Another Picture
This not much a post really. I took the photo you see a couple of weeks ago, but I have only just now got it uploaded on to my laptop. As the caption says, it is picture from the fourth floor of my office, a dank little dungeon like cave that I share with six other people. Trust me, it is not even as glamorous as I just described it. However, it is an office, and as such, a nice place to do some homewrok and grade some papers without being disturbed too much.
This is the view from my fourth floor office!
Lord help anyone who tries to study in the library. Even though everyone whispers, it is just too crowded during the middle of the day. Anyway, the two large victorian type buildings in the back are a ocuple of Greek houses, and the low squat building close to the front right are the local university slums, aka quads. Oh, and parking here is terrible. If you're not at school insanely early in the morning, you may as well go home and walk to school, because you're sure not going to find any parking, and it will likely take the same amount of time.
This is the view from my fourth floor office!
Lord help anyone who tries to study in the library. Even though everyone whispers, it is just too crowded during the middle of the day. Anyway, the two large victorian type buildings in the back are a ocuple of Greek houses, and the low squat building close to the front right are the local university slums, aka quads. Oh, and parking here is terrible. If you're not at school insanely early in the morning, you may as well go home and walk to school, because you're sure not going to find any parking, and it will likely take the same amount of time.
30 May 2004
Patusan
Okay I have read the rest of the book (Lord Jim), and the events are a little more clear now. First, I should say that Jim did not go to trial separate from the other crew. The German captain was also tried and found guilty. The consequences of their actions resulted in the loss of the licenses that allows them to be merchant marine officers. Therefore, Jim is not distinguished from the other crew members. The narrator, Charlie Marlow, concerns himself primarily with Jim's character because he wants to solve "the problem" of Jim's character and find out what makes him think the way he does. The question is important for Marlow because he frequently mentions how Jim was "one of us." Here is my best summation, and interpretation of what happens next:
The interesting connection here for me is the fact that the people he abandoned on the Patna and the people of Patusan are all Muslim. In the first instance, Jim left them to die what he assumed would be a certain death. In the second instance, he defends the Muslims against the whites and faces a death that he feels he should have faced on the Patna. This may be why Jim feels him must face the chief, rather than escape. It is romantic because he must think it courageous to face death, especially over an issue of honor: he must think it is honorable to account for his role in the chief's loss.
Of course, it should be remembered that throughout this novel are most of the 19th century prejudiced assumptions about race combined with their belief in the inherent superiority of white western peoples. For me, that Jim becomes a local god among the natives smacks of the insidious paternalism that is one of the disgusting features of racism; this kind of thinking goes along the lines of, "These people are such children. Obviously, they need my help." Of course, while the novel, or Marlow as the narrator, may suggest that Jim is helping the natives acheive success until the moment the chief's son is killed, what Jim is really doing is using the native for his own purposes. He is absolving himself of the guilt he feels. Like Ophelia says, he is no hero.
Jim, devastated by the loss of his license, and the knowledge that he acted cowardly in the Patna incident, take various jobs working on behalf of shipping companies. However, he only works at these jobs until the point people discover his involvement in the Patna episode, upon which he leaves for another port to find another job. These series of exiles continue until, ironically, everyone seems to know about his past making it impossible to run away from it anymore.The implication throughout all of this is that Jim's basic problem is that he is a romantic. He persecutes himself over the Patna episode and exiles himself from Western Society. It is his sense of Romance that impels him to send the pirates away rather than kill them outright. And it is his sense of romance that leads him to face the chief at the end of the story, where he might know (I'm not sure) that he will be killed. Jewel accuses him of knowingly leaving her, and in a sense, he does.
At this point, Marlow intervenes and finds Jim a job with shipping company run by a mysterious man named Stein. Stein appoints Jim to a post on the Island of Patusan, an island inhabited by the previous company representative, a Portuguese man named Cornelius, and the native inhabitants--South Pacific Islanders who, thanks to an Arab foreigner, are apparently all Muslim. Jim distinguishes himself to such an extent that he becomes the virtual King of the Island. He, with the blessing of a particular chief, makes war on the other villages and succeeds in uniting the Island under his rule. As one of the only white men on the Island, Jim attains a mythic, almost God-like status among the villagers. And of course, Cornelius has a daughter that falls in love with Jim, so Jim takes her for his native wife. Jim names her Jewel.
Jim, living in this Island as a virtual King and God, seems to have escaped the humiliation of his past. Until, one day, when pirates show up and start killing people. The tribes turn to Jim for help, so Jim arranges for the pirates to leave without a fight through negotiation. But the pirates, jealous of Jim's power and stung at having been repulsed by mere villagers, seek revenge. Before they leave, the pirates attack a native outpost killing the chief's son. The chief, horrified and disconsolate, now knowing that Jim is not some kind of super-being, kills Jim as a kind of retribution. End of novel.
The interesting connection here for me is the fact that the people he abandoned on the Patna and the people of Patusan are all Muslim. In the first instance, Jim left them to die what he assumed would be a certain death. In the second instance, he defends the Muslims against the whites and faces a death that he feels he should have faced on the Patna. This may be why Jim feels him must face the chief, rather than escape. It is romantic because he must think it courageous to face death, especially over an issue of honor: he must think it is honorable to account for his role in the chief's loss.
