Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Eatin Good in the Neighborhood?

Amy Limmer (aka "Amy the Officemate") told me today about a bad vegetarian experience at Applebee's--or rather, a lack of vegetarian experience. She has since emailed the company (I didn't know people still complained like that! Go Amy!) and requested that some sort of vegetarian dish outside the appetizer menu make an appearance. They have replied, telling her that any dish on the menu can be made meatless. Including the Chicken Fajitas.
Which then, as Amy pointed out, become "salad in a tortilla." Mmmmmmmm.



"It's alright for someone to sleep past noon every once in a while. That's what it means to be a free human being." The Big O, as rendered by Cartoon Network.


Meanwhile, I am eating enough turkey sandwhiches and fruit to...make me healthy? Oh, and Emma brought chocolate covered strawberries from Mike's Pastries (famous Boston patisserie). And smoothies, lots of smoothies.
But no coffee?
I have found that I do not like lattes made with skim. The coffee feels thin. My skin smells like skin again, not medicine or caffeine. Once I rasped loudly about cream and sugar, leaning on the dashboard, sticky hands on my steering wheel. What comes will come, then stop. Of course.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

A case study in Juxtaposition

      Well, things were looking bad.
     Our hero was being eaten alive by the comps, by finals, and by the stone-ridden gall bladder that threatened to burst from her guts like Alien
     Our hero? I meant heroine.

      The letters were flying (okay, crawling) in. Minnesota, REJECT. Iowa REJECT. Northwestern?



I'm writing to bring you up to date on the status of your application for graduate study in rhetoric at Northwestern. At the moment you are on a very short waiting list.

As we indicated earlier, the Graduate School permits us to admit only as many applicants as we can fund. We found your credentials to be certainly worthy of admission, but there were not enough funded positions to enable us to admit all of the qualified candidates. This is why you are currently on our waiting list.

If initial offers are declined on April 15, it is
possible that we may be able to extend an offer to you. In all frankness, though, this is a remote possibility, because some attrition is built in to the number of offers initially authorized. Even though the waiting list is very short, it is unlikely that we will be able to go to it.

Therefore, if you have an offer from another institution for which there is a reply deadline coming up soon, I would advise you to accept it. I make this suggestion very reluctantly, because we would love to have you come here, but I cannot ask you to keep waiting against what is a small chance that something will open up here.

Please let me know whether you wish to remain on the waiting list or whether you prefer to withdraw your application.

Sincerely,
David Zarefsky


      And I wrote this in response

it's not that
we don't want you
Oh we want you
enter our courts in praise

it's that
we can't afford you
lit whore
bad economy, cheerio


      And there was sorrow in the land...or something.
      And then there was the Gall Bladder of Doom. But that's another, yucky story.
      And then, it was Friday, April 15, the Ides of April, Tax Day. Mother called to tell me that The University of Denver had also accepted me (Yea!) But sadly could not fund me (Boo!).

      So I watched Buffy, I watched Stargate, and, after much procrastination, I cleaned. I cleaned the bathroom (toilet and all), I cleaned the floors (Both Swiffer Wet AND Dry, twice), I cleaned the dinning room, I cleaned the stove. I was eyeing the inside of the refrigerator when Sharon stopped me. Apparently I was clutching my stomach in pain and shouting obscenities at the germs I was vanquishing. So it goes (again?).
      Yea so I walked through the valley of the shaddow of Academia...
      In a "funk" (not the right word, but I have lost my words and dont know where to find them. Leave them alone, and they'll come home, wagging their affixed morphemes behind them), I tried to write my paper for rhetoric. This was, of course, not a good idea. But I did it anyway, and am on page Six, thank you. ("As Blair and Michel concluded, 'Quote'. Their assertion that 'Quote can add to our understanding of...")
      Sharon attempted to cheer me up by watching "The Fugitive" with me (mmm Ford) and then I took some pain meds to aid my poor stomach, now even more angry at me for the cleaning spree. Feeling a little loopy, I decided to check my email. This was the turning point.
      The first one was trying to sell me Viagra. I won't count that as the turning point.
      The second was from a student. This was also expected.
      The third was from Jackie Spada, our adorable English Department Graduate "Administrative Assistant" (sigh), with the subject line "RESULTS." As we all know, any subject line that is in all Caps and from someone you know is either a) Really important or b) Caps lock error.
      This, Of course, was a) Really Important. Quote

April 15, 2005
Ms. Amy Clemons
Department of English
406 Holmes Hall

Dear Amy:
Congratulations! I am pleased to inform you that you have successfully completed the MA Comprehensive Examination. Your exam results are as follows:

4 areas passed, 3 distinctions

You may review your examination in the Graduate Office if you desire. You may pick up copies of your reader’s comments from the Graduate Studies Office after Monday, April 25, 2005.
Again, congratulations and best wishes.
Sincerely,

Stuart Peterfreund
Chair, Graduate Committee



      And the seventh seal broke, and there was a thousand years of peace...
      Or something like that.
      Upon squealing (EEK!) and awakening my roommate (Sharon, not Emma), and rejoicing with Gretchen online, I checked the email immediately below Jackie's joyous response was an ominous email from one Jill Quirk. Yes, the same Jill who is in one of my January postings, Jill from Purdue.
Jill who had told me just days earlier that I was on the waiting list at Purdue. Jill who had, on just this Tuesday, shattered the last of my ego....

Amy -

We can admit you and offer you a teaching assistantship. Please contact me and let me know if you are still interested or have made other plans. I can send the offer letters out on Monday.

Thanks!

Jill

Jill Quirk
Purdue University
Department of English/Comparative Literature
304 Heavilon Hall
500 Oval Drive
West Lafayette, IN 47907



      Ta-da.

      I'll leave the "case study in Juxtaposition" part up to you. It's interesting to see how formal emails work and the constelation of forms they take on, isn't it?

