"the hardest thing in this world is to live in it"
These two random quotes came up in my email doings, and I thought I’d share – much easier than trying to come up from the cold medicine haze to find anything of interest to say.
Gogol once said that “evil is banality,” and if that’s the case, Valla is the most evil creature alive.
-Douglas TaylorMy breasts are cthulhu!
-Elisabeth Van Every
(I admit that the last one might be funnier with the photographic evidence…)
Can somebody tell me now am I alone with this �
this little pill in my hand and with this secret kiss
am I alone in this�
It’s been an interesting 36-odd hours. I’ve had a lot of interesting conversations with people, and thankfully, all but one in a face to face medium. I’ve come to the conclusion that although I tend to do a lot of my correspondance via email, I prefer a medium where I can hear the tone of voice of the person I’m talking to, be it phone or face. I actually think face is best for me, simply because I can also integrate body language into my evaluation of what’s going on – with email, I spend a very long time agonizing over what word to say or phrase to use, to convey the right “tone”, and I feel like I often fail. So for a quick jaunt or touching base, email works fine for me, but anything more than that and I tie myself into knots. Several sentences should not take me half an hour to compose!
A matter of complication
when you become a twist
for their latest drink
You would think that, knowing this, I would be alright acknowledging it and simply moving any more seriously toned conversation to a medium I’m more comfortable with. Hah. Instead, I question my resolve and the wisdom of requesting a change in ‘venue’. I’d say I wonder where I get this core of self-doubt and lack of faith in myself, except I know the answer to the question, and I really hate to ask questions I already know the answer to. So instead I’m left wondering just how it is I move beyond that self-doubt in a way that’s healthy for me and anyone who comes in contact with me. It’s a question I don’t have an answer to, which at the same time makes it a good question and a frustrating problem.
Can somebody tell me now a way out of this �
that sacred pipe of red stone could blow me out of this kiss
am I alone in this�
My star students have written dualing and completely opposing papers this week. I really want to set them in a room together and say “argue it out”, just to see what would come of it; however, I suspect one would be irritated with me for doing that, and the other…oh wait, already is irritated with me. Nevermind.
Still, it’s interesting to see two bright minds taking one story in completely different directions. Can we experience and interpret events of the past in the context of the past, or are we always stuck with our judgments of the present when looking past?
I ran into two former Hum 102 students today, one at lunch at the other on my way home from work. They both wanted to know if I’d be teaching with Phillip in the spring; I told them that, as far as I knew, I would be assisting with Phillip and Giorgia’s class. Both students lit up with huge smiles and told me that was just what they wanted to hear, and they were going to figure out how to get in my section for the class, because they really wanted to spend another quarter working with me.
I’ve been thinking about teaching again, these last two or three days. Tomorrow is my last small group of the quarter. I have one more focus group, one more presentation, one more movie, and then that’s it. It’ll just be papers and a grade and goodbye. It’s a weird time of the quarter to be in, when you’re busy thinking about next quarter and syllabi and aren’t here as much as you should be. I think part of that is just distancing yourself; you get invested in the class, and then it has to end, and it’s never fun to have something you’ve invested so much of yourself in just…dissipate.
I think, in retrospect, it’s why it tickles me so much to hear someone use an idea I taught months, a year, later. Because it tells me that my effort did something; the structure of the class might have dissipated, but there was a lasting impact, somewhere. Even if it’s just a small one.
I haven’t felt very successful as any sort of instructor this quarter. Really, when it comes down to it, I haven’t felt very successful much at all this quarter. To hear, from two separate people at two separate times, that they valued their time spent with me so much they wanted to do it again, was a quiet affirmation that although things might not have gone as well as I would have hoped this quarter, I am not a failure, and my efforts are both valued, and appreciated.
Well I’m thwarted by a metaphysic puzzle
And I’m sick of grading papers, that I know
A little before 7pm this evening, I stood on the corner of 45th and Brooklyn, breath escaping from behind my scarf in steaming bursts, hands shoved into gloves into pockets. I’d bailed on both my commitments for the evening for the chance at a beer and relaxation with friends, and was now at that point. That point of the night where I knew, if I came home, I’d just flop uselessly to one side and do nothing but berate myself for doing nothing, but had nothing compelling calling me anywhere else, and that lack of energy which made flopping to one side so attractive permeating everything else.
And then I looked up, and saw the Varsity sign saying “Rent: This Space.” Rent. Rent, rent, rent. Rent.
Alone.
And I’m shouting in my sleep, I need a muzzle
All this misery pays no salary, so
Alone. It was something I needed to do, something I needed to see. It was a memory I needed to build for myself, new and removed from the memory of Rent that was, of seeing the play in Reno, of being so near the front row, of the feeling and experience and the everything-awe of the musical, all tied up in memories of my ex-husband. It wasn’t an exorcism, but it was an invitation, to new, that needed to be done alone.
I teach- computer age philosophy
But my students would rather watch TV
Tonight, I was alone, and it was a good night to see Rent. To reground, to create, to feel, to cry. Only a few tears, but I cried. Angel died, and I cried. I cried for Angel, and Tom, and Mark and Maureen and Roger and Mimi and even Benny, and I cried for friends gone and friends here, and people who should be friends but aren’t (or maybe are), and I cried for J~. I cried for J~ and the way that she died. The way her story ends. Just a few tears, but there they were, and there was the meaning so gathered into them. And one year, more than a tear or two is going to have to fall, and this will need to be processed.
Chatting not about Heidegger, but wine
Let’s open up a restaurant in Santa Fe
Stories shape us. We shape stories. We shape memory. It is a construction of our experiences, our ability to trust, our ability to love and connect. It is a reflection of those things that become important to us in hindsight, with memory, and those things that seared their meaning and purpose to our mind on impact.
Does anyone want to open a restaurant in Santa Fe? Cuz sunny Santa Fe, sure would be nice…