Of course, it should be remembered that throughout this novel are most of the 19th century prejudiced assumptions about race combined with their belief in the inherent superiority of white western peoples. For me, that Jim becomes a local god among the natives smacks of the insidious paternalism that is one of the disgusting features of racism; this kind of thinking goes along the lines of, "These people are such children. Obviously, they need my help." Of course, while the novel, or Marlow as the narrator, may suggest that Jim is helping the natives acheive success until the moment the chief's son is killed, what Jim is really doing is using the native for his own purposes. He is absolving himself of the guilt he feels. Like Ophelia says, he is no hero.
The Patna
I'm halfway through Lord Jim, Joseph Conrad's ambiguous novel about the exploits of Jim, a sailor experiencing shame and remorse for his actions aboard the Patna. I say ambiguous because it is rather uncertain what he has done to feel so ashamed about. Here's what I think I know so far:
However, why Jim faces trial separate from the other men is a little confusing to me. From what I understand, the other crew is just a guilty as he is. If it is because he took another man's place in the life boat because he was scared, I don't see why he should face trial for that. The real trial seems to be in Jim's own mind. He, rather than being a hero, convicts himself of being a coward because he thought of himself first, and did not do anything to prevent what he assumed would be the assured death of 800 human beings. I'll finish the rest of the book tonight. However, if anyone has any comments or opinions that would clarify this situation, I'd greatly appreciate it.
Jim is a mate on the ship Patna, transporting approximately 800 Muslim pilgrims to Mecca. While in the red sea, they hear a bang, and Jim investigates. He finds a large bulge in the bulk head an immediately knows that the ship is going to sink. What's more, he knows that they do not have nearly enough life boats for the amount of people currently on board. The "white" crew members, including the German captain, scramble to release the life boats without the pilgrims waking up. Jim, who has delusions about being a hero, jumps into one of the lifeboats, but he is taking the place of another white man who has already had a heart-attack, and so is dead, but Jim doesn't know this.(I'm not sure why it is wrong for him to jump in the lifeboat with other crew, aside from the fact he is leaving 800 people to die on the ship, but then so is the rest of the crew. The reason it appears to be bad is because he took the other man's place.)
Suddenly, a storm comes upon them, and the frantic scrambling to get off the boat becomes more frantic because the crew, Jim especially, knows that a swell will sink the boat for sure. However, even though the white crew members see the lights go out on the ship and tell themselves that the Patna has sunk, a French ship comes upon the boat and tugs it to harbor. Jim faces trial for some reason.
However, why Jim faces trial separate from the other men is a little confusing to me. From what I understand, the other crew is just a guilty as he is. If it is because he took another man's place in the life boat because he was scared, I don't see why he should face trial for that. The real trial seems to be in Jim's own mind. He, rather than being a hero, convicts himself of being a coward because he thought of himself first, and did not do anything to prevent what he assumed would be the assured death of 800 human beings. I'll finish the rest of the book tonight. However, if anyone has any comments or opinions that would clarify this situation, I'd greatly appreciate it.
29 May 2004
Recovery
Yesterday afternoon, the police called to say that they found my car. They asked if I could meet them where my car was found in fifteen minutes. They said that I would be able to avoid the towing fees that would be applied for an impound if I could be there quickly. The previous night, I had spent about an hour regretting the loss of my car and wondering if there was anything I could have done. I no longer wished for vengeance like I had in the previous post. I didn't want to drive a loaner car. And I didn't want to have deal with the increased insurance fees that certainly accrue. I simply missed my car.
My heart jolted hearing that it had been found. Since I was already working on the computer and was already on the internet, I surfed over to Yahoo Maps and found the address that the cops indicated where I would find my car. It was less than three blocks away in the parking lot of another apartment complex. When I got there, there were two cop cars and four officers standing around laughing about something. I approached them.
One of the officers was the same guy who took the initial report on Friday morning, Officer G-----. Officer G----- asked me if the car sitting in the corner of the lot was mine. There it was. It was in the furthest lot away from the road, completely out of sight behind a fenced-in garbage bin. Another car parked next to it had the passenger side window broken out of it and covered with plastic. I identified my car for Officer G----- and inspected the inside of it. Although the inside of the car was a mess, the result of the thieves searching for something of value (and not finding anything), nothing appeared to have been stolen or damaged. Even the change in the ashtray remained. "What'd I tell you," officer G---- smiled, "I knew we'd find it intact." He was also right about it still being in the neighborhood. He said that on Friday when he took the report.
When the other cop car pulled away, and me and Officer G----- went over to his car to fill out another evidence report. I asked him if he knew who took it. He said that he didn't. I signed the report, a copy of which he gave me this time, started my car, and left. About an hour and a half later, feeling curious, I returned to lot to inspect the apartment buildings surrounding the area. I saw that there was still a police car in the lot. Maybe the thieves were still around. Not wanting to get too much more involved, I left--this time for good.
I spent about a half hour driving my car and wondering what I should do next. My girlfriend says that it really does not make much sense to invest in any security features because it is unlikely that the car will be stolen twice (relying, of course, on probability). Furthermore, any investment on my car should be applied towards making it run better. I'd really like to have a trunk monkey, but a nicely worded letter would get about as much return as anything else.
I guess I still feel pretty weird about the whole episode. It turned my weekend upside down, and now I realize that I'll always worry about my car being stolen. I also realize that there may never be any answers or explanations for why this has happened. I can speculate that it was one guy or two, that it was fraternity prank, or desperate action of a hungry, homeless man. I can waste time guessing, but I have to admit that I may never know who did it or why. As I have already called my insurance company, there'll be more on this situation later.