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Pop culture, popping a vein or two

I don't often quote pop culture. But it's not a rule or anything, so...
      Pardon me while I burst into flame.
      An apt description from our friends at Incubus.
      And, Trigun.
      Death and poverty like me so much that they brought friends!
I suppose the last one is a bit strong. After all, there is no death at the moment, and poverty is being staved off by "stipends." For the moment.


      I suppose I'm just freaking out.
      Child to main character, Vash: It's too late for us to go back now. And you're too damn clean!
Vash the Stampede's Response: The ticket to the future is always open.
My roommate told me to do yoga. Instead, I ate som HagenDaas. Rocky Road, a metaphorical ice cream.
Dead Metaphor, that is. "Life is a journey" is so romantic.
And although romanticism (note my lack of capitalization) is making a comeback (*pffttt noise goes here*) in composition--damn those expressivists who ruined my composing process and made me confess!--I am not yet ready for that sort of thing. I'd rather not make that kind of move again.
I'd rather move to a new place, and actually bond with people this time.
Anna came and hugged us yesterday, making me wonder if she was nuts. I wondered if I was nuts. We all decided there is "no love" in the English department. Wherever I go next, I will make there be love.
Let there be light, where word and thought are one. Where the author has only illucutionary language. Let there be sleep. Let there be peace.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Night Owl Falls Prey to Harry Dreams

      The Night Owl Bus Service in Boston is being shut down. This doesn't really affect me, except in dreams.

      I dreamed about owls and Harry Potter and being Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I was running toward a bus that wouldn't let me on, and everyone had Book 6 of J.K. Rowling's hit series except for me.

      So I woke up and watched the X files, last episode, and thought about Sci Fi Night in the Ropp Pitt. Damn, I miss those days. Bill and Todd, Taco Bell and Shameless Flirting. Now I'm worried about the history of rhetoric (rhetoric is history).

      They won't let me come in

      Waiting just might kill me. Emma's going home for a week, to celebrate Easter in Sweden, which is apparently better than Easter in Boston. I forgot that there was Easter. I keep forgetting to be worried. I keep worrying about forgetting. And all sorts of inversions like that that like to be inverted.

      I can smell the coffee on my skin

Monday, March 21, 2005

Rejection: An ode

Do not mourn the fall of daylight


It could be clearer to me, why I bother caring that Iowa and Minnesota don't want me. I could do some analysis of the market for students, something about alienation of labor, intellectual pursuits as labor...but I'm not going to. Instead, I'm going to eat a lot of Moose Tracks (R).

Before, her scent had been faint but vivid, showing she had not much physical strength, but did not lack in more magical powers. Now her scent was strong, sweet, vivid and long lasting, even though that sounded like a Winterfresh commercial.


When I read fan fiction, I become startlingly aware of the gap between normal people and me. And still I am not wanted. Or rather, there are certain restrictions to the desire. Must I seduce the school, or should they seduce me?


Wordsworth, that Romantic bastard, knew that ideas come from individual minds, which then put those ideas and emotions (mainly emotions, the overflow of emotions) into language, as though language were Tupperware (R), the transparent kind. I know that my ideas and language are constructed by the web of social powers. And I want out of the web before the spider eats me.


The spider scar on her naked back means she is not yet free

Lots of white space. The white space, says Bartholomae, is where readers can insert themselves, have a dialogue, be dialectic. Mom said today that I am eclectic, which is not quite right. Nor am I eccentric, or any of those other ec- or -ectic words. To do so returns us to the Romantic paradigm, where we are all responsible for our own fates.

And I don't want to be responsible anymore, because it is not up to me anymore, but up to the flow and ebb of anxieties and force. I am Jack's inflamed sense of rejection.

I am Amy's shoulder's tensed in expectation.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Post Break Post

      Oh, geez. It's over?
      How can it be over?
     Apparently I am done relaxing until April 20th or so. Oh well. It was nice while it lasted, this limbo.


      "I just thought you'd be fuller, and more metal."
      I got the first rejection letter on Monday, from Minnesota.
      "We don't know if that means he's dead, or just naked."
      That feels familiar.
Lion's head knocker
pages through
magic in the kitchen
from the agency of letters


      The pile of books keeps getting bigger, not smaller. I wonder what to do about that. "Treading water" would be an appropriate cliche for the moment. I suppose I will start with grading the stack of students (represented by their papers) that sits on the ottoman.


      Last night Sharon asked me "When was the last time you really liked a guy?" And I giggled and said, "Senior year."
      I hadn't realized how long ago that was. Must be all the words on all the pages in all the books, making the time fade strangely into other presences. We don't measure time in coffee spoons; we measure in responses to others' words.

Friday, February 25, 2005

The Ninth Parabola of Purgatory

Purgatory requires parabola.
Here comes the studying. Tomorrow: Edward Schiappa's Definitions of Reality , which will be the special work I answer questions for. So.
Stuart Peterfreund came to talk to us about the comps. By the end of the meeting, I became convinced I am screwed. But that's because he didn't really address any methods of studying for those of us not doing literature. It made me rethink that fourth question: Do I want to answer a question on Bishop/Frost (the postmodern/modern divide? Ways of knowing in modern?)?
I'm so screwed.
Walking down St Stephens Street, I saw a sign--who knows if it was from God; if nothing else, it was from Symphony Properties, Inc. "Where will YOU be living next year." Amid the snow, I said to the sign, "I don't KNOW, which is the whole PROBLEM!" The sign didn't talk back.
Oh well.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Spring "Break"

Alas, I may well weep with sighs deep
For I have no manner of company
To help me on my journey and me to keep
And also my writing is full unready
--Everyman

