
- Writing Sample
- Statement of Purpose- incl. foreign languages and teaching experience
- Three Letters of Recommendation
- Academic Transcripts
- NO GRE!!!!
- Form and Fee
- Research Statement (500-750 Words)
- Writing Sample
- Three Letters of Recommendation
- Two Sets of Official Transcripts
- Two copies official transcript
- Coversheet- area of interest, faculty with scholarly interest- two copies
- Statement of purpose- two copies
- Personal Achievements/Contributions- two copies
- CV- two copies
- Three letters of recommendation
- GRE scores- 4835
- Writing sample
- Person Statement
- Resume
- Transcripts
- Three Letters of Recommendation
- GRE
- Statement of Purpose
- Three Letters of Recommendation
- Transcripts/Academic Records
- GRE
- 20 Page Academic Writing Sample
- Statement of Purpose
- Transcripts
- Three Letters of Recommendation
- GRE scores
- Recent 20 Page Academic Writing Sample
- Statement of Purpose
- Three Letters of Recommendation
- Transcripts
- Writing sample- less than twenty pages
- GRE scores
UW- PhD in English
UW- PhD in Communication
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Labels
Also, I figured out the labeling thing, so you can search by subject now. Um, apparently it was really easy. So, um.... pay no attention to that man behind the curtain?
Today-ness
Okay, I will try to tell you of the today. But I am a bit Vicodined up. Such is life! I have complained elsewhere on the interwebz and will not bore you with such silliness.
Well, most of the today was spent with baby A. See how discreet I am? Though, since I have told you her name elsewhere, you may remember that she is Amelia. I think I may have bragged a bit when she was born. I am just too worried about her being kidnapped on account of being so darned cute to put anymore pictures up here. You will have to be sneakier if you want them!
Anyway, we went to the Bothell Library and the UWB Library... twice! Yes, I forgot my student ID and the UWB librarian boy told me he could not give me my items without it. Though I had a driver's license, my student number, and.... a baby... So, I went back home with said kidling and returned. A new fellow was there to give me my holds, and he told me he had heard the previous conversation, and that, if such a thing is to happen again, I can, in fact, just use my student number.
.....
Well, why didn't he say that before I left and drove all the way back home? Strangeness, I say. Oh well, the lamb enjoyed it. (I say "lamb" because that's what they called the baby in Five Children and It though I haven't a clue why they say that... old slang?)
I also picked up George Bishop Jr's Letter to my Daughter, which I must read. I was in a reading group with the author when I was in Tokyo. Isn't that a little bit amazing? Seriously, this isn't a university press book (I've met some of those authors), but this is mainstream. He could be famous someday, and I will say that I was in a book club with him. Plus, he was insanely nice and good looking to boot!
What else? A lot of lounging about with my mother. Went to dinner at Outback. Be warned, if you get a San Pallegrino there, they give you a giguntic bottle, not the wee one. Tricky business. I shall be peeing all night. Hopefully, I will wake up to do it :)
Done with the quarter on Thursday (because I'm turning all my final-ness-es in early so as to have as long a break as possible... so as to get as much reading done for next quarter as possible. Hrm)! Wish me luck!
<3
Well, most of the today was spent with baby A. See how discreet I am? Though, since I have told you her name elsewhere, you may remember that she is Amelia. I think I may have bragged a bit when she was born. I am just too worried about her being kidnapped on account of being so darned cute to put anymore pictures up here. You will have to be sneakier if you want them!
Anyway, we went to the Bothell Library and the UWB Library... twice! Yes, I forgot my student ID and the UWB librarian boy told me he could not give me my items without it. Though I had a driver's license, my student number, and.... a baby... So, I went back home with said kidling and returned. A new fellow was there to give me my holds, and he told me he had heard the previous conversation, and that, if such a thing is to happen again, I can, in fact, just use my student number.
.....
Well, why didn't he say that before I left and drove all the way back home? Strangeness, I say. Oh well, the lamb enjoyed it. (I say "lamb" because that's what they called the baby in Five Children and It though I haven't a clue why they say that... old slang?)
I also picked up George Bishop Jr's Letter to my Daughter, which I must read. I was in a reading group with the author when I was in Tokyo. Isn't that a little bit amazing? Seriously, this isn't a university press book (I've met some of those authors), but this is mainstream. He could be famous someday, and I will say that I was in a book club with him. Plus, he was insanely nice and good looking to boot!
What else? A lot of lounging about with my mother. Went to dinner at Outback. Be warned, if you get a San Pallegrino there, they give you a giguntic bottle, not the wee one. Tricky business. I shall be peeing all night. Hopefully, I will wake up to do it :)
Done with the quarter on Thursday (because I'm turning all my final-ness-es in early so as to have as long a break as possible... so as to get as much reading done for next quarter as possible. Hrm)! Wish me luck!
<3
Friday, March 5, 2010
Short Novels
I hate the traditional definition of a novella- the distinction between types of creative works based on their lengths. These are short novels. Renee Gladman made a comment about Marguerite Duras' The Malady of Death being so insanely short, yet published as a novel and sold in bookstores. It is the sign of a great writer- the ability to have one's short works presented bound in Barnes and Noble.
I picked up some very short books at the library. Synopses from B&N. Here they are:
A Single Man - Christopher Isherwood:
When A Single Man was originally published, it shocked many by its frank, sympathetic, and moving portrayal of a gay man in midlife. George, the protagonist, is adjusting to life on his own after the sudden death of his partner, and determines to persist in the routines of his daily life; the course of A Single Man spans twenty-four hours in an ordinary day. An Englishman and a professor living in suburban Southern California, he is an outsider in every way, and his internal reflections and interactions with others reveal a man who loves being alive despite everyday injustices and loneliness. Wry, suddenly manic, constantly funny, surprisingly sad, this novel catches the texture of life itself.
