Who could lie--tactical mistakes were made. The pre-game run-up and most of the first inning saw serious strategic errors, including one spectator taking an overlong sunlit jog in the ravine, making her late for the game. This was compounded by circling the stadium formerly known as Skydome (renominative efforts being another strategic mistake) in the wrong direction in search gate 10, assuming that gate 10 would be unlocked just because tickets asserted that it ought to be, falling up a flight of stone stairs in search of gate 14, and then circling the 500-level deck in the wrong direction upon arrival. And let's not even mention the decidedly non-genius plan from the girl-with-braces that involved purchasing her tofu dog from an outside vendor, covering it with condiments and then placing it inside a tupperware container to eat carefully with a knife and fork once solidly seated in the stands. To be fair, that one almost worked, despite derision from the crowd.
By the bottom of the first, however, I was comfortably ensconced next to aisle 125 and the Jays were up by three over the jauntily attired but insensibly sloppy Texans. It was a great, if suspenseless game; the Jays took the lead while I was still rattling at the gate 10 doors, and never lost it, winding up the game at 7-1. Very nice. The sun was bright, the company stellar (although initially concerned that I was lost and/or injured en route to the game, having missed my beloved national anthems) and the tofu dog delicious, if ridiculous. There was one error, but unfortunately I was looking at a bird when it occurred, and so cannot report.
Post-game, we stopped at a sports bar to see Buffalo tie it up with New York 1-1 somewhere in the third period. Ok, technically, I was buying ice-cream and saw nothing, but I believe my colleagues. This brought about talk of which sports tolerate ties, and which will play on relentlessly until a winner is established. We think that it may be only non-playoff soccor and CFL football that permit ambiguous endings, and wonder if it is the athletic demands of the game or the emotional demands of the fans that force other sports into endless overtime in pursuit of definitive victory. Do you know?
In short, the day was joyful, although slightly darkened with the news that Rose-coloured will be losing a sports commentator, though gaining a Mideast correspondent; Dan will be relocating to Saudi Arabia at the end of next month. This announcement is cause for more excitement than dismay, and we here at Rose-coloured are campaigning for a Dan-based blog ("Dan-coloured"?) to record overseas events.
Finally, while not strictly a sport, Phon's bachelorette also occurred this weekend. It was, if not athletic, certainly educational, and entertaining. Congrats, Phon and Brent, on the wedding and all future "activities."
Little Miss Listless / A little bit of Christmas
RR
Monday, April 30, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Better Daze
Aside from an hour-long migraine that zonked me at lunch-time (who gets a migraine for an hour?) yesterday was pretty productive, and capped off with a delightful dining/book-searching experience with Mister Scott, who took time from writing stories upon stories (productivity all around!) to buy me hwae dop bop at Hosu and help me search for books! That was a really long sentence. Everything I write is really long, these days. The novella project is stalled while I try to complete a "short" story that currently stands at an utterly point 10 000 words. I'll have to cut it nearly in half to make it make sense, which I knew from the get go--why can't I write efficiently the first time? This is a question for another time, or likely the rest of my life.
For now, a short leftover anecdote from Thursday: my brother was eating a popsicle and he gave me half as we walked down the street. I dropped behind him for a minute, and when I caught up, he said, "Oh...no!" I had somehow covered my entire face in pink popsicle in 60 seconds, including my nose. As I wiped my face (with the back of my hand, because I am suave), he muttered, "I am so glad I gave you that!"
Somebody showed me a picture and I just laughed
RR
For now, a short leftover anecdote from Thursday: my brother was eating a popsicle and he gave me half as we walked down the street. I dropped behind him for a minute, and when I caught up, he said, "Oh...no!" I had somehow covered my entire face in pink popsicle in 60 seconds, including my nose. As I wiped my face (with the back of my hand, because I am suave), he muttered, "I am so glad I gave you that!"