      Reading stuff for Rhetoric as Cultural Studies class makes me rethink again and again the implicit discussion at hand: How does Rhetoric fit into English studies? Cary Nelson asked the question in a different way, but the implications are the same. "The Linguisticallity of Cultural Studies" asks what place "language" has in Cultural Studies. Because Cultural Studies is one of those strange interdepartmental (non departmental?) disciplines, he is asking what I am asking: Why does Literature have to mean written, cannonized texts that we analyze via "critical theory? Why do we have two separate classes for "Lit crit" and "Rhetorical criticism"? If we are going to the trouble to acknowledge that our (and here I am identifying myself with the Lit people) objects of study are alwaysalready coded into a hierarchy of legitimization for anOther's purpose, and that we want to tease out those codes of legitimization--if we take all of that as our basic assumption of contemporary Lit Crit, then why the hell aren't we doing Rhetorical studies? Isn't it true that embedded in texts, discourses, genres and whole fields of communication, are "instructions to 'the audience how they are to respond and what sensations to experience'"? Isn't that Rhetoric Or am I stupid? (That was T Rosteck (233 At the Intersection , quoting E Black's "The Sentimental Style" (78)). Have I been using "Rhetoric" wrong?
      Ernest J Wrage findsthat we should, and here I'm being a "rhetorician," study "not only the conditions of the creatoins of ideas but allso the conditions of their reception" (Qtd in Rosteck 231). That the texts the audience make upon reception are themselves worth studying; that culture around a text, that contributed both to its inception and its reception should be examined. That Orwell was working from a Marxist perspective in an increasingly (and to him, frighteningly) Socialist England is important, but we must also examine who he was, how he got to pulish 1984 , who the publisher was, how it was recieved in the public, the discourses that surrounded its reception, other major political events happening both globally and locally, and finally, the literary tradition that shaped his text. What other anti-totalitarianism texts came out that year? By who? What were the universities teaching? What did the newspapers look like? How could the proles of his story be comapared to his readers? To those unable to read his story? (An important point).
      Further, am I giving too much agency to Orwell (and friends)? Too much intentionality? Am I falling into that Neo-Aristotelean trap of focusing on the success (or lack) of rhetorical production? If not examining success as my object, then what? Did I forget how often these are taught? Referenced? Turned into bad movies? If there is equal power in the reception as in the creation---what questions should I be asking? And how can I answer these, when most of the people who originally received the text are dead? I can't just use official, public documents. Those are fine, but not enough; what was silenced? Why have some of the dystopian fictions been appropriated to the English department, but not others? And where do they appear, when they are used?
      See. I'm just confusing myself now. In order to (re)fuse Literature and Rhetoric, we'd have to come up with new methodologies, new "legitimate" forms of proof for our readings of the text in question. And I haven't seen one yet, not even in cultural studies, where rhetoric is allowed to play with literture (but usually doesn't).
      And so Thursday begins Spring "Break." I'm planning on studying for the Comps all week, at the coffee shop, reminding myself of what I have, supposedly forgotten, or learning that which I never knew.
      Same thing.

The syllables were there, the ones that sang like poison in an open wound. They said "cut your hair" with the scissors in the kitchen. The scar manifests white, like we knew it would, right down the middle of the division. They said "go to bed" and forget about the bills in your pocket. The shiny backs of the books in question reflect like mouse eyes underneath the futon.

My mouse does not trot.

Monday, February 14, 2005

My GOD!

      Literally, My GOD! Because otherwise, I don't know how this happened.
      I sat down to begin the tedious task of wading through the Kenneth Burke bibliography (500+ entries, from the 1930s to 2001) for hints of Composition Theory, and decided to check my email, to gather my Notes to Self. Wherein I was greeted with this:
Hi, Amy! I'm sorry I missed you by telephone this morning. If you'd like to chat personally, please let me know what times of day are best for you, and
I'll call you. (If you'd prefer to try me, my office number is (847-491-5854.)
Here in the Department of Communication Studies, we are in the process of making admissions decisions. We wanted to let you know that you are on our short list of preferred applicants. Although at this moment we cannot offer you either admission or financial support, your application is one of a small number (fewer than ten) that we have forwarded to the School of Communication for further competitive review. Although we hope to be able to make you an offer, it is likely that not all the applications that we have put forward will be funded.
We wanted to contact you now to congratulate you on your success thus far and to tell you that we are very much interested in you and your application! We hope to be able to give you a definitive answer about admission by mid-March. In the interim, we want you to feel free to contact us with any questions that you may have about the program or about our admissions procedures. We hope that this information will be helpful to you as you receive offers from other schools.

      Pardon?


     First of all, as mother said, I no longer have to worry about living in my parent's basement, which is a strange concept since we have no basement. Upon reading the email seven or eight times to make sure I wasn't stupid, I squealed, and began announcing it to everyone in earshot. Shaking. Dry lips. Etc.


      I practically hopped into Professor Rotella's office, who seemed genuinely excited for me, who kept telling me what good signs were hidden in the rhetorically charged "almost acceptance" letter. At the moment I am sitting calmly in the computer lab, hair in a pony tail, looking demure. Mother and others tempered my excitement when they mentioned the fact that this is the first of what may be many offers. Then I remembered: I may have to make a decision in the end.


      Damn.
      I suppose I should say something here about being lucky. About being lucky to have the pressure of making this kind of decision. I suppose I could say this is justification for all those times I thought the Clemons family was looking down on me, for them making me feel stupid and inadequate. Maybe. Maybe I should celebrate tonight.


      If I were at home, I'd go out with K-dog and Lou. We'd drink coffee and eat cheesecake. Now, I'm just here, with me and the roommates. I don't know what to do. Mom's in Hawaii. Dad's got the flu. Emma started work today, and Kari's grandpa just died.
      Give me some damn cheesecake.