Note: The film was a lovely thing but the story felt like it was meant to be read and taken in as a long psychological experience. It was something meant to happen to me and not through the means of sitting in a theatre. I look forward to the true experience of this remarkable event.
186 pages
Siddhartha- Herman Hesse
Born into wealth and privilege, Siddhartha renounces his place among India’s nobility to wander the countryside in search of meaning. He learns suffering and self-denial among a group of ascetics before meeting the Buddha and coming to realize that true peace cannot be taught: It must be experienced. Changing his path yet again, Siddhartha reenters human society and earns a great fortune. Yet over time this life leaves Siddhartha restless and empty. He achieves enlightenment only when he stops searching and surrenders to the oneness of all.
Note: In studying advanced Zen concepts as an undergrad, I only understood the truth of nothingness through the reading of Paulo Coehlo's The Alchemist when the shepherd boy understands all of what the alchemist seeks through the reading of a single line. Another lady in my class experienced similar illumination through the reading of Siddhartha.
122 pages
Unlucky Lucky Days- Daniel Grandbois
Inventive, disconcerting, and hilarious, these seventy-three tales of our Unlucky Lucky Days might well be termed Dr. Seuss for adults. They call to mind Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories as readily as they do Italo Calvino's Cosmicomics, Rikki Ducornet's Butcher's Tales and Woody Allen's most literary writings. Braced on the shoulders of the fabulists, fantasists, absurdists, surrealists and satirists who came before him, Daniel Grandbois dredges up impossible meanings from the mineral and plant kingdoms, as well as the animal, and serves them to us as if they were nothing more fantastic than a plate of eggs and ham.
Note: The cover is lovely- the young girl staring straight out at me with a look I can't quite place. Extremely short stories- nearly all a simple page. I've heard nothing further but hope to enjoy this little book.
119 pages
The Malady of Death- Marguerite Duras
A man hires a woman to spend several weeks with him by the sea. The woman is no one in particular, a "she," a warm, moist body with a beating heart-the enigma of Other. Skilled in the mechanics of sex, he desires through her to penetrate a different mystery: he wants to learn love. It isn't a matter of will, she tells him. Still, he wants to learn to try . . .This beautifully wrought erotic novel is an extended haiku on the meaning of love, "perhaps a sudden lapse in the logic of the universe," and of its absence, "the malady of death." "The whole tragedy of the inability to love is in this work, thanks to Duras' unparalleled art of reinventing the most familiar words, of weighing their meaning." - Le Monde; "Deceptively simple and Racinian in its purity, condensed to the essential." - Translation Review.
Note: Yes, this was the one that started it all. The font size must be 16 and still the book is thin. It says "a novel by Marguerite Duras" on the cover- it has identified itself as such. Duras is one powerful enough to attack such silly stereotypes.
60 pages
Disquiet- Julia Leigh
Olivia arrives at her mother's chateau in rural France (the first time in more than a decade) with her two young children in tow. Soon the family is joined by Olivia's brother Marcus and his wife Sophie—but this reunion is far from joyful. After years of desperately wanting a baby, Sophie has just given birth to a stillborn child, and she is struggling to overcome her devastation. Meanwhile, Olivia wrestles with her own secrets about the cruel and violent man she married many years before. Exquisitely written and reminiscent of Ian McEwan and J. M. Coetzee, Disquiet is a darkly beautiful and atmospheric story that will linger in the mind long after the final page is turned.
Note: Again, a lovely cover. It also has the endorsement of Toni Morrison, which means a great deal to me- is that woman not the queen of short, effective, haunting novels? I also love that there is so much blank space.
121 pages
At the Bottom of the River- Jamaica Kincaid
I picked up some very short books at the library. Synopses from B&N. Here they are:
A Single Man - Christopher Isherwood:
When A Single Man was originally published, it shocked many by its frank, sympathetic, and moving portrayal of a gay man in midlife. George, the protagonist, is adjusting to life on his own after the sudden death of his partner, and determines to persist in the routines of his daily life; the course of A Single Man spans twenty-four hours in an ordinary day. An Englishman and a professor living in suburban Southern California, he is an outsider in every way, and his internal reflections and interactions with others reveal a man who loves being alive despite everyday injustices and loneliness. Wry, suddenly manic, constantly funny, surprisingly sad, this novel catches the texture of life itself.
Note: The film was a lovely thing but the story felt like it was meant to be read and taken in as a long psychological experience. It was something meant to happen to me and not through the means of sitting in a theatre. I look forward to the true experience of this remarkable event.
186 pages
Siddhartha- Herman Hesse
Born into wealth and privilege, Siddhartha renounces his place among India’s nobility to wander the countryside in search of meaning. He learns suffering and self-denial among a group of ascetics before meeting the Buddha and coming to realize that true peace cannot be taught: It must be experienced. Changing his path yet again, Siddhartha reenters human society and earns a great fortune. Yet over time this life leaves Siddhartha restless and empty. He achieves enlightenment only when he stops searching and surrenders to the oneness of all.
Note: In studying advanced Zen concepts as an undergrad, I only understood the truth of nothingness through the reading of Paulo Coehlo's The Alchemist when the shepherd boy understands all of what the alchemist seeks through the reading of a single line. Another lady in my class experienced similar illumination through the reading of Siddhartha.
122 pages
Unlucky Lucky Days- Daniel Grandbois
Inventive, disconcerting, and hilarious, these seventy-three tales of our Unlucky Lucky Days might well be termed Dr. Seuss for adults. They call to mind Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories as readily as they do Italo Calvino's Cosmicomics, Rikki Ducornet's Butcher's Tales and Woody Allen's most literary writings. Braced on the shoulders of the fabulists, fantasists, absurdists, surrealists and satirists who came before him, Daniel Grandbois dredges up impossible meanings from the mineral and plant kingdoms, as well as the animal, and serves them to us as if they were nothing more fantastic than a plate of eggs and ham.