Somebody showed me a picture and I just laughed
RR
Friday, April 27, 2007
Poor day
Yesterday was hard, as days go. I had a nonspecific plan to go get bloodwork done, which is hardly traumatic, but I wasn't looking forward to it, so I dillydallied around the house writing a letter and other stuff that I don't even really remember, until it was late enough for the clinic to be *really* crowded, and then I finally set off.
When I got inside the medical complex, a middle-aged lady with, I think, a serious developmental delay, asked me for help. I was confused at first, but she said she had hurt her knee and needed to go upstairs. So we had to wait for the elevator, which was semi-out-of-order, for about five minutes, her clutching my arm and pointing me out to strangers the whole time, instead of me just scrambling up to my second-floor clinic like always. When finally we reached the office she specified, it was vacant.
"Do you think they moved? Do you have an appointment?" I asked her.
"We'll go up to the fifth floor, ask the nurse," she said confidently. We examined the stairwell, but she said she couldn't manage even one floor with her bad knee. So we went back to the elevator for another long wait.
When the doors open, a man stepped forward and said, "Got away from me, did ya?" Turns out, her appointment was on the first floor where I met her, and he'd just gone to park the car. I apologized profusely, miserably, and ran away downstairs.
I wonder why she did that? Maybe I can see it as being like a kid, is that comparable? As a kid, I was scared of strangers, but if I hadn't been I would've certainly thought it more interesting to set off with one of them, rather than my boring parents. And, well, I don't want you to think I was a dishonest child, but before I I really understood the concepts of truth and lie and story, I occasionally changed the truth to make a better story. Once, I remember, I fabricated a mouse infestation in the sandbox, because I figured my mother's reaction would be interesting. And it was, until I embroidered just a bit too much and she figured it out. I don't think that many mice could've really hidden in the sandbox.
Downstairs in the clinic, it was of course packed. I waited about a half hour with the blood-test-ee ahead of me, a six-month-old baby who was already fussy before he was taken into a small cubicle, restrained and stabbed multiple times with needles. The kid totally lost it. His parents were great, the nurses were great, but you just can't explain to a baby that they aren't being grievously tortured when all evidence suggests that they are. He was wailing so hard he lost his breath, and you could hear him gasping for air to muster sound, all a desperate cry for someone to intervene and make the needles stop.
The waiting room was like death-row. I got really nauseated and realized I'd been unconsciously mirroring my breath to his, the beginnings of sympathy hyperventilation. I stopped it. The kid left with his stoic folks...you could hear him wailing some more at the elevators. My own needle barely hurt at all.
And then I went to Scarborough.
Did I mention I was carrying 30 pounds of exams through all this? And yet such is the weather funhouse that I was blown off course by the wind as I walked from RT to bus, and I'm hardly a wisp even without that weight'o'knowledge. A positive light is how terribly nice everyone in the office is at the campus there, even though I was handing stuff in late and asked a million questions and my lunch tupperware leaked on the exams. Also, when I took the remaining lunch to eat in the cafeteria there, it was a really nice space.
The day brightened considerably after that, partly due to the fact that I no longer had unpleasant things to do, and partly because I took a nap on the subway. Eventually, my charming family arrived, bearing soda, tomato sauce and potting soil, and bound to take me out for Italian food to celebrate my successful defense. It's been a week, but when I remember that I actually did it I am still sorta elated. Ok, no sorta about it. Elated.
The food at Grazie is always splendid, and the crowd makes you feel like you are at a giant party, not just a table for four. And well, hell, it is always nice to celebrate. So we did, and then I went home and wrote, and considered the day really a success, not worthy of the subject line, but I'll leave it for now.
He's not here but / he'll be round
RR
When I got inside the medical complex, a middle-aged lady with, I think, a serious developmental delay, asked me for help. I was confused at first, but she said she had hurt her knee and needed to go upstairs. So we had to wait for the elevator, which was semi-out-of-order, for about five minutes, her clutching my arm and pointing me out to strangers the whole time, instead of me just scrambling up to my second-floor clinic like always. When finally we reached the office she specified, it was vacant.