Friday, February 11, 2005

Fragmenting the Hell out of Essay (IV)

      Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to call this Essay version 3.5. or, rather, Somewhere else in the imagined outline than where I last left off. Oh well. I have ideas, and I am going to write them; organization is, afterall, the second step of Aristotle's 5 step model.
      I am reading Peter Elbow, a composition theory dude, and I run across his self-effacing remarks about not knowing whether he is exagerating a perceived conflict or not, a conflict between the act of writing and the act of reading. In some ways, he wants to see them on a continuum of meaning making, as people like Foucault and Stanley Fish do, to see the readers as makers of meaning, and thus "authors." On the other hand, Elbow is a writer, and like all writers, can't help but think of each text as his baby so keep your freakin interpretations out of my work! This, I think, is actually a good thing to hold in play; I can see the validity of each one. That "play" doesn't help me to do anything, though. So how is it handled?
      Let's turn to fanfiction again, as a place where people are, in fact, "Writing without Teachers" (the title of one of Elbow's first essays). They are, for the most part, not taking part in "academic" writing; there is no exchange value for their writing (that they have any control over). They are outside of many of the overt power relationships of the classroom (although, as Foucault says, we are always/already caught up in the webs of power and ideology, so there is no neutral writing space).
      Instead, there is a play between reader and writer which mimics some of the questions of domination we find in RL (Real Life). The review process on FFN and MediaMiner allows for readers to give suggestions and praise to the fanfic authors; this alone would not be of importance, except for the way that that feedback is often exemplary of the ideologies of power and truth in society at large. Who writes these feedbacks? How are they recieved? What does the author do with them? How do reviews affect the drafting process? How are these reviews like what we have learned to do in school? How might they affect the younger generation, who learn this type of feedback first, before learning the formulaic public school versions of "Peer Editing?" (And I do not mean to imply that these students will be at a disadvantage--they may, in fact, turn out to be better at responding to texts because they are used to being given the authority to speak on others' texts, where as some of my students still feel embarrassed or hesitant to (re)mark on their classmates' papers.)
      Elbow finds that as much as he wants to destroy the reading/writing binary, he can't help but feel that they are fundamentally opposed, that "readers and writers have competing interests over who gets to cntrol the text" (75). When we readers throw back to the idea that it is readers who construct the text (a reader response methodology), we can't deny that as writers, we are inherently frustrated when our work is misinterpreted. At the heart of this debate is "the question of what I 'said,' what meanings are 'in' my text" (76). Who "owns" the text determines who gives it meaning, value, and legitimacy.
      Elbow names the interaction between reader and writer as one of "disdain," approaching "mean and disrespectful." The reader wants to control the text, to remove the writer from the scene; the writer, already knowing s/he is absent in the mind of the reader comes to disdain the readers' misinterpretation and appropriation of her/his creation. This is when we may see the writer say, in the words of Elbow, " 'Readers are not my main audience. Sometimes the audience that I write for is me. For some pieces I don't even care whether readers always understand or appreciate everything I write [....] What do readers know?" (76). To me, this is a self-defense mechanism; always/already absent from his or her text, the author tries to regain control by making him/herself the audience; this, however, only serves to further the belief that the power is in the hands of the readers.
      These types of moves are common in fanfiction, but, as always with new media, the multiple authors, multiple texts, and fragmented composition of the texts create some interesting rhetorical moves and the creation of some strange writings meant to ease the shift from writer to reader. These, I think, are based on those common responses readers and writers have in classroom settings; the language of individual interpretation is learned early, and the ideologies of individualism are so tightly woven into American culture that self-expression through writing is a fairly common experience. It is when the writer can actually talk back, can use those responses to shape a continuing text that makes for an interesting study: What we would expect to be a typically (generically) monologic discourse is, through the implimentation and encouragement of peer review processes, becoming dialogic. And that dialogue between writer and reader is, as the genre expands, gains momentum, and establishes its own traditions, becoming an integral part of a text that is already complicated by problems of invention, authorship, and genre. And by "dialogic" I am not just refering to the way texts "enter into conversations with" other texts, or "respond to" other texts; I am refering to acutal dialogue between writer and reader about the writing process being inserted into the text itself, being refered to in various rhetorical moves that mimic other genres, but use these moves to create a further sense of fan community.
      What do these moves look like? What kind of feedback, and thus dialogue, is being created? How does it compare to what we do in a composition classroom? These are questions I want to consider in Return of the Fragmented Essay; I also would like to note to myself here that at some point I need to address (okay, figure out) my own standpoint on whether the peer review skills are "tools" that can be moved from context to context or whether the reframing in an academic setting means the skills must change, discourses must be silenced, fanfiction must be denigrated as non-legitimate texts...and how that affects peer reviewing in its two separate contexts.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Posting Apocalyptic

Demons always have red eyes


Overheard: Woof woof! Woooof! Aaaaaaah Oooooooh! I love you, Back Bay!


The dogs, the wolves, that are in all of us--the souls of Paradise--it's ecstasy when your skin can sing with chills and love.


InuYasha quote of the week:
As Kagome sat on her bed making these calls from her room, Inuyasha waited, content to give her some “privacy” as he listened to her through the closed door telling her lies to humans.
Everyone's got to have limits. Mine is when the strawberries are in my mouth and that's all there is to think of, not even the sleeting through the open window.



It wasn't meant to be sad. But she kept looking away, at the stars, craning her neck to look out the hatchback's window as best she could from the back seat. She got quiet always when we passed this intersection. She always was a drama queen. She told the best stories; even ones that were meant to be sad. I listened as she reworked the events, making important things into side notes, making subplots and satires out of the most mundane of things. We went to go eat, and this guy was there, staring at us--probably because we were half naked in the middle of winter--but what was important was when he looked at us, and said in this agonizingly slow--I mean, turtle versus hare slow--voice "Can I take that tray from y'all?" We were trying so hard not to laugh, and my bra strap had snapped, and it just made me remember why I have to leave this state. Really. Now.