Note: The cover is lovely- the young girl staring straight out at me with a look I can't quite place. Extremely short stories- nearly all a simple page. I've heard nothing further but hope to enjoy this little book.
119 pages
The Malady of Death- Marguerite Duras
A man hires a woman to spend several weeks with him by the sea. The woman is no one in particular, a "she," a warm, moist body with a beating heart-the enigma of Other. Skilled in the mechanics of sex, he desires through her to penetrate a different mystery: he wants to learn love. It isn't a matter of will, she tells him. Still, he wants to learn to try . . .This beautifully wrought erotic novel is an extended haiku on the meaning of love, "perhaps a sudden lapse in the logic of the universe," and of its absence, "the malady of death." "The whole tragedy of the inability to love is in this work, thanks to Duras' unparalleled art of reinventing the most familiar words, of weighing their meaning." - Le Monde; "Deceptively simple and Racinian in its purity, condensed to the essential." - Translation Review.
Note: Yes, this was the one that started it all. The font size must be 16 and still the book is thin. It says "a novel by Marguerite Duras" on the cover- it has identified itself as such. Duras is one powerful enough to attack such silly stereotypes.
60 pages
Disquiet- Julia Leigh
Olivia arrives at her mother's chateau in rural France (the first time in more than a decade) with her two young children in tow. Soon the family is joined by Olivia's brother Marcus and his wife Sophie—but this reunion is far from joyful. After years of desperately wanting a baby, Sophie has just given birth to a stillborn child, and she is struggling to overcome her devastation. Meanwhile, Olivia wrestles with her own secrets about the cruel and violent man she married many years before. Exquisitely written and reminiscent of Ian McEwan and J. M. Coetzee, Disquiet is a darkly beautiful and atmospheric story that will linger in the mind long after the final page is turned.
Note: Again, a lovely cover. It also has the endorsement of Toni Morrison, which means a great deal to me- is that woman not the queen of short, effective, haunting novels? I also love that there is so much blank space.
121 pages
At the Bottom of the River- Jamaica Kincaid
Reading Jamaica Kincaid is to plunge, gently, into another way of seeing both the physical world and its elusive inhabitants. Her voice is, by turns, naïvely whimsical and biblical in its assurance, and it speaks of what is partially remembered and partly divined. The memories often concern a childhood in the Caribbean-family, manners, and landscape-as distilled and transformed by Kincaid's special style and vision.
Kincaid leads her readers to consider, as if for the first time, the powerful ties between mother and child; the beauty and destructiveness of nature; the gulf between the masculine and the feminine; the significance of familiar things-a house, a cup, a pen. Transfiguring our human form and our surroundings-shedding skin, darkening an afternoon, painting a perfect place-these stories tell us something we didn't know, in a way we hadn't expected.
Note: The library did not have Small Place. This one was there. If she is as wonderful a writer as her reputation claims her to be, I will not be disappointed.
The Possession- Annie Ernaux
Ernaux's latest book to be translated into English (after Simple Passion: A Woman's Story) is the story of an all-consuming jealousy-a self-portrait whose spare 64 pages sketch the life cycle of a possession. A woman has left a man "as much out of boredom as from an inability to give up [her] freedom." The relationship may have been forgettable, but the narrator finds the idea of the man being with another woman unbearable, and her life is soon eclipsed by an obsession with that nameless, faceless woman. Occupation, the title of the original French edition, more clearly elucidates this state with its double entendre: the narrator is both engaged and possessed. While actively cultivating the obsession, the narrator is also very much concerned with chronicling it; this work is as much about the act of writing the novella as it is about the six months it recounts. Clearly for sophisticated readers.
Note: I like the title. I have heard nothing about this book.
62 pages
Beauty Salon- Mario BellatÃn
A strange plague appears in a large city. Rejected by family and friends, some of the sick have nowhere to finish out their days until a hair stylist decides to offer refuge. He ends up converting his beauty shop, which he’s filled with tanks of exotic fish, into a sort of medieval hospice. As his “guests” continue to arrive and to die, his isolation becomes more and more complete in this dream-hazy parable by one of Mexico’s cutting-edge literary stars.
Note: Doesn't this one just sound insanely interesting? The cover made it look such fun, but I assume to be haunted by this brightly covered novel.
63 pages
The Moon Opera- Bi Feiyu
The debut novel of one of China’s rising young literary talents—a gem of a book that takes a piercing look into the world of Chinese opera and its female stars. In a fit of diva jealousy, Xiao Yanqiu, star of The Moon Opera, disfigures her understudy with boiling water. Spurned by the troupe, she turns to teaching. Twenty years later, a rich cigarette-factory boss offers to underwrite a restaging of the cursed opera, but only on the condition that Xiao Yanqiu return to the role of Chang’e. So she does, this time believing she has fully become the immortal moon goddess. Set against the drama, intrigue, jealousy, retribution, and redemption of backstage Peking opera, The Moon Opera is a stunning portrait of women in a world that simultaneously reveres and restricts them. Bi Feiyu, one of China’s young literary stars, re-creates all the temptations and triumphs of the stage the world over in this gem of a novel.
Note: Honestly, I have fallen in love with stories surrounding Chinese opera after devouring the gorgeousness that was and is Farewell My Concubine. That's really all I have to say about that...
Wish me luck? I must finish Shutter Island and The Yiddish Policemen's Union first, but I will experience these other stories shortly thereafter.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
To Do List
For tomorrow- ew.
7:30AM- Wake up. Alas. If not for the appt, I could sleep in.
9- Appt. at UWB with W. Am unprepared. Will look like fool- oh well, it is pro bono (is proper spelling, I looked it up). Must remember library items for public and university. Also, should not forget work out clothing. Remember to print at public library.
10 (I hope!) Switch out items at UWB library
10:15 Print items at public library. Get new items- yay!