My heart jolted hearing that it had been found. Since I was already working on the computer and was already on the internet, I surfed over to Yahoo Maps and found the address that the cops indicated where I would find my car. It was less than three blocks away in the parking lot of another apartment complex. When I got there, there were two cop cars and four officers standing around laughing about something. I approached them.
One of the officers was the same guy who took the initial report on Friday morning, Officer G-----. Officer G----- asked me if the car sitting in the corner of the lot was mine. There it was. It was in the furthest lot away from the road, completely out of sight behind a fenced-in garbage bin. Another car parked next to it had the passenger side window broken out of it and covered with plastic. I identified my car for Officer G----- and inspected the inside of it. Although the inside of the car was a mess, the result of the thieves searching for something of value (and not finding anything), nothing appeared to have been stolen or damaged. Even the change in the ashtray remained. "What'd I tell you," officer G---- smiled, "I knew we'd find it intact." He was also right about it still being in the neighborhood. He said that on Friday when he took the report.
When the other cop car pulled away, and me and Officer G----- went over to his car to fill out another evidence report. I asked him if he knew who took it. He said that he didn't. I signed the report, a copy of which he gave me this time, started my car, and left. About an hour and a half later, feeling curious, I returned to lot to inspect the apartment buildings surrounding the area. I saw that there was still a police car in the lot. Maybe the thieves were still around. Not wanting to get too much more involved, I left--this time for good.
I spent about a half hour driving my car and wondering what I should do next. My girlfriend says that it really does not make much sense to invest in any security features because it is unlikely that the car will be stolen twice (relying, of course, on probability). Furthermore, any investment on my car should be applied towards making it run better. I'd really like to have a trunk monkey, but a nicely worded letter would get about as much return as anything else.
Dear Mr. Thief,
If you steal this car again, I will pee on your cornflakes and shave off your eyebrows. Don't think it won't happen. Me and the Dali Lama are surveilling this alleyway, and while I know kung fu, he can shoot lasers out of his eyeballs. Plus, he turns green when he's angry. You wouldn't like him when he's angry.
I guess I still feel pretty weird about the whole episode. It turned my weekend upside down, and now I realize that I'll always worry about my car being stolen. I also realize that there may never be any answers or explanations for why this has happened. I can speculate that it was one guy or two, that it was fraternity prank, or desperate action of a hungry, homeless man. I can waste time guessing, but I have to admit that I may never know who did it or why. As I have already called my insurance company, there'll be more on this situation later.
24 May 2004
Stolen!
Last night, sometime between 6:00 p.m. and 7:00 a.m., my car was stolen. It's rather hard to believe that someone wants a fifteen year old car that runs like a lawnmower in a rock quarry, but there it is--or isn't I guess I should say. (According to this website, my make of car is the third most frequently stolen, and so is the year, and the color. Third place all around! Here's fun, try a find if your car is on the list! Yay! I kind of wish I knew this beforehand.)
Initially, I was stunned and stood stupidly looking for it in the gravel lot where it had been parked. Although I feel I am a rational person, I had to admit that I felt some initial self-doubt. Could I really trust myself that I had parked where I said I did? Did I drive home yesterday, or did I take the bus? Slowly, the details came back to me. No, I remember checking to make sure that I locked it, even circling the car to check the doors.
When I called the police, I said: "I can't find my car." The shock had not yet sunk in. They, being used to the bad behaviour of individuals, quickly helped me realize that it was stolen, and not merely missing or inadvertantly towed. Apparently, there's a State (or city?) database that tracks all of the tows that had been made within a certain period. If it had been towed, then they would know. My car was not on that list.
They said they were sending an officer over to talk to me. It took forever for the cops to show up, like they always do when you've been the victim or witness to something like this. While I waited, I tried shutting out the rest of the world so I could grasp the reality of my stolen car. It was hard for me to concentrate on other things. Consequently, I needed to go back inside my apartment and sit on the couch.
When the cop arrived, he introduced himself and asked if he could have a seat. "How are you doing today, sir?" he said. "I've had better days" was my depressed reply. He sat at the kitchen table and began filling out a form (a police report?) that was on goldenrod paper. I gave him my identifying information and my driver's license. He asked: "Does anyone have permission to drive your car?" Immediately, I thought of a COPs show scenario where they have pulled over some guy in stolen car who is mildly complaining that he was a "friend" of mine and I gave him permission to drive the car. He asked me if there was anything distinguishing about the car, and I told him that I couldn't think of anything off-hand. (I should have said something like: "Distinguishing how? You mean other than the fact that it is fifteen-year-old piece of crap?")
He asked me for the VIN#; I couldn't find my title, and the theif, of course, had my registration. Fortunately, I dug up my insurance policy which had some information on it. I sat at the table and listened to the cop tell me stories about how they almost always recover the car. This was heartening. "I personally," he said, "found twenty four cars myself. There was a car stolen from a lot near here that we found just recently." I asked him how long he thought it might take to find my car. It seemed a reasonably, if overly hopeful, question to ask at the time. He said, "You can't tell. I could drive out of here right now and find it in five minutes." He said that many times theives don't drive the ill-gotten cars very far, perhaps only a few miles or just a few blocks.
After more clear-headed reflection, I realized that I unconsciously supposed that the cop was going to automatically fix the situation and that my car would magically return by his very presence. I wanted, needed, to believe him about recovering the cars--and partially, I did. Of course after he left, I realized that he did not leave a copy of the police report, nor did he leave a business card. Hell, I didn't even know his name. I took this as evidence of the fact that such happenings are routine for him, and his offered assurances were perhaps more mechanical than genuine.