Slowly, he told her about long sleep, about the divine interventions she had missed while napping.
trick
tickle
suffering of the lungs
the oil of the surface of water
trickling
Time is wasting
waist deep in water
the sum of the puns
equals that special number



unlike the savages of her day
she moves in sallow light with glee
not desiring more than what she sees
not informing the cold rooms with fires.

usual cautions surfeiting the way
she slightly limps to the shaddows wtih ease
the elves and imps about her free
her hair from binds and silver wires

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Waiting out the Weekend (Perchance to Dream)

Oh, how horrible.
You'd think that someone like me would be thrilled to spend today, this dreary New England day, the Thursday before SuperBowl (or, as I think of it, Potential Riot Sunday), indoors, in a mediocre, yet comfortable office chair (forest green, swivel, fully adjustable), hiding from the little nature that there is out there.
You'd think that, and you'd be mostly correct. What is not said, is that if this were undergrad, I would SO be skipping class tonight. The thought of spending two and a half hours alert is about to break me down into my elemental pieces. Who says that to dream is to be unengaged? I promise, I'll dream of the various relationships between texts and contexts, and rhetorics of the body.
A dream in Japanese is "Yume." Yume is also a girl's name, as is "yumi" and "Ayumi." I don't know what either of those mean. To dream in French is "Rever." Tonight is last Saturday's FullMetal Alchemist and Ghost in the Shell. "Ghost in the Machine" is the term for our fears about communication, and "Rage Against the Machine" is a term for a band that fears Ghosts, Shells, and systems.
3 and a half hours to go. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. There are more things to think of on a Thursday, Chibi-chan, than we dream of in classes about philosophy.

Sunday, January 30, 2005

Fun with (U)/(dys)topia

Reading this thing by Ira Shor, a Comp guy, (not the comp tests, the Comp studies), who gives an overview of his "frontloaded" student response class whose subject was, surprisingly, Utopia. And I saw myself teaching the class, editing his ideas, referencing works he's missing...instead of looking at what he's saying about pedagogy itself. Oops. It's interesting that he only referenced works in English...
          Of course, part of the issue is that his students are all 10 years older than me. His students didn't grow up during the grunge rock phenomenon, they weren't affected toward Marxism by the neo-Punk revolution started by Green Day in 1994, and they certainly hadn't gone through the Clinton scandal or 9/11. Teaching Utopia is different now; the questions have changed as the socio-economic atmosphere shifts further toward right wing capitalism.
          Damn, I'd love to teach a class on Utopia.
          And, every time I imagine myself teaching it, it is at Bluffton College. I mean, University.
          Shh. Don't tell. Especially Jeff, because he predicted it. He said that all my cynicism would one day turn back on itself and make me into a sentimental sap.
          That was during Modern Poetry, the class that probably meant more to me than any other class at BC. Again, shh. Don't tell. That class taught me how to handle graduate level work, before I even knew I was going to do this whole mess. That class gave me an in for Rotella's Modernism class, and wouldn't you know it. Guy Rotella stopped me in the hall Thursday to tell me that he wants to sit down and discuss my paper from last semester--in a good way! That it was a very nice paper.
          Confidence. How do you instill confidence in students? How did I get my confidence back, after I lost it my first year in grad school? Was it the summer alone with Kenneth Burke, M Keith Booker and a million other social and linguistic theories? Was it the anime? Is it that I now talk to Kari every day of the week, for at least 5 minutes? When did it shift?
          I once told Jeff that improvement for me doesn't happen like it does to other people. Most people gradually work toward a goal. For me, however, it's like electrons. You know. Electrons can only have certain energies, and there is no y=mx + b line to show how they increase in energy. Instead, it's sections of long plateaus followed by giant, sudden leaps, with white space in between. The shells around a nucleus are levels, not sloping lines; there is no connection. And when an electron shifts levels, it happens in a burst of light. Not that I also create bursts of light, but that the movement is sudden, and I rarely notice the change until much later in the plateau (I am sure electrons also do not notice their changes in location).
          What does this have to do with Utopia? My thinking on it has shifted again; I realize, reading Shor's article, that I must rethink the rhetorical situation of U/dys-topian lit. That in many ways, I am correct that it is written to be received by all audiences, and that the general public is aware enough of the conditions of Utopia and the problems it could pose. In many other ways, however, I have forgotten that although anyone can understand the literature, few actually pick up the books to engage in that relationship I outlined. I need to add one more factor, one more causality, into my neat little equation, one which will complicate the hell out of things, but will clean up the ultimate problem I have with rhetorical criticisms in general: How is it actually received? What are the conditions that are behind any one reading of the text? Other than shoving the book in their hands and holding a gun to their heads, how do publicists convince readers to read? Who else, other than publicists, do this job? What other conditions surround the reading of dystopian texts? Utopian texts? Don't they necessarily assume an engaged reader? What happens when the reader is forced to read ( F451 in high schools, for example)? What about the physical presence of the book?
          Silly Amy. How could I have overlooked such simple things? The theory, Oh, the theory....

Thursday, January 27, 2005

Essay of DOOM, Part the Third

I've changed my mind about where this essay is going next. Some notes:
In discussing the "Text, Context, and Subtext" of the genre, I left a lot implied. What I was trying to say was that the con/text of fanfics includes fan knowledge of the originary text, and that the various texts and rhetorics surrounding the fanfics come from fan knowledge. I used Dragonball as an example of the types of knowledges fans bring to texts.
I also wanted to highlight the fact that many of these fanfics are--and I think I got distracted from my purpose in my paragraph about fanfiction.net--recast by the authors into a different genre. Genre distinctions on fanfiction.net and mediaminer.org are part of the search criteria that allows readers to narrow the results--a necessity for a site that features fanfics in the thousands for some series. While the specific genres are different for each site, some remain a constant: Action, Adventure, Humor, Drama, Angst (itself an interesting "new" genre), Romance, Mystery, Scifi, Fantasy, and Tragedy. Of the 1500 or so pages of fanfics for InuYasha, for example, more than 900 identify themselves as being "Romance," which isn't a surprise, considering that the anime and manga are both considered Romantic Comedy. Of the 1200 pages of Dragonball Z fanfics, however, 500 are identified as Romance--a rather large portion for a series known for its martial arts and long battle scenes against evil, nearly immortal monsters. It is perhaps a moot point to make to say that one of the jobs of the genre is to "fill in the gaps," as it were, the gaps left by the original creator. In action-based series, particularly those with well developed characters like DBZ, it is not surprising that authors turn to the characters' love lives for a point of extension.

now, back to the flow of things. Next I'm going to look at restrictions... Think of this next section as a giant insert that goes before the sentence I started in my last entry on "audience."