10:45 Pick up prescriptions
11:15 Work out
12 Go home!
12:30 (I always run late from working out) Take shower- aaaaah.
1PM Do breathing removal thing for audio test for Librivox Also, make sure to explain what that is so ya'll don't think I'm doing something pervy
1:30 Do draft of IRB
2:30 Feel accomplished. Oh, and work on another draft of Pain for other class.
3ish Spent remainder of day screwing around....
That's the plan anyway O.o I'm too sleepy to be very clever. It ought to have been a bullet list but I stuck with the times- huzzah for me!
Must go to sleep now. zzzz
7:30AM- Wake up. Alas. If not for the appt, I could sleep in.
9- Appt. at UWB with W. Am unprepared. Will look like fool- oh well, it is pro bono (is proper spelling, I looked it up). Must remember library items for public and university. Also, should not forget work out clothing. Remember to print at public library.
10 (I hope!) Switch out items at UWB library
10:15 Print items at public library. Get new items- yay!
10:45 Pick up prescriptions
11:15 Work out
12 Go home!
12:30 (I always run late from working out) Take shower- aaaaah.
1PM Do breathing removal thing for audio test for Librivox Also, make sure to explain what that is so ya'll don't think I'm doing something pervy
1:30 Do draft of IRB
2:30 Feel accomplished. Oh, and work on another draft of Pain for other class.
3ish Spent remainder of day screwing around....
That's the plan anyway O.o I'm too sleepy to be very clever. It ought to have been a bullet list but I stuck with the times- huzzah for me!
Must go to sleep now. zzzz
Shiney Planet Version #1
It's actually very different than the last one I posted- condensed considerably. Anyway, I'm going to go through this story multiple times, so I figured I'd better get reacquainted with the first version. I'm pretty happy that I already have a story with circular time, so I can play with the concept of how this might play out differently and squish them into a novella in the end. Just in case you forgot, I will sue you if you try to steal it- I don't care if it isn't any good- even if it's crap it's MY crap- rawr! Seriously though, I'm in Seattle, and we've got a lot of lawyers what that'll help me out pro bono, 'cause they're just nice that way. And artsy. is that how you spell pro bono?.. it looks dirty :)
Our new home was extraordinarily bright, the light so intense that I had to shield my eyes and keep my gaze fixed on the ground. The dirt shimmered, as though someone had mixed glitter in with the soil. The wind picked up this shining dirt and carried it through the air in spirals, giving the world the illusion of being a dream.
Everything smelled old. I felt as if we were inside some ancient library or a forgotten pharaoh’s tomb, sealed off for hundreds of years and preserved perfectly before our arrival. But it was also a hot smell, the smell of a dangerously warm summer’s day that melts away skin and burns sight from the eyes. My companion handed me some tinted goggles, which I placed tightly over my eyes.
We said nothing for a long while, but continued standing surveying the landscape. There were only one or two trees in the distance of the enormous desert around us, and our whole world would have been of a single hue if the glittering sands didn’t continuously catch the sun in tiny prisms. The sun itself seemed dangerously close, as though it might crash into us at any second, but, really, it could only have been a little closer in proximity to us than the Earth to her sun.
“What do you think, Pete?” My companion asked. Her face was covered in the dust, making her shine like a goddess of this strange land.
I considered the question for a few moments. “It is iridescent.”
She laughed but ended up coughing as she inhaled the glimmering bits. I rushed to her aid but she shook me off with her hand, perhaps because we both knew that I could do nothing to help, and it would be dangerous to try. She removed her water bottle from her side to take a large gulp. As her coughing became less frequent, her smile returned.
“I didn’t mean for it to be funny,” I said.
“You never do,” She recapped her bottle, “that’s what makes it so funny.” She stretched her back and shoulders, producing various cracks and snaps, before allowing herself to fall into a cross-legged sit. “What should we do first?” She looked up at me with a hand shielding her eyes, the sun too intense, even with her goggles.
“We should assemble our new shelter.” I tried to mimic her way of sitting, but ended up falling to my knees. “It could get dark at any time.”
“It will never get dark, ever. That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” I leaned back to rest in the sand. The sun began to burn my cheeks, and I felt the shining particles attach themselves to me. I wondered if I glittered like my companion, god-like, or if I more resembled someone buried in sand.
“It isn’t how I expected it would be,” she said to me, “ I thought it would be hotter.”
“But it is sweltering.”
“It could have been worse. It’s actually kind of pretty.”
“Yes, the iridescent sand is appealing provided it isn’t lodged in your throat.”
She began her laugh again, though I had, once more, had no intention of amusing her. I think there must have been some transformation in the manner of my speech. I used to make her laugh, before we came to the planet, but it was generally intended. Something had changed, and I wasn’t sure that the heat was wholly to blame.
She lay down too, and rolled over to be beside me. I stretched my hand to set it just beside hers, but did not touch her. I could never touch her again, I remembered, thought I could not recall why. There were many things I had forgotten, such as the reason for our relocation to this place, and many things that, even now, I continue to forget.
“We should assemble the tent.” I stood and the pretty dusts swept off of me and into the wind. I could feel the sands begin to stick to me as I sweat and knew that the two of us would soon become extremely uncomfortable.
“I don’t have the energy,” my companion whined, but she stood nonetheless.
We returned to the place we had come from, where the tent and a box of provisions lay, including matches and a few logs to start a fire. I thought that those might have been meant as some sort of a joke.
Taking up a few pieces of the tent, I glanced to my companion. “Do you know how to construct this?”
She rummaged through the box, trying to find the instructions. I was fairly certain that we had never had any, but it seemed a pity to eradicate her hopes so quickly. “I think we must’ve lost them,” she walked over to me. “I’m sure we can figure it out, though.”
It was a great disappointment when we entered the tent, after two exhausting hours constructing it, for it was small and of a dark hue, making it even hotter within than without. To cool ourselves, we removed our clothing and folded them into the box. Exhausted, we lay beside each other, not touching, for a long time. My companion would occasionally wet her fingers in her water bottle and fling the droplets at me, smiling sometimes, though I knew she was sad.