And then, once the cop was gone, I was left with the decision about what I should do for the rest of the day. Obviously, I was going to have to call my insurance company and make some kind of claim. And obviously, I was going to have to call the Police department for the police report. Once I had time to think more clearly, I recognized that there were a lot of others things I could have told the cop about my car--there are scratches on the windshield from the time I tried to shovel snow off the front it with a broken shovel, there are student parking stickers on the bumper, there are (as my girlfriend reminded me) a couple of ancient and petrified french fries underneath the seats. My decision was that I was going to do what I originally planned on doing. There's nothing else I really could do.
I'm still angry about this (although not as strongly as this morning when I first discovered my car was gone.) I should have the right to park in any legal space. Hell, I should have the right to park in an illegal space with the expectation that I'll be fined heavily and towed, but that my car will not be stolen. Although not much money to some, I paid about $6000 dollars for that car. I spent countless hours working at a job I hate to get it.
Briefly, I had a contradictory feelings: I want to get my car back, and I somehow want my car to rise up against them. Will the steering go out at a critical moment, or perhaps the brakes will stop working. If they use as a getaway car for a crime, perhaps the car will not start when they are trying to effect an escape. Mostly, I suppose I really want justice. I want whoever did this to stand trial, and if proven guilty, to go to jail. I want them to feel bad about taking something that wasn't theirs. So far, I've decided to take meager consolation from the fact that along with my car, they've also stolen a couple of ancient french fries and an empty McDonald's bag. It's not much, but it's the only thing I've got at the moment.
Initially, I was stunned and stood stupidly looking for it in the gravel lot where it had been parked. Although I feel I am a rational person, I had to admit that I felt some initial self-doubt. Could I really trust myself that I had parked where I said I did? Did I drive home yesterday, or did I take the bus? Slowly, the details came back to me. No, I remember checking to make sure that I locked it, even circling the car to check the doors.
When I called the police, I said: "I can't find my car." The shock had not yet sunk in. They, being used to the bad behaviour of individuals, quickly helped me realize that it was stolen, and not merely missing or inadvertantly towed. Apparently, there's a State (or city?) database that tracks all of the tows that had been made within a certain period. If it had been towed, then they would know. My car was not on that list.
They said they were sending an officer over to talk to me. It took forever for the cops to show up, like they always do when you've been the victim or witness to something like this. While I waited, I tried shutting out the rest of the world so I could grasp the reality of my stolen car. It was hard for me to concentrate on other things. Consequently, I needed to go back inside my apartment and sit on the couch.
When the cop arrived, he introduced himself and asked if he could have a seat. "How are you doing today, sir?" he said. "I've had better days" was my depressed reply. He sat at the kitchen table and began filling out a form (a police report?) that was on goldenrod paper. I gave him my identifying information and my driver's license. He asked: "Does anyone have permission to drive your car?" Immediately, I thought of a COPs show scenario where they have pulled over some guy in stolen car who is mildly complaining that he was a "friend" of mine and I gave him permission to drive the car. He asked me if there was anything distinguishing about the car, and I told him that I couldn't think of anything off-hand. (I should have said something like: "Distinguishing how? You mean other than the fact that it is fifteen-year-old piece of crap?")
He asked me for the VIN#; I couldn't find my title, and the theif, of course, had my registration. Fortunately, I dug up my insurance policy which had some information on it. I sat at the table and listened to the cop tell me stories about how they almost always recover the car. This was heartening. "I personally," he said, "found twenty four cars myself. There was a car stolen from a lot near here that we found just recently." I asked him how long he thought it might take to find my car. It seemed a reasonably, if overly hopeful, question to ask at the time. He said, "You can't tell. I could drive out of here right now and find it in five minutes." He said that many times theives don't drive the ill-gotten cars very far, perhaps only a few miles or just a few blocks.
After more clear-headed reflection, I realized that I unconsciously supposed that the cop was going to automatically fix the situation and that my car would magically return by his very presence. I wanted, needed, to believe him about recovering the cars--and partially, I did. Of course after he left, I realized that he did not leave a copy of the police report, nor did he leave a business card. Hell, I didn't even know his name. I took this as evidence of the fact that such happenings are routine for him, and his offered assurances were perhaps more mechanical than genuine.
And then, once the cop was gone, I was left with the decision about what I should do for the rest of the day. Obviously, I was going to have to call my insurance company and make some kind of claim. And obviously, I was going to have to call the Police department for the police report. Once I had time to think more clearly, I recognized that there were a lot of others things I could have told the cop about my car--there are scratches on the windshield from the time I tried to shovel snow off the front it with a broken shovel, there are student parking stickers on the bumper, there are (as my girlfriend reminded me) a couple of ancient and petrified french fries underneath the seats. My decision was that I was going to do what I originally planned on doing. There's nothing else I really could do.
I'm still angry about this (although not as strongly as this morning when I first discovered my car was gone.) I should have the right to park in any legal space. Hell, I should have the right to park in an illegal space with the expectation that I'll be fined heavily and towed, but that my car will not be stolen. Although not much money to some, I paid about $6000 dollars for that car. I spent countless hours working at a job I hate to get it.
Briefly, I had a contradictory feelings: I want to get my car back, and I somehow want my car to rise up against them. Will the steering go out at a critical moment, or perhaps the brakes will stop working. If they use as a getaway car for a crime, perhaps the car will not start when they are trying to effect an escape. Mostly, I suppose I really want justice. I want whoever did this to stand trial, and if proven guilty, to go to jail. I want them to feel bad about taking something that wasn't theirs. So far, I've decided to take meager consolation from the fact that along with my car, they've also stolen a couple of ancient french fries and an empty McDonald's bag. It's not much, but it's the only thing I've got at the moment.