Restrictions and Constraints
Bitzer finds that rhetorical texts, while initiated by exigency, are constructed according to the various restrictions and constraints--both practical and contextual--placed on the text. I have already mentioned some of these restraints: in order to be published on a fanfic database website, a text must follow the terms of service of that site. Mediaminer.org's recent ban of CYOA or "Role-playing fanfics" is one such restriction; now all texts must be written in standard prose forms, and in the first or third person. Both Mediaminer and fanfiction.net reserve the right to remove texts that are "disrespectful of the English language" in that they use "chat language" or are vastly erroneous in spelling and grammar. Fanfiction.net reserves the right to remove material they deem to be above an "R" rating; because the authors select the rating themselves, this can be problematic. What constitutes "R" is arguable; in general, there are to be no "full blown 'lemons,'" although "lime" and "citrus" are allowed. Most fanfic users understand "lemons" to include graphic description of sexual intercourse, where as "lime" or "citrus" are respectively less graphic, constituting a continuum that allows users to restrict their own reading, or the reading of their children. "Lemonade," "limeade," "orange" and other derrivatives have been created to be even more specific, but the lemon/lime distinction holds the most sway for what constitutes a restricted text.
The creation of jargon and euphemisms to talk about such restrictions points to the existence of a discourse community and the concerns of that community. That such a wide selection of descriptive jargon has been created to aid users points to the users' knowledge of restriction, and their respect for it as a constituting element of their texts and community. While here I could expound on some of the other salient issues in the lemon/lime disctinction, including the constituting of a normalized sexuality, I will leave that for others to discuss. For a discussion of "slash" fiction (called so for the slash mark between gender pairings such as f/f, m/m, m/f and various other combinations) and its work, see Berg Nellis and Kelly Anne Colleen's forthcoming dissertation on the fan community of X files, "Making Sense of Television: Interpretive Community and 'The X-Files' Fan Forum. An Ethnographic Study."
Legal restrictions are also a necessary and defining element of fanfiction.

I'm going to stop here for a moment. It seems like a good place to stop. Plus, since the "apocalypse" hit Boston, I've been feeling lethargic, and the warm computer lab, the white noise of the heater above my head, the quiet chatter from the Writing Center, are all working together to make me want a nap. A lap around the building should clear my head.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Impromptu

Excuse the fluffy crap about to follow. Perhaps the snow froze my brain.
      I was talking to a student last night, as we all frantically prayed for a snow day (woohoo!), and I clicked on his profile and followed the links to his photography page. Wow. How beautiful. Go there now:
Ted's Photos


      Something about this reminded me that texts can be beautiful. And for just a second, I remembered why it's called a Master of Arts.


      That's not to say that theory isn't good, or that criticism shouldn't be done. Hell, no! Sometimes I just forget to appreciate it for what it is...unfortunately, we even have a theory for that....
      As I am not yet in that elusive writing space, I will not return to the Essay of Doom until I am passionate again. This could happen at any moment, but will most likely occur as I try to sleep after writing my paper for Thursday. Adrenaline must be fettered out. In the meantime, as I read Rhetorical Bodies, I come across an essay written sometime in 1998, which states, "Lately the World Wide Web [note his language here], the most powerful publishing technology ever created to distribute both words and images, has provoked an eruption of jeremiads about how the Web is destroying literacy as we conceive of it in the academy. We hear that critical thinking and reflection, a sense of order, dialectical interaction, logical relations in texts, depth of analysis, trails of sources, and the reform mission of public discourse [we have a mission?] are all going to be lost. Even those who take a more balanced view fear that the multimedia capability of the Web will undermine or overwhelm the power of prose" (Faigley, 175). Please note that five years later, I am quoting this on a web site entirely devoted to prose, and that images are limited on this website. Note that fanfics in all languages make up millions upon millions of webpages. And that even if these are not "ordered" or "logical" or necessarily "literate" (in the sense that it obeys social conventions of the use of English), the power of prose over the power of image is going strong in these websites. So there.


      So here's some beauty and truth (note the lack of capitalization) I did earlier, after anime. A little self-absorbed, the first of these refers to...well, actually, I'm not going to say. I'd hate for people at GBC to find this and blame me for their diminishing numbers. And I'm not promising anything on punctuation or grammar.

Leatherlips

it's at all the "we's" that I'm flinching
it's the feel of the pain under my nails that makes me whole
the cold snow breath smelling like winter leaves degrading
the fire stove baking hot chocolate down to skin
it's the cards damp and woody
it's the humid room and drying clothes
tossed on the floor in tears
it's the dimmed lights, the candle lit nights
the way our faces shaddow when we are most afraid of hell
it's the song master singing his weaknesses
it's the strings of his guitar that make me try to cry
I want to be a part of the weeping
I want to save my soul, but something keeps me back
steeped in the tradition, I note it now, cold
the full metal of the beds, cult-like arrangmenet--
arraignment of the criminal soul.
The lines we await for God in
that we find our turns in
the moist heat of the kitchen not drying our eyes
but normalizing the brightness of the overhead lights
To be transformed is to be in the snow
to join in love as with the football
escape to the cabins that expect grief
Here is the promise of truths told
here is the promise I broke
the black notebook
that they told me to destroy
The singular tension,
not enough breathing
nothing left to free me from the folding chairs.

      I think that was what Wordsworth meant when he did the whole "spontaneous overflow of emotion" thing. Not that I agree with anything of WW's arena. I'm just saying. "Even a broken chonometer gives the correct data twice per solar cycle." (Star Trek--Data)


      Here's another of my post-apocalyptic things. As Sharron said tonight, "Why is it people like you and me are so fascinated with shows about demons?" I know why I am...But I doubt everyone else sat through readings of Revelation as many times as I did. Oh well. Here's another one. Call it a vision. It's in the past tense.