There was nothing to do. I went out to get the box and set it at the opening of our tent, so that we could reach it from inside.
“Is there anything interesting in there?” My companion glanced over my shoulder.
“Do you want to have a hand at carving one of the logs?”
“No. If we got splinters, there wouldn’t be any way to get them out.”
I nodded and returned to her side. As I began to set myself down, my companion called out abruptly for me to stop.
“Stand up,” she commanded, and I did. I stood before her and watched her look me over, every detail of my body. She had seen it many times before, so I wasn’t sure what she was playing at. Perhaps I was simply more interesting to look at than the mono-hued walls of the tent.
“Never mind,” she said, after a few minutes. “Just sit next to me.”
I set myself down beside her. “Do you want to try to sleep?”
“I don’t think I could.” She lay down anyway and closed her eyes. As she breathed, glitters wafted up from her lips. The dust settled on her quickly, enveloping her figure so that it looked as though she was wearing a very tight body suit.
I quietly emptied the box then refilled it, trying to trick myself into believing that I was organizing things. It certainly seemed as though we were already running low on supplies, but I supposed that must be impossible. We had only just arrived.
It occurred to be that I no longer knew my companion’s name. I was certain that I could never forget any detail about her, the only person I had and the only one that had ever mattered. Yet, I found myself in the awkward position of having lost her very name, somewhere along the way.
She stirred after a bit, and shook herself to remove some of the dust, though it clung to her as though it were permanently attached. She coughed a few times and sat up, smiling at me with dusty lips. “Did you get any sleep?”
“No. I organized the box.”
“There isn’t much in there… So, how long was I out for?”
I figured she was playing some sort of game. She had not slept and we both knew it. “Not long.”
“Do you want to go explor-”
“Yes.”
We left the tent wearing only our goggles. The sun seemed even closer, and the heat dried the sand onto us like concrete. We continued into the endless day until we were back at our tent. In order to get any sort of exercise, we circled our tiny planet a few more times.
My companion then took me back to the tent and sat again. She looked tired, breathing heavily. We had not walked far enough for her to be so exhausted, but the heat seemed to affect her more than it did me.
“Do you want something to drink?” I asked. “I can get your water bottle, if you want.”
“Just lay by me.”
I did as she asked, and my companion brought her fingers so that they were only a few millimeters from mine. I coughed to remind her that she could not touch me, and she pulled away, her eyes fixed on my face. “Why do you have to look so beautiful?”
“I look as I’ve always looked. Why would I appear any differently?”
“It’s just so hard, Peter.”
“I’m sorry,” I paused, and then, ashamed, admitted, “but I seem to have forgotten your name.”
I had expected her to be surprised or even angered by this news, but she just shook her head slowly. “Of course you have.”
“Why? I don’t remember anything.”
“You seem to remember some of it…”
“We can’t touch.”
“My name is Anne,” she traced the outline of my face with her finger, “but you’ll forget again. You always do. Sometimes hours can pass before it happens, sometimes only seconds, but you always forget.”
“How did we get here? I can’t recall. Why do you remember?”
“Because I killed you, Peter,” she exclaimed, and she threw up her hands in irritation, though I was unable to discern who the anger was directed at, “And I had to go where they send people who kill those they love.”
The sun dimmed to a dull grey as it raced to set beyond the horizon and rise again. It tore across the sky and pulled away all the blue, leaving streaks of black in its wake. The grains of sand could no longer act as prisms, and the wind shunned them for their lack of distinction, their perfect, boring white. Then, everything around us faded entirely, and I realized that it was my vision, not the world, which had changed. My eyes could see only the emptiness that had consumed every other part of me and erupted streaming from my eyes.
“Why- why did you kill me?”
“I don’t know, I just did!” She began pacing the tiny tent in small circles. “And you were there, after it all, waiting. You’d been waiting. They said you wanted to be with me, despite everything.”
“I don’t remember any of this.”
“They didn’t want you to remember. It was too awful and you didn’t do anything wrong and it’s more painful for me, having to keep telling you all this over and over! It was too wonderful for me to get to have you again.” She looked at me, and she might have had tears, through the glitters concealed everything. My own tears had dried up in the sand beneath my eyes.
“How long have we been here?” I asked, because I felt that we had only just arrived.
“Forever. I don’t know how long. Years. We keep putting up the tent and tearing it down, and food keeps reappearing. And our clothes. And you keep getting mesmerized by the shimmers and saying the exact same things. And I can’t even touch you, or they’ll take you away from me.”
“I wish I could touch you.”
“Me too.”
We considered each other for a long time in silence. The revelation had stolen our words.
“Peter…” My companion finally spoke in a whisper.
“I’m sorry,” I paused, ashamed, “But I seem to have forgotten your name.”
Our new home was extraordinarily bright, the light so intense that I had to shield my eyes and keep my gaze fixed on the ground. The dirt shimmered, as though someone had mixed glitter in with the soil. The wind picked up this shining dirt and carried it through the air in spirals, giving the world the illusion of being a dream.
Our new home was extraordinarily bright, the light so intense that I had to shield my eyes and keep my gaze fixed on the ground. The dirt shimmered, as though someone had mixed glitter in with the soil. The wind picked up this shining dirt and carried it through the air in spirals, giving the world the illusion of being a dream.
Everything smelled old. I felt as if we were inside some ancient library or a forgotten pharaoh’s tomb, sealed off for hundreds of years and preserved perfectly before our arrival. But it was also a hot smell, the smell of a dangerously warm summer’s day that melts away skin and burns sight from the eyes. My companion handed me some tinted goggles, which I placed tightly over my eyes.