21 May 2004
Conference Notes
Today, I am attending a conference at the University called "Subjects and Objects." The purpose of which is to explore how critic's perceptions, biases, and assumptions come into play when they are examining some kind of text. Of course, a text can be defined in any number of ways, and so too, for that matter, a subject. Before, I mentioned a critic, but you can apparently replace critic with "society" or, as some people want to do, even an "animal." Much of the discussion has been laden with the kind of critical jargon that the field of English scholarship has become infamous for. The new word I learned today is "hypermediated." Anyone care to guess what that means?
However, this is not to say that I haven't learned some interesting things here. First of all, I am apparently the last person to hear of Nikki S. Lee. Calling herself a performance artist, she lives with a particular group of people, learning as much about them as possible through immersion in their "culture." (I want to say sub-culture, but after this conference, or careful thinking, you have to ask yourself: who defines the "sub" part? or who even gets to say what "culture" is?) At some point, she then relinquishes the camera to another person within her chosen group and has her picture taken with them. She is both the subject and the object of her own work. Check out these pictures of her work from the web. It took me a minute to figure out that the old woman was her in the senior series. I'm still not sure what to think about her projects. Is this somehow unethical?
The other interesting thing that I heard, and I'll have to be brief because the conference is going to start again soon, is someone make a comparison between the torture pictures from Abu Ghraib prison and the lynching photographs that were taken in the old south. Both illustrate the dehumanization of the tortured, both have a sexualized and violent element, and both show exultant abusers seeming to glory in the act. I think it would be a good way for this to be discussed in the media. If the torture photographs from Iraq were compared with the lynching photographs of America's past on the six o'clock news, I don't think that there would be any more room for the apologists of the war to say that this torture occurring now is somehow justified.
However, this is not to say that I haven't learned some interesting things here. First of all, I am apparently the last person to hear of Nikki S. Lee. Calling herself a performance artist, she lives with a particular group of people, learning as much about them as possible through immersion in their "culture." (I want to say sub-culture, but after this conference, or careful thinking, you have to ask yourself: who defines the "sub" part? or who even gets to say what "culture" is?) At some point, she then relinquishes the camera to another person within her chosen group and has her picture taken with them. She is both the subject and the object of her own work. Check out these pictures of her work from the web. It took me a minute to figure out that the old woman was her in the senior series. I'm still not sure what to think about her projects. Is this somehow unethical?
The other interesting thing that I heard, and I'll have to be brief because the conference is going to start again soon, is someone make a comparison between the torture pictures from Abu Ghraib prison and the lynching photographs that were taken in the old south. Both illustrate the dehumanization of the tortured, both have a sexualized and violent element, and both show exultant abusers seeming to glory in the act. I think it would be a good way for this to be discussed in the media. If the torture photographs from Iraq were compared with the lynching photographs of America's past on the six o'clock news, I don't think that there would be any more room for the apologists of the war to say that this torture occurring now is somehow justified.
15 May 2004
The Tables Have Turned
I suppose that I have no right to complain. After all, this is probably just a taste of my own medicine. What the heck am I talking about? Keep reading.
Not many people know that I have had to take incompletes for the first courses I took in graduate school. It wasn't something that I sought out, but rather a necessary consequence of the difficult adjustments that I was undergoing during that time. I know that I have a tendency to lament the amount of work that I typically have to do for school. However, the first term really was a bit of a shock. Fortunately, I was able to finish up one of the incompletes last term. Now, there is only one other left.
But, time is getting short. I absolutely must have this incomplete resolved in the next three weeks. Add to this project, which is a full-blown seminar paper, I have two other seminar papers due within the same time frame--papers that will require a staggering amount of research and work in the next couple of weeks.
So what about today? Today, I was to receive the rough draft of my seminar paper for the course that is still incomplete. However, when I met with him during his assigned office hours, the professor admitted to me that he did not have it done. Despite his promise to read it, despite his assurances that he would have it ready for me last week, despite our other conversations about how necessary it is for me to finish this up--he did not have it done. He said that it was still sitting on his desk at home.
His explanation was that his wife has just recently had a baby within the last two months and that he has been busy assisting with the kid. It is very easy to see that he is a happy father, a proverbial "proud papa." I understand this. I have turned in too many late papers to frustrated professors not to know how life can sometimes reach up and smack you in the face sometimes.
And yet, it is hard not to feel increasingly apprehensive about the prospect of getting this paper completed in the next couple of weeks. I sincerely hope he follows through with his promise to conduct an e-mail appointment with me over the weekend. If not, I'm afraid I'll have find out where he lives and call him at home. Not quite the proper protocol for a grad student, but, hey--I'm getting desperate here.
Not many people know that I have had to take incompletes for the first courses I took in graduate school. It wasn't something that I sought out, but rather a necessary consequence of the difficult adjustments that I was undergoing during that time. I know that I have a tendency to lament the amount of work that I typically have to do for school. However, the first term really was a bit of a shock. Fortunately, I was able to finish up one of the incompletes last term. Now, there is only one other left.
But, time is getting short. I absolutely must have this incomplete resolved in the next three weeks. Add to this project, which is a full-blown seminar paper, I have two other seminar papers due within the same time frame--papers that will require a staggering amount of research and work in the next couple of weeks.