Floor model

when all the feilds flashed cobalt for the last time
the sky opened to reveal
the circular nature of things
a gold ring
a sliver halo
to undo in a holy split
our grounded nickel earth

a certain time has passed again
enough to find what it means to end
and what it is between the beginnings
that ferrets new grasses
that eclipses new suns
that wakes us again
to find only one scar

      It made me feel good. Back to Rhetorical Bodies . This one is about how illiteracy (and illiterate people) have become constructed. There's even mention of the people of Appalachia....

Monday, January 24, 2005

The other end of text

Theory hurts brain. Must do something else. Must stop talking like HAL.
I submitted to some online poetry journals from WebDelSol (of which MidAmerican Review and other print journals are also a part) this weekend. There really seems to be a market now for prose poetry/flash fiction, and the more I do it, the more I like it. Here's one of the "new" ones I'm working on. Actually, it's a revision....And it's somewhere right between prose poetry and flash fiction, which is nice. It's, as the Mid American Review says, "A fineline" between pp and ff.
Truce

Each of them stands and her “because” falters, not with a long reach extended by the wrong side, but with daylight’s measure of their errors. Something like peace comes of this, and their wings grow out, erections carping freshly at half-joking door slams. They are home, still not looking directly at each other (their eyes are too dilated). Each of them stands: It has passed. The scent of Brazil refills this mean space and lets out a few survivors too directly, coated by capes of postwar elation.
Diesel engines announcing into the garage tell the band of merry men their ass is his . He pines over something, grins, begins a rate for them to follow, a pace to lead them to their background. In an ass-cold moment, his demeanor slips, he sits, indeed has a sailor’s sigh, shows her the mark of the tube at his wrist. The Because and the But fall to a robot’s ears, crisply ebonite in the parking lot. You (or I) rake a needle through the layer, where a tine scrapes all the crust off his heart. Shake hands and twist.

And another
Compromise

I drowned him soundly up there, while occupied with the muddled lovers and/or their photographs; she was riddling out the girls who believe on it, having an hour to doctor her quirks.
One of us, (opening our eyes, finally concerned,) sure of a movement from empty plots cooling, tips and paints boldly on the closed bowl what was a parish of enthusiastic smiles once, and makes neat little masters of them, all for me.
My numbness was shaken as you smiled. I would have had you care, as you worked out our next inference in notes. Once spotted, he was banged up, used, murmured about, his status stopped at the shoulders and ransomed.


Who the hell knows where this is going?
Even to the edge of doom where metaphors are. Even to call and demand "Bloom!" to the flowers at the altar splayed velvet there. Even to step lightly, to spew nightly the effects of the sun. Even to jump in the mud where melted snow was.
Inevetiably involves how the debate makes feeble mother's fears zenith. Even to bow low with the years, obsession, choice, and service is to hold yourself away from June--abdominals straining--and not mention wars, or, moreover, anything natural or permanent. Have we a thousand mesas to skirt? Have we money trees on the island?

Saturday, January 22, 2005

Essay of the Damned, Part II

Gerald once said something about entering the "writing space" and being unable to leave, giving that as his excuse for keeping me and Andrea long after the Wit meetings were over, feeding us theory like candy, which was good, since we hadn't eaten.


I was talking with Emma tonight about this essay, and realized just how big the topic is. And suddenly, in a spontaneous overflow of dry academia, I saw my dissertation. The chapters aligned themselves, the bibliography became manifest. And I immediately became frightened.


On with the show.
      MediaMiner.org, on the other hand, is devoted almost entirely to anime fandom, although Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings also appear on the series list. In addition to hosting fanfics, Mediminer allows users to upload fan rendered drawings based on anime/manga ("fanart"), to review and rate a series, and to participate in Role Playing Games (PRGs), in which participants of the game take turns writing paragraphs or scenes from "their" character's point of view. The RPG section has grown recently, due to new restrictions placed on the genres and types of fanfics allowed in the searchable database. Second person stories and "Create your own Adventure" (CYOA) stories were moved to the RPG section in the Fall of 2004. Notices on the home page in red alert users to this new restriction, and points them to the RPG forums for further information.
The rhetorical situation: Audience, Restrictions, Exigency
      In noting the volume of texts being produced from the originary text, and the available means of publication, I am already beginning to frame the rhetorical situation of fanfics. Bitzer used the term "rhetorical situation" to identify the elements that shape a piece of rhetoric. While he was thinking primarily of the texts studied by speech communication departments, his framework is also helpful here. If we take seriously the injunction of Kenneth Burke and Jacques Derrida (Eek! I couldn't avoid mentioning him!) that spoken and written texts differ little and should not be placed in heirarchies of "rhetoric" and "literature" or "speech" and "writing," Bitzer's three areas composing the "rhetorical situation" becomes applicable.
      Bitzer identifies what he calls "Exigency," "Audience," and "Constraints or Restrictions" to compose his understanding of Aristotle's "kairos," which Bitzer translates as "situation." To understand how fanfics are composed--and thus to understand their arguments and overall purpose--I will attempt to describe the rhetorical situation of the genre. I have already begun this task in my framing of the object of study for this essay: in defining "fanfic" I necessarily had to limit my scope to those pertaining to anime, and to those that are available to read via a searchable database. In order to narrow even further, I have already mentioned which types of fanfic I am concerned with: those legitimated by fanfiction.net and Mediaminer.org. This framing is fairly arbitrary, except to say that these are the texts that I am most familiar with, and are the most easily accessible.
      In invoking Bitzer's framework, I will also begin to touch on the second part of my essay, an analysis of the rhetorical moves of three specific fanfics. This is probably avoidable, but because the domain of fanfics is itself transitory and contingent on multiple overlapping factors, it is difficult to isolate what is "Rhetorical move" from what is "constrained by situation." Because some of the boundaries can only be unblurred by taking into account authorial intention, I will avoid making distinctions between my modes of analysis in those areas where proof of intent would be needed to clarify the motive behind the resulting text.
Exigence
      Perhaps one of Bitzer's most difficult categories to extrapolate into the literary arena is Exigence. While the exigence of a Presidential Inaugural Speech or newspaper article is fairly obvious, the need-fulfilling purpose of not just fanfics but of poems, short stories and novels, is not quite as clear. In the materially published literary arena, one could cite "financial gain" as exigence, or "fame" or "need to inform audience of their own world," the first of these being perhaps the easiest to understand in Bitzer's terms. Burke uses the term "attitude" to describe the purpose of literature--that is, to move the audience toward a certain attitude. "The Waste Land," then, would have the exigency of showing readers that their time is a time like no other, that the world is in trouble. It is difficult to talk about exigency, however, when literature, in general, is produced and written over longer periods of time than speeches and news copy.
      What need does fanfiction fill? What recurring social situation (to use the language of modern genre theorists) does it respond to? It would be easier to study the exigency of the production of specific texts who have specific authors than to make a statement about the exigency of the genre as a whole. What immediately comes to mind are recent studies on "fandom" and the psychology of those who participate in fan-related activities. Instead of giving an overview of those theories here, I believe the important aspects can be summed up using Barry Brummett's understanding of Burke's "representative anecdote," that some texts are written as ways of mediating social tensions. That entire genres exist to both alleviate some of the tension from the author's life--that is, to play out the situation and imagine solutions--and to give readers a road map to follow in their own lives. Fanfics remove the responsibility of creating an entire world-the originary text has already established parameters--and instead allow the writer and reader to project onto pre-set characters problems which then play themselves out in the resulting story. Because the originary text is one the fan is highly familiar with, and, being "fiction" is always/already more stabilized and predictable than the real world, fanfics provide a sense of comfort as well as creation: While there are already some constraints on the author before she even begins to write, the author can (and often does) create a fairly complex story line, introducing new characters (often based on friends or family of the author) and new relationships between them. The resulting texts are heavily descriptive and highly imaginative, since the author often must invent a way to let him or herself into the text without ignoring or revising the original.
      This is just one instance of exigency in fanfics. The exigencies of fandom itself are far too complex for this essay. I would suggest (without any other proof than my own experience) that there is, at this point in American culture, a desire to be in more contact with the originary text, to enter more fully into the discourse so as to completely be in communication (see Plato's "Phaedrus"). I will, however, leave that observation for others to study.
Audience
      My opening anecdote about my own experience becoming an audience member provides some basis for analyzing the audience members.