We said nothing for a long while, but continued standing surveying the landscape. There were only one or two trees in the distance of the enormous desert around us, and our whole world would have been of a single hue if the glittering sands didn’t continuously catch the sun in tiny prisms. The sun itself seemed dangerously close, as though it might crash into us at any second, but, really, it could only have been a little closer in proximity to us than the Earth to her sun.
“What do you think, Pete?” My companion asked. Her face was covered in the dust, making her shine like a goddess of this strange land.
I considered the question for a few moments. “It is iridescent.”
She laughed but ended up coughing as she inhaled the glimmering bits. I rushed to her aid but she shook me off with her hand, perhaps because we both knew that I could do nothing to help, and it would be dangerous to try. She removed her water bottle from her side to take a large gulp. As her coughing became less frequent, her smile returned.
“I didn’t mean for it to be funny,” I said.
“You never do,” She recapped her bottle, “that’s what makes it so funny.” She stretched her back and shoulders, producing various cracks and snaps, before allowing herself to fall into a cross-legged sit. “What should we do first?” She looked up at me with a hand shielding her eyes, the sun too intense, even with her goggles.
“We should assemble our new shelter.” I tried to mimic her way of sitting, but ended up falling to my knees. “It could get dark at any time.”
“It will never get dark, ever. That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” I leaned back to rest in the sand. The sun began to burn my cheeks, and I felt the shining particles attach themselves to me. I wondered if I glittered like my companion, god-like, or if I more resembled someone buried in sand.
“It isn’t how I expected it would be,” she said to me, “ I thought it would be hotter.”
“But it is sweltering.”
“It could have been worse. It’s actually kind of pretty.”
“Yes, the iridescent sand is appealing provided it isn’t lodged in your throat.”
She began her laugh again, though I had, once more, had no intention of amusing her. I think there must have been some transformation in the manner of my speech. I used to make her laugh, before we came to the planet, but it was generally intended. Something had changed, and I wasn’t sure that the heat was wholly to blame.
She lay down too, and rolled over to be beside me. I stretched my hand to set it just beside hers, but did not touch her. I could never touch her again, I remembered, thought I could not recall why. There were many things I had forgotten, such as the reason for our relocation to this place, and many things that, even now, I continue to forget.
“We should assemble the tent.” I stood and the pretty dusts swept off of me and into the wind. I could feel the sands begin to stick to me as I sweat and knew that the two of us would soon become extremely uncomfortable.
“I don’t have the energy,” my companion whined, but she stood nonetheless.
We returned to the place we had come from, where the tent and a box of provisions lay, including matches and a few logs to start a fire. I thought that those might have been meant as some sort of a joke.
Taking up a few pieces of the tent, I glanced to my companion. “Do you know how to construct this?”
She rummaged through the box, trying to find the instructions. I was fairly certain that we had never had any, but it seemed a pity to eradicate her hopes so quickly. “I think we must’ve lost them,” she walked over to me. “I’m sure we can figure it out, though.”
It was a great disappointment when we entered the tent, after two exhausting hours constructing it, for it was small and of a dark hue, making it even hotter within than without. To cool ourselves, we removed our clothing and folded them into the box. Exhausted, we lay beside each other, not touching, for a long time. My companion would occasionally wet her fingers in her water bottle and fling the droplets at me, smiling sometimes, though I knew she was sad.
There was nothing to do. I went out to get the box and set it at the opening of our tent, so that we could reach it from inside.
“Is there anything interesting in there?” My companion glanced over my shoulder.
“Do you want to have a hand at carving one of the logs?”
“No. If we got splinters, there wouldn’t be any way to get them out.”
I nodded and returned to her side. As I began to set myself down, my companion called out abruptly for me to stop.
“Stand up,” she commanded, and I did. I stood before her and watched her look me over, every detail of my body. She had seen it many times before, so I wasn’t sure what she was playing at. Perhaps I was simply more interesting to look at than the mono-hued walls of the tent.
“Never mind,” she said, after a few minutes. “Just sit next to me.”
I set myself down beside her. “Do you want to try to sleep?”
“I don’t think I could.” She lay down anyway and closed her eyes. As she breathed, glitters wafted up from her lips. The dust settled on her quickly, enveloping her figure so that it looked as though she was wearing a very tight body suit.
I quietly emptied the box then refilled it, trying to trick myself into believing that I was organizing things. It certainly seemed as though we were already running low on supplies, but I supposed that must be impossible. We had only just arrived.
It occurred to be that I no longer knew my companion’s name. I was certain that I could never forget any detail about her, the only person I had and the only one that had ever mattered. Yet, I found myself in the awkward position of having lost her very name, somewhere along the way.
She stirred after a bit, and shook herself to remove some of the dust, though it clung to her as though it were permanently attached. She coughed a few times and sat up, smiling at me with dusty lips. “Did you get any sleep?”
“No. I organized the box.”
“There isn’t much in there… So, how long was I out for?”
I figured she was playing some sort of game. She had not slept and we both knew it. “Not long.”
“Do you want to go explor-”
“Yes.”
We left the tent wearing only our goggles. The sun seemed even closer, and the heat dried the sand onto us like concrete. We continued into the endless day until we were back at our tent. In order to get any sort of exercise, we circled our tiny planet a few more times.
My companion then took me back to the tent and sat again. She looked tired, breathing heavily. We had not walked far enough for her to be so exhausted, but the heat seemed to affect her more than it did me.
“Do you want something to drink?” I asked. “I can get your water bottle, if you want.”
“Just lay by me.”
I did as she asked, and my companion brought her fingers so that they were only a few millimeters from mine. I coughed to remind her that she could not touch me, and she pulled away, her eyes fixed on my face. “Why do you have to look so beautiful?”
“I look as I’ve always looked. Why would I appear any differently?”
“It’s just so hard, Peter.”
“I’m sorry,” I paused, and then, ashamed, admitted, “but I seem to have forgotten your name.”
I had expected her to be surprised or even angered by this news, but she just shook her head slowly. “Of course you have.”