So what about today? Today, I was to receive the rough draft of my seminar paper for the course that is still incomplete. However, when I met with him during his assigned office hours, the professor admitted to me that he did not have it done. Despite his promise to read it, despite his assurances that he would have it ready for me last week, despite our other conversations about how necessary it is for me to finish this up--he did not have it done. He said that it was still sitting on his desk at home.
His explanation was that his wife has just recently had a baby within the last two months and that he has been busy assisting with the kid. It is very easy to see that he is a happy father, a proverbial "proud papa." I understand this. I have turned in too many late papers to frustrated professors not to know how life can sometimes reach up and smack you in the face sometimes.
And yet, it is hard not to feel increasingly apprehensive about the prospect of getting this paper completed in the next couple of weeks. I sincerely hope he follows through with his promise to conduct an e-mail appointment with me over the weekend. If not, I'm afraid I'll have find out where he lives and call him at home. Not quite the proper protocol for a grad student, but, hey--I'm getting desperate here.
13 May 2004
Photographs!
Hey, I finally figured it out. Thanks to the new redesign of Blogger, my long hoped for dream of publishing pictures on blogger have finally come true. Of course, I don't really have any decent pictures to publish. The only thing I have is a photoshopped image I made over the Christmas school break of Rick James and what I like to call, ahem, a cool cat. While the picture may be something ridiculously mundane or plain silly, the fact that I can even put one up is beyond cool.
Rick James remains, for me anyway, a cool cat.
Posted by Hello
Of course, now the challenge will be to find my own appropriate imagery, maybe even invest in a cheapo digital camera that has been the object of lust by my technologically inclined heart. I will remain a blogging hobbyist, even though I loathe the word, but at least my site can now have the dignity of imagery. As weird as those images may be.
Rick James remains, for me anyway, a cool cat.
Posted by Hello
Of course, now the challenge will be to find my own appropriate imagery, maybe even invest in a cheapo digital camera that has been the object of lust by my technologically inclined heart. I will remain a blogging hobbyist, even though I loathe the word, but at least my site can now have the dignity of imagery. As weird as those images may be.
12 May 2004
Lessons and Lessened
The internet is not just a place for e-mail, instant message, news, or culture. It has it dark places too--the least of which, but probably the most familiar, is the presence is pornography. It is these other places that I worry about most. Adults, who take seriously the ability to think critically and be responsible members of society, absolutely must decide what they stand for, so they can make decisions about their own morality.
One of the darker sides of the Internet revealed itself with the web broadcasting on Tuesday of the horrific killing of an American contractor in Baghdad. Although I am consciously, and very deliberatively, abstaining from the too-often-poisonous political rhetoric that infects public discussion of the war, I feel I must add my voice to the others who have near-universally condemned this barbarity. No-one, regardless of politics, or even previous atrocities, should have to die this way. The torture (not abuse) of Iraqi soldiers is reprehensible, but so is the killing of hostages. The colloquialism holds up: two wrongs do not make a right.
What has perturbed me today are the various sites--sites which I will not even refer to in the slightest way--that are mirroring the graphic video. While surfing on a particular site and reading the usual political commentary surrounding this tragic event, I was shocked to discover that people, primarily young men, have rooted out the footage and are seeing for themselves. And there are more than a few places that are hosting this, for lack of a better word, satanic video.
Aside from a few individuals infected by a diseased love for violence, there are some people who argue that the footage needs to be seen, that we must be a witness to happens in war, so once everyone is sickened by these atrocities, society will change for the better.
I disagree.
While it is sometimes necessary to be a witness to violent acts--such as the brutal effects of war on society, famines caused by greed or embargoes, or genocidal acts like the Killing Fields in Cambodia, Germany, and Rwanda--it is not necessary to see these kind of acts for the healing light of public exposure to root out the perpetrators of such acts, and so that justice can be fair but not willfully ignorant or blind.
Justice should be the primary motivating purpose here. Was it justice for the allies in World War Two to reveal the previously hidden genocide against the Jews, which was perpetrated by the Nazis? Did we need to expose the brutality of those acts to a disbelieving global public? Yes, I believe it was. Would it serve justice to see this footage of the American’s death? No, I do not believe it would be.
I will not see the video now or ever.
I am making a choice based on my own sense of morality, which is derived from my own sense of justice. This is precisely what I am arguing everyone on the Internet must do, right now. You don’t want to be the person who stumbles into one of these dark corners of the Internet and see this video, piqued by your curiosity, not thinking of the consequences. There are some things that you can not un-see. Take seriously the words of an individual who, by his own confession in the public comments of the site I mentioned, has watched it: “I am lessened for having seen it.”
One of the darker sides of the Internet revealed itself with the web broadcasting on Tuesday of the horrific killing of an American contractor in Baghdad. Although I am consciously, and very deliberatively, abstaining from the too-often-poisonous political rhetoric that infects public discussion of the war, I feel I must add my voice to the others who have near-universally condemned this barbarity. No-one, regardless of politics, or even previous atrocities, should have to die this way. The torture (not abuse) of Iraqi soldiers is reprehensible, but so is the killing of hostages. The colloquialism holds up: two wrongs do not make a right.
What has perturbed me today are the various sites--sites which I will not even refer to in the slightest way--that are mirroring the graphic video. While surfing on a particular site and reading the usual political commentary surrounding this tragic event, I was shocked to discover that people, primarily young men, have rooted out the footage and are seeing for themselves. And there are more than a few places that are hosting this, for lack of a better word, satanic video.