"Do you think they moved? Do you have an appointment?" I asked her.
"We'll go up to the fifth floor, ask the nurse," she said confidently. We examined the stairwell, but she said she couldn't manage even one floor with her bad knee. So we went back to the elevator for another long wait.
When the doors open, a man stepped forward and said, "Got away from me, did ya?" Turns out, her appointment was on the first floor where I met her, and he'd just gone to park the car. I apologized profusely, miserably, and ran away downstairs.
I wonder why she did that? Maybe I can see it as being like a kid, is that comparable? As a kid, I was scared of strangers, but if I hadn't been I would've certainly thought it more interesting to set off with one of them, rather than my boring parents. And, well, I don't want you to think I was a dishonest child, but before I I really understood the concepts of truth and lie and story, I occasionally changed the truth to make a better story. Once, I remember, I fabricated a mouse infestation in the sandbox, because I figured my mother's reaction would be interesting. And it was, until I embroidered just a bit too much and she figured it out. I don't think that many mice could've really hidden in the sandbox.
Downstairs in the clinic, it was of course packed. I waited about a half hour with the blood-test-ee ahead of me, a six-month-old baby who was already fussy before he was taken into a small cubicle, restrained and stabbed multiple times with needles. The kid totally lost it. His parents were great, the nurses were great, but you just can't explain to a baby that they aren't being grievously tortured when all evidence suggests that they are. He was wailing so hard he lost his breath, and you could hear him gasping for air to muster sound, all a desperate cry for someone to intervene and make the needles stop.
The waiting room was like death-row. I got really nauseated and realized I'd been unconsciously mirroring my breath to his, the beginnings of sympathy hyperventilation. I stopped it. The kid left with his stoic folks...you could hear him wailing some more at the elevators. My own needle barely hurt at all.
And then I went to Scarborough.
Did I mention I was carrying 30 pounds of exams through all this? And yet such is the weather funhouse that I was blown off course by the wind as I walked from RT to bus, and I'm hardly a wisp even without that weight'o'knowledge. A positive light is how terribly nice everyone in the office is at the campus there, even though I was handing stuff in late and asked a million questions and my lunch tupperware leaked on the exams. Also, when I took the remaining lunch to eat in the cafeteria there, it was a really nice space.
The day brightened considerably after that, partly due to the fact that I no longer had unpleasant things to do, and partly because I took a nap on the subway. Eventually, my charming family arrived, bearing soda, tomato sauce and potting soil, and bound to take me out for Italian food to celebrate my successful defense. It's been a week, but when I remember that I actually did it I am still sorta elated. Ok, no sorta about it. Elated.
The food at Grazie is always splendid, and the crowd makes you feel like you are at a giant party, not just a table for four. And well, hell, it is always nice to celebrate. So we did, and then I went home and wrote, and considered the day really a success, not worthy of the subject line, but I'll leave it for now.
He's not here but / he'll be round
RR
Thursday, April 26, 2007
On breadth
Wow, thanks for the fascinating reading responses yesterday. Despite one teensy freak-out over having possibly alienated Kerry (no!) with my over-glibness (a problem that I have), I enjoyed the discussion. I do feel compelled to clarify, though, that I actually really did *like* The Lovely Bones. I guess the thing I am judgey about is message/moral focussed reading--like, "I spent $30 on this book, I'd better emerge a better person." I feel that I read for specific, intimate stories of real (even if imaginary) lives, and that to "use" the lessons of a book in my own life would require a level of generality I dislike. However Kulsum is right, who am I to judge? If you are reading Anna Karenina for ideas on how to execute your extra-marital affair with panache, ok, maybe I get to judge (maybe not), but otherwise, a reader is a reader.