“Why? I don’t remember anything.”
“You seem to remember some of it…”
“We can’t touch.”
“My name is Anne,” she traced the outline of my face with her finger, “but you’ll forget again. You always do. Sometimes hours can pass before it happens, sometimes only seconds, but you always forget.”
“How did we get here? I can’t recall. Why do you remember?”
“Because I killed you, Peter,” she exclaimed, and she threw up her hands in irritation, though I was unable to discern who the anger was directed at, “And I had to go where they send people who kill those they love.”
The sun dimmed to a dull grey as it raced to set beyond the horizon and rise again. It tore across the sky and pulled away all the blue, leaving streaks of black in its wake. The grains of sand could no longer act as prisms, and the wind shunned them for their lack of distinction, their perfect, boring white. Then, everything around us faded entirely, and I realized that it was my vision, not the world, which had changed. My eyes could see only the emptiness that had consumed every other part of me and erupted streaming from my eyes.
“Why- why did you kill me?”
“I don’t know, I just did!” She began pacing the tiny tent in small circles. “And you were there, after it all, waiting. You’d been waiting. They said you wanted to be with me, despite everything.”
“I don’t remember any of this.”
“They didn’t want you to remember. It was too awful and you didn’t do anything wrong and it’s more painful for me, having to keep telling you all this over and over! It was too wonderful for me to get to have you again.” She looked at me, and she might have had tears, through the glitters concealed everything. My own tears had dried up in the sand beneath my eyes.
“How long have we been here?” I asked, because I felt that we had only just arrived.
“Forever. I don’t know how long. Years. We keep putting up the tent and tearing it down, and food keeps reappearing. And our clothes. And you keep getting mesmerized by the shimmers and saying the exact same things. And I can’t even touch you, or they’ll take you away from me.”
“I wish I could touch you.”
“Me too.”
We considered each other for a long time in silence. The revelation had stolen our words.
“Peter…” My companion finally spoke in a whisper.
“I’m sorry,” I paused, ashamed, “But I seem to have forgotten your name.”
Our new home was extraordinarily bright, the light so intense that I had to shield my eyes and keep my gaze fixed on the ground. The dirt shimmered, as though someone had mixed glitter in with the soil. The wind picked up this shining dirt and carried it through the air in spirals, giving the world the illusion of being a dream.
Notes
I saw Renee Gladman, about whom I shall write more later (as in, after reading a few more of her works- I need to process her gorgeousness a bit more), tonight and took a lot of notes. Most of it, I think, was about my writing, but some, at least, seemed very deep at the time. Also, some words to look up and books to check out. I shall try to make sense of this craziness!
Books to Check Out:
62: A Model Kit- Julio Cortázar
A Small Place- Jamaica Kincaid
Films to Check Out:
The Stalker
The Tenant
India Song
Her Name's Venise in Deserted Calcutta
Words to Look Up:
Inscrutable- not readily investigated, interpreted, or understood : mysterious
Aphasia- loss or impairment of the power to use or comprehend words usually resulting from brain damage
To Write:
A sentence broken to be fit between two pages
"Shiney Planet"- retell 100-ish times as novel
Response to Afterschool Nightmare- afterlife versus prelife-- this life as the afterlife.
Thoughts:
Post-apocalyptic internal state- mind as innermost space, universe as outermost
Locations of things gone/lost - the self -- Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B. (1995). Theorizing heritage. Ethnomusicology 39(3) 367-380.
Circular Time- Pooh and Piglet lost in the forest
"Dispersal of the self"-- I leave myself behind a little bit wherever I go.
Gladman Quotes/Thoughts:
Body as Space
Language - Architecture
Does writing have to be representational?
Ethnography of geographic space
"Nutritional hunger"
Sounds that cannot be reproduced in writing
Translation- multiple ways of representation, literal, translation of lived experience to written account- what is lost/gained?
Confusion as shared experience- arising from the performance of understanding-- infectious confusion
BROWN
Loss of self in "me"
Come at a piece from many angles
Implied subject and multiple levels of "we"- insider, emergent
Dispersal of the self
Intentional space for wandering and encounters with fixed objects- museums, libraries-- established for the antiestablishmentary.
Books to Check Out:
62: A Model Kit- Julio Cortázar
A Small Place- Jamaica Kincaid
Films to Check Out:
The Stalker
The Tenant
India Song
Her Name's Venise in Deserted Calcutta
Words to Look Up:
Inscrutable- not readily investigated, interpreted, or understood : mysterious
Aphasia- loss or impairment of the power to use or comprehend words usually resulting from brain damage
To Write:
A sentence broken to be fit between two pages
"Shiney Planet"- retell 100-ish times as novel
Response to Afterschool Nightmare- afterlife versus prelife-- this life as the afterlife.
Thoughts:
Post-apocalyptic internal state- mind as innermost space, universe as outermost
Locations of things gone/lost - the self -- Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B. (1995). Theorizing heritage. Ethnomusicology 39(3) 367-380.
Circular Time- Pooh and Piglet lost in the forest
"Dispersal of the self"-- I leave myself behind a little bit wherever I go.
Gladman Quotes/Thoughts:
Body as Space
Language - Architecture
Does writing have to be representational?
Ethnography of geographic space
"Nutritional hunger"
Sounds that cannot be reproduced in writing
Translation- multiple ways of representation, literal, translation of lived experience to written account- what is lost/gained?
Confusion as shared experience- arising from the performance of understanding-- infectious confusion
BROWN
Loss of self in "me"
Come at a piece from many angles
Implied subject and multiple levels of "we"- insider, emergent
Dispersal of the self
Intentional space for wandering and encounters with fixed objects- museums, libraries-- established for the antiestablishmentary.
Update?
I haven't been very good about just talking about the things going on. Well, what can I say, a lot has been going on, so I don't write about it, I just do. Well done ending sentences with prepositions.