Aside from a few individuals infected by a diseased love for violence, there are some people who argue that the footage needs to be seen, that we must be a witness to happens in war, so once everyone is sickened by these atrocities, society will change for the better.
I disagree.
While it is sometimes necessary to be a witness to violent acts--such as the brutal effects of war on society, famines caused by greed or embargoes, or genocidal acts like the Killing Fields in Cambodia, Germany, and Rwanda--it is not necessary to see these kind of acts for the healing light of public exposure to root out the perpetrators of such acts, and so that justice can be fair but not willfully ignorant or blind.
Justice should be the primary motivating purpose here. Was it justice for the allies in World War Two to reveal the previously hidden genocide against the Jews, which was perpetrated by the Nazis? Did we need to expose the brutality of those acts to a disbelieving global public? Yes, I believe it was. Would it serve justice to see this footage of the American’s death? No, I do not believe it would be.
I will not see the video now or ever.
I am making a choice based on my own sense of morality, which is derived from my own sense of justice. This is precisely what I am arguing everyone on the Internet must do, right now. You don’t want to be the person who stumbles into one of these dark corners of the Internet and see this video, piqued by your curiosity, not thinking of the consequences. There are some things that you can not un-see. Take seriously the words of an individual who, by his own confession in the public comments of the site I mentioned, has watched it: “I am lessened for having seen it.”
Rain and Architecture
Rain. Nothing but rain all day, but it fits my mood lately. After class today, I intended to turn in some paperwork to the administration building. But once at the front counter, after a ten minute walk across campus, I discovered that I forgot the paperwork I needed, which was still on my desk. I had accidently left it there this morning. Consequently, I ate a brief, and unhealthy, lunch on that side of town.
As it was raining hard, drenching the grimy sidewalks and flooding the barkdust surrounding the school's decorative irises, when it came time to walk back, I decided I would make my way through the other buildings. Normally, I would have stuck the sidewalks. I wish I had the expendable income for a decent digital camera and a reliable image host because I would post my impressions of the walk on this blog--perhaps one day. I discovered that I work in probably the most ugly building on campus. Some of the entry ways of these other buildings are truly beautiful, and most have an inner courtyard that looks really inviting. Also, there is a character in the older buildings that is entirely missing from the 60's disaster where I am currently ensconced.
Now, I am stationed in my office where I will spend the better part of the evening. With the exception of meeting some English 104 students who are unhappy with their grades, most of what I have planned for tonight is reading and grading mid-terms from the aforementioned class. But to prevent dullness of spirit and my eyes from glazing over, I think I will take another walk before it gets dark. Probably around dinner-time.
As it was raining hard, drenching the grimy sidewalks and flooding the barkdust surrounding the school's decorative irises, when it came time to walk back, I decided I would make my way through the other buildings. Normally, I would have stuck the sidewalks. I wish I had the expendable income for a decent digital camera and a reliable image host because I would post my impressions of the walk on this blog--perhaps one day. I discovered that I work in probably the most ugly building on campus. Some of the entry ways of these other buildings are truly beautiful, and most have an inner courtyard that looks really inviting. Also, there is a character in the older buildings that is entirely missing from the 60's disaster where I am currently ensconced.
Now, I am stationed in my office where I will spend the better part of the evening. With the exception of meeting some English 104 students who are unhappy with their grades, most of what I have planned for tonight is reading and grading mid-terms from the aforementioned class. But to prevent dullness of spirit and my eyes from glazing over, I think I will take another walk before it gets dark. Probably around dinner-time.
10 May 2004
Re-visions and Returns
More than ten years ago, I worked at a factory that made printed circuit boards. The quick summary on that long story is I hated it, but didn't think that I had much opportunity to do anything else. I now consider it my first introduction to how the class system works in this country, but back then I saw it as a certain type of fate. The one good memory that I have of the place is when me and few of my coworkers, also working-class grunts, went out in the parking lot at two a.m. to get a good look at comet hyakutake. It was bright, the tail was long, the break from the horrendous work we were doing was refreshing, and the fact that the comet shone against the stars over a darkened field of tall grasses and weeds made the experience memorable.
But, as I mentioned before, the work was terrible. Twelve hour days, low pay, and frequent exposure to harsh chemicals and the occasional x-ray, which is above and beyond the petty office politics that must occur in every job, was an angle grinder on my soul. The prospect of it continuing felt like a condemnation. To adopt the discourse of recovery, I "had a moment of clarity" when I was hanging half out of chemical etcher scraping out the organic residue that grew like a grimy ring in a bathtub. The hydrochloric acid seeped into my gloves and stung my skin, the gas mask made it hot and difficult to breath and also cut into my neck. And being on my knees for about an hour, half bent over the lip of the machine made my back stiff. My earlier fantasies of going to college returned with the force of determination. Consequently, I enrolled at a local community college and began the path to where I currently am, a grad student with the goal of one day teaching college English and Literature courses.
The community college experience was almost one of religious conversion. Not only was it a tremendous contrast from the factory, but I soon found that it was truly something that I enjoyed doing. I discovered that my most enjoyable classes were the English and Writing courses. Going to the small buildings in the shade at the edge of the campus to take those courses was a genuine pleasure. I first read Hamlet, discovered my love of writing, and was able to approach language from the new perspective of having a voice, something to say. At work, no-one cared what I thought because I was hired to either be told what to do or tell others what to do. There was hardly a thing that I did not enjoy learning at the community college.