Anyway, I think I somehow veered away in my post from my original question, which was about the good of breadth requirements in undergrad. Below is a more concise and focussed query, if you are interested in pursuing it. I put it up on Facebook, too, as there's a slightly different audience over there. Any non-lit majors wanna weigh in? I know you're out there! If people respond, I'll put together another post; if there's silence, I'll let this topic die a peaceful death.
A genius marketing plan
RR
On breadth
I have been wondering what people think about breadth requirements in undergraduate education. I'm not even sure all universities have them--it means that whatever discipline you are in, you must take at least one humanties, one social science, one math/science and one language class. I actually loved the classes I took to fulfill that requirement, but I was wondering if that wasn't just luck, if being forced to take a class in something you dislike doesn't actually push you further from it. Thoughts? Memories of years and classes past?
Anyway, I think I somehow veered away in my post from my original question, which was about the good of breadth requirements in undergrad. Below is a more concise and focussed query, if you are interested in pursuing it. I put it up on Facebook, too, as there's a slightly different audience over there. Any non-lit majors wanna weigh in? I know you're out there! If people respond, I'll put together another post; if there's silence, I'll let this topic die a peaceful death.
A genius marketing plan
RR
On breadth
I have been wondering what people think about breadth requirements in undergraduate education. I'm not even sure all universities have them--it means that whatever discipline you are in, you must take at least one humanties, one social science, one math/science and one language class. I actually loved the classes I took to fulfill that requirement, but I was wondering if that wasn't just luck, if being forced to take a class in something you dislike doesn't actually push you further from it. Thoughts? Memories of years and classes past?
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Educationally speaking
I did it, I graded 81 final examinations on CanLit! That 60ish hours of careful consideration of undergraduate views on many major Canadian authors has made me question the value of the general liberal arts education. I don't (think I) mean that facetiously. When I first started marking, when students would started spouting made-up information on books they clearly hadn't read, I would think to myself, slashing angrily with my orange pen, "Why take the course if you refuse to learn anything? University is, if nothing else, expensive! Take credits you care about."
Then, about 10 papers in, I got it--they don't have a choice. I don't think this class per se is a requirement, but I believe some sort of low level arts class is, and this one foots the bill. I actually witnessed an attractive, reasonably organized-looking couple at the exam high-five each other while exclaiming, "Last English class ever!"
Indeed. Much as I loved my liberal arts education, and much as it has benefited me in my chosen career path as a marginally employed daydreamer, I question the value of making future engineers and media designers and office managers read short stories and poems. It only makes them angry, or worse, horribly formulaic in their reading. These are the people who grow up to read The Lovely Bones because it teaches so much about the grieving process. End-result focused reading (what's the value-add? what's the lesson learned?) is scary to me as a writer, because I'm not sure my work *has* a educational component, except in that airy, literary, experiental sort of way. That's the sort of thing I like best to read...no, wait, what I *really* like to read is entertainment, for the joy of it. If it looks boring, I don't wanna read it.
That being said, in high school, undergrad and even now, I read some things that I don't exactly "enjoy" but that broaden my context, expose me to new ideas or challenge me to think in new ways. I like that part of it, even if I don't like the book itself. That is what keeps me taking recommendations from all sorts of people with tastes completely unlike mine--I want to get smarter, better at this reading thing.
But that's kinda my job, you know? As a writery person (someday I'll make it a noun...) Besides, if anybody tries to *insist* on me reading something, I'll balk. My spare time is too limited, and my poor brain, too. Are these balky undergrads really learning anything other than how to regurgitate reading guides and, more depressingly, how to hate literature and all its "lessons"? I worry. If requirements are punitive and boring, will they make students elect to never read again? Lots of smart people don't read. Even fewer people read fiction--lots of super-intelligent academics don't read outside their own fields, and they aren't boring, stultified or trivial. I enjoy talking to these non-readers at parties; often, you'd never even *know* (we should make them wear funny hats!)