Well, I am modifying one of my blog posts into a paper. I created an abstract for the UW Women of Color Collective Dialoguing Difference Conference. Here is my abstract, for your viewing dis/pleasure:
"Like a hell-broth boil and bubble":
Reflections of a Half-blood on Mixed Race Invisibility
By Amanda Martin
Women of Color Collective
Dialoguing Difference 2nd Annual Conference: Technologies of Visibility
University of Washington, Seattle
May 14, 2010
2009 was a year particularly notable for media focus on issues of race, and an increased presence of non-white figures. In this paper, I critique some of the better-known and respected weblogs (blogs) for their virtual shunning of the culturally pluralistic identities of public figures, and interracial couples, with the notable exceptions of those who are highlighted for their misdeeds. As a blogger, I have previously commented on some of these particular instances, such as the perception of Barack Obama as the U.S.’s first black versus mixed race president, the virtual absence of conversation surrounding Disney’s first interracial animated couple in the film The Princess and the Frog, and the negative media frenzy surrounding multicultural icon Tiger Woods and multiple infidelities. Furthermore and in recognition of multiracial invisibility, I reexamine Louisiana justice of the peace, Keith Bardwell, and the significance of his refusal to issue a marriage license to an interracial couple.
In this paper, I take an autoethnographic approach, voicing my own experiences and perspections as a multiracial woman throughout. In this manner, I remain true to the roots of the paper, which began as a number of informal blog posts. Having grown up as a fair-skinned Latina of half-Irish American, half-Chilena ancestry, I remember continuously being asked “what I was,” as if having physical characteristics that are not easily tied to a single race, such as green eyes or olive skin, somehow makes one less than human. The question was never “who” but “what.” It is my belief, as argued in this paper, that the dehumanization of the multiracial American contributes to our relative invisibility identity-wise versus presence-wise in the blogsphere.
--
Anyway, I'll let you know if I get in.
Also, I am working on getting a draft done of the IRB (Institutional Review Board... I think) application for my Capstone project (like thesis but doesn't have to be so text-based). I'm planning to do a PAR (participatory action research) writer's workshop thing with transgender children-- have them do some autobiographical writing exercises to examine who they are. Basically, I want to study the question of puberty-blocking hormones. Transgender kids may start them around age 13 to prevent puberty from happening, then take more hormones at age 18 to transition to the "other"/true sex. The trouble is, if these kids choose to take the blockers, they will be infertile for life.
What a decision to make as a 13-year-old! So, I would like to work with kids who may be making this difficult choice and get a better idea of what they are thinking versus what their parents think-- goodness, why are all the publications focused on what their parents think when it is the children who will be infertile for life?
Anyway, I'd also liked to interview public figures in the transgender rights discussion. Particularly Dr. Norman Spack, who is one of the leading drs helping children toward this decision and providing treatments.
What else is going on?
I'm reading Shutter Island and it is very draw-in-y so I think I shall go and read some more.
.... forgive me?
Well, I am modifying one of my blog posts into a paper. I created an abstract for the UW Women of Color Collective Dialoguing Difference Conference. Here is my abstract, for your viewing dis/pleasure:
"Like a hell-broth boil and bubble":
Reflections of a Half-blood on Mixed Race Invisibility
By Amanda Martin
Women of Color Collective
Dialoguing Difference 2nd Annual Conference: Technologies of Visibility
University of Washington, Seattle
May 14, 2010
2009 was a year particularly notable for media focus on issues of race, and an increased presence of non-white figures. In this paper, I critique some of the better-known and respected weblogs (blogs) for their virtual shunning of the culturally pluralistic identities of public figures, and interracial couples, with the notable exceptions of those who are highlighted for their misdeeds. As a blogger, I have previously commented on some of these particular instances, such as the perception of Barack Obama as the U.S.’s first black versus mixed race president, the virtual absence of conversation surrounding Disney’s first interracial animated couple in the film The Princess and the Frog, and the negative media frenzy surrounding multicultural icon Tiger Woods and multiple infidelities. Furthermore and in recognition of multiracial invisibility, I reexamine Louisiana justice of the peace, Keith Bardwell, and the significance of his refusal to issue a marriage license to an interracial couple.
In this paper, I take an autoethnographic approach, voicing my own experiences and perspections as a multiracial woman throughout. In this manner, I remain true to the roots of the paper, which began as a number of informal blog posts. Having grown up as a fair-skinned Latina of half-Irish American, half-Chilena ancestry, I remember continuously being asked “what I was,” as if having physical characteristics that are not easily tied to a single race, such as green eyes or olive skin, somehow makes one less than human. The question was never “who” but “what.” It is my belief, as argued in this paper, that the dehumanization of the multiracial American contributes to our relative invisibility identity-wise versus presence-wise in the blogsphere.
--
Anyway, I'll let you know if I get in.
Also, I am working on getting a draft done of the IRB (Institutional Review Board... I think) application for my Capstone project (like thesis but doesn't have to be so text-based). I'm planning to do a PAR (participatory action research) writer's workshop thing with transgender children-- have them do some autobiographical writing exercises to examine who they are. Basically, I want to study the question of puberty-blocking hormones. Transgender kids may start them around age 13 to prevent puberty from happening, then take more hormones at age 18 to transition to the "other"/true sex. The trouble is, if these kids choose to take the blockers, they will be infertile for life.
What a decision to make as a 13-year-old! So, I would like to work with kids who may be making this difficult choice and get a better idea of what they are thinking versus what their parents think-- goodness, why are all the publications focused on what their parents think when it is the children who will be infertile for life?
Anyway, I'd also liked to interview public figures in the transgender rights discussion. Particularly Dr. Norman Spack, who is one of the leading drs helping children toward this decision and providing treatments.
What else is going on?
I'm reading Shutter Island and it is very draw-in-y so I think I shall go and read some more.
.... forgive me?
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