Several years later, I am a graduate student who may soon teach college writing courses rather than take them. But today--May 7th--I am actually back on the same campus. I walked around looking at how some things have changed and think about the past upon seeing the old rooms and buildings. Perhaps one day in the future, I may have the opportunity to teach here. I think it would be wonderful to give that back to the spirit of life, to be able to help other students who may be stuck in jobs or life circumstances that they hate, and help them discover their own talents, and somehow find within themselves an ability to pull themselves out of the compressing circles of misery.
I even happened to meet a friend and former classmate from my undergraduate university, G----. (I think I am going to adopt the 19th century Victorian mode of referring to people's names by the first letter.) G---- took a job here as a counselor, helping middle school and high school students see college as an option for them by taking them on tours of local unversity campuses. G---- and I caught each other up on what we had been doing since the year we last saw each other. In a weird way, G---- was impressed that I had gone to graduate school, and I was impressed that he had a job in an academic setting, especially a college that may want to teach at myself. I had always admired G---- for what I considered to be his moral integrity. Although much more has happened today, I suppose the lesson that I am going to take from it is that presents you with opportunities, and you, somehow, begin the process of sorting them out. Perhaps I still believe in fate, but I also believe that if you live your life with good intentions and effort at having some purity of heart, life will bless you in ways you don't expect. So while there may be fate, there are no "real" curses--not for those intentionally trying to do their best to be a good person.
But, as I mentioned before, the work was terrible. Twelve hour days, low pay, and frequent exposure to harsh chemicals and the occasional x-ray, which is above and beyond the petty office politics that must occur in every job, was an angle grinder on my soul. The prospect of it continuing felt like a condemnation. To adopt the discourse of recovery, I "had a moment of clarity" when I was hanging half out of chemical etcher scraping out the organic residue that grew like a grimy ring in a bathtub. The hydrochloric acid seeped into my gloves and stung my skin, the gas mask made it hot and difficult to breath and also cut into my neck. And being on my knees for about an hour, half bent over the lip of the machine made my back stiff. My earlier fantasies of going to college returned with the force of determination. Consequently, I enrolled at a local community college and began the path to where I currently am, a grad student with the goal of one day teaching college English and Literature courses.
The community college experience was almost one of religious conversion. Not only was it a tremendous contrast from the factory, but I soon found that it was truly something that I enjoyed doing. I discovered that my most enjoyable classes were the English and Writing courses. Going to the small buildings in the shade at the edge of the campus to take those courses was a genuine pleasure. I first read Hamlet, discovered my love of writing, and was able to approach language from the new perspective of having a voice, something to say. At work, no-one cared what I thought because I was hired to either be told what to do or tell others what to do. There was hardly a thing that I did not enjoy learning at the community college.
Several years later, I am a graduate student who may soon teach college writing courses rather than take them. But today--May 7th--I am actually back on the same campus. I walked around looking at how some things have changed and think about the past upon seeing the old rooms and buildings. Perhaps one day in the future, I may have the opportunity to teach here. I think it would be wonderful to give that back to the spirit of life, to be able to help other students who may be stuck in jobs or life circumstances that they hate, and help them discover their own talents, and somehow find within themselves an ability to pull themselves out of the compressing circles of misery.
I even happened to meet a friend and former classmate from my undergraduate university, G----. (I think I am going to adopt the 19th century Victorian mode of referring to people's names by the first letter.) G---- took a job here as a counselor, helping middle school and high school students see college as an option for them by taking them on tours of local unversity campuses. G---- and I caught each other up on what we had been doing since the year we last saw each other. In a weird way, G---- was impressed that I had gone to graduate school, and I was impressed that he had a job in an academic setting, especially a college that may want to teach at myself. I had always admired G---- for what I considered to be his moral integrity. Although much more has happened today, I suppose the lesson that I am going to take from it is that presents you with opportunities, and you, somehow, begin the process of sorting them out. Perhaps I still believe in fate, but I also believe that if you live your life with good intentions and effort at having some purity of heart, life will bless you in ways you don't expect. So while there may be fate, there are no "real" curses--not for those intentionally trying to do their best to be a good person.
07 May 2004
Chicago Dreamland
Okay, it's just before breakfast on a Saturday morning, and I thought I would take the time to post something here real quick. I haven't been blogging much lately, but that has been more the result of circumstance and less of desire. My classes have been pretty good lately, and I'm actually finding the content interesting. Thank goodness it's spring because I'm looking forward to the break in the summer.
So, to make this an official blog, I suppose I must relate the mandatory dream-I-had story. I was in Chicago. Someone had given me a video camera to film one of those true life stories. It was apparently something of a documentary. Of course, as dreams have their own logic, I'm suddenly in a mob that is chasing someone down a hill in town. He's riding a bicycle, but then he turns to shoot at us. As he does so, he falls off his bike and tumbles on the ground. Next, I'm on an impossibly long bridge looking out over the city above a river. Everything is in sepia tones. The view I have is completely filled with buildings with hardly a space in between. That's it. Weird. Boring, but weird.
So, to make this an official blog, I suppose I must relate the mandatory dream-I-had story. I was in Chicago. Someone had given me a video camera to film one of those true life stories. It was apparently something of a documentary. Of course, as dreams have their own logic, I'm suddenly in a mob that is chasing someone down a hill in town. He's riding a bicycle, but then he turns to shoot at us. As he does so, he falls off his bike and tumbles on the ground. Next, I'm on an impossibly long bridge looking out over the city above a river. Everything is in sepia tones. The view I have is completely filled with buildings with hardly a space in between. That's it. Weird. Boring, but weird.