And...I can't do any more. I need sleep! Now that I've set up the structure, this should be fun!

Friday, January 21, 2005

Essay: Stuff I'm thinking about...

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Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Happy Birthday, Robert E Lee!

And you too, Mom.

Some drunken idiots last night were shouting. That, unfortunately, was not what kept me awake until 3:45.

No, let's go with Procrastination Consequences for that one.

And it'll be like this the rest of the semester. Oh, God. Rage, rage, against the coming of the light. Rage, rage, against the reading of the night.

The spots in my vision have become 3-D. If not for the threat of failing the comps, I'd go home and go rest. Instead, I am waiting for the meeting, waiting to undo the hegemony of meetings. We all want to. There will be leaders nonetheless, who will tell us what is important and what it means to be a student.

And what it means to drink yourself blind, like Milton, only he didn't drink. He just became blind.

A dozen varieties of the same paper, a dozen ways of teaching, of letting them drink from my brain, from my chi. The dantien is empty right now. Come back later.

I have gone to find myself, etc etc etc

They gave me my extra shot for free again today. Too bad it was just espresso.



Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Brain Freeze, Brain Fry

      Kate and I used to do this thing, when we thought the same thing at the same time. We'd touch index fingers and say "Brain freeze" then wiggle all of our fingers while making hissing noises, saying "Brain Fry."


That was before I called her Kate.



The night is only dim here
it's raw and constant
how the hours sllither in between the thoughts
that send much needed chills down my spine

      I drove Shuijuan past the bowling alley where we used to spend so much time, and no one asked questions. I could have sworn that it was less dingy then, but then of course, the awe of aging was robbed from me by my stupid brain, which immediately informed me that nostalgia and all forms of it are just different versions of some ideology meant to keep me from acting radically.


And thus the average epiphany was thwarted. I tried not to look at apartment 14, and instead remembered to be a good driver.



They ask me when the day is
it's when the silence isn't filled
when the harp stops pinging solidly
when the melancholy of the background music
fails to tingle in my gut


      I suppose there are worse things than missing out on epiphany. We talked about epiphany and Elizabeth Bishop in class, and I'm pretty sure we came to a conclusion that Bishop didn't believe in epiphanies, not as positive, life-directing moments. They can always cause you harm later, they can be merely constructs, they can make you move back to Boston.


      I got an email from Purdue on Friday, from a woman identifying herself as Jill. She told me my application was complete. She called me Amy, and signed it Jill. It was very warm, for a short, generic (of a genre) letter. I mean, email. I mean e-letter.


     Epiphanies are so rare these days, that I should appreciate the little ones. There is a woman in Indiana named Jill who wants to call me Amy.


The man said he saw Paul standing behind me
the heat waves off my thighs
in the middle of a phrase, the words shift
to something like mangoes, to cornucopias
to the science of fiction, the art of waiting
(It's not hard to master) to read the right line


      Sometimes I forget that those places still exist. Have I become the true New Englander, who can't see west beyond Foxboro? Can I live without public transportation? Even sucky public transportation like the T? Do I remember how to buy gas every week? What if everything outside of these eight blocks or so is actually just a bedtime story?


      Then again, stories matter, they always have. Or I wouldn't be doing this. It's not about Material Science. It's about Material Rhetoric, the stuff we live in.



Staring at black lines and platonic wisdom
Paul can stand behind me or beside me
when I turn out the lights and hate myself
for letting the sun come up so quietly
for not seeing the transition into dawn
When I crawl into my cave and shut my eyes
against the maddened crowd, against the material
of my wet washcloth that won't be dry by dusk.