Why should books be some sort cod-liver oil of the mind? Believe me, if you were reading these exams, you'd know that enforced reading isn't joyful. But on the other hand... I took a bunch of elective maths when I was an undergrad, which nearly killed me, and I studied music for fourteen years despite showing zero aptitude for it. Why? Because I liked the way those things made me think, what they did for my brain. And then I stopped, because I'm not young enough to just absorb new things at random, or to have the free time to do it in. I'm sure even my best theorem proofs and sonatas seemed like rote drudgery to anyone who had a gift for those disciplines, but it wasn't the end product that was important to me; it was the way my thoughts spun on after that ending. I can't remember for the life of me how to calculate the area under a curve, but I think I'm smarter still for having learnt it once.
So what is the answer? To read or not to read? Have there been studies done, what percentage of the population over 22 reads for pleasure, and if there is an intelligence quotient correspondence? And what about those of us who took one little course in chaos theory? Did that add brain cells or stress them to death?
Just curious.
From the 100 years war to the Crimea
RR
Then, about 10 papers in, I got it--they don't have a choice. I don't think this class per se is a requirement, but I believe some sort of low level arts class is, and this one foots the bill. I actually witnessed an attractive, reasonably organized-looking couple at the exam high-five each other while exclaiming, "Last English class ever!"
Indeed. Much as I loved my liberal arts education, and much as it has benefited me in my chosen career path as a marginally employed daydreamer, I question the value of making future engineers and media designers and office managers read short stories and poems. It only makes them angry, or worse, horribly formulaic in their reading. These are the people who grow up to read The Lovely Bones because it teaches so much about the grieving process. End-result focused reading (what's the value-add? what's the lesson learned?) is scary to me as a writer, because I'm not sure my work *has* a educational component, except in that airy, literary, experiental sort of way. That's the sort of thing I like best to read...no, wait, what I *really* like to read is entertainment, for the joy of it. If it looks boring, I don't wanna read it.
That being said, in high school, undergrad and even now, I read some things that I don't exactly "enjoy" but that broaden my context, expose me to new ideas or challenge me to think in new ways. I like that part of it, even if I don't like the book itself. That is what keeps me taking recommendations from all sorts of people with tastes completely unlike mine--I want to get smarter, better at this reading thing.
But that's kinda my job, you know? As a writery person (someday I'll make it a noun...) Besides, if anybody tries to *insist* on me reading something, I'll balk. My spare time is too limited, and my poor brain, too. Are these balky undergrads really learning anything other than how to regurgitate reading guides and, more depressingly, how to hate literature and all its "lessons"? I worry. If requirements are punitive and boring, will they make students elect to never read again? Lots of smart people don't read. Even fewer people read fiction--lots of super-intelligent academics don't read outside their own fields, and they aren't boring, stultified or trivial. I enjoy talking to these non-readers at parties; often, you'd never even *know* (we should make them wear funny hats!)
Why should books be some sort cod-liver oil of the mind? Believe me, if you were reading these exams, you'd know that enforced reading isn't joyful. But on the other hand... I took a bunch of elective maths when I was an undergrad, which nearly killed me, and I studied music for fourteen years despite showing zero aptitude for it. Why? Because I liked the way those things made me think, what they did for my brain. And then I stopped, because I'm not young enough to just absorb new things at random, or to have the free time to do it in. I'm sure even my best theorem proofs and sonatas seemed like rote drudgery to anyone who had a gift for those disciplines, but it wasn't the end product that was important to me; it was the way my thoughts spun on after that ending. I can't remember for the life of me how to calculate the area under a curve, but I think I'm smarter still for having learnt it once.
So what is the answer? To read or not to read? Have there been studies done, what percentage of the population over 22 reads for pleasure, and if there is an intelligence quotient correspondence? And what about those of us who took one little course in chaos theory? Did that add brain cells or stress them to death?
Just curious.
From the 100 years war to the Crimea
RR
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
More euphoria
If you are finding the Rose-coloured blog does not meet all your reading needs, perhaps you'd like to check outThe Hart House Review '07, where you'll find graceful poems by such as Helen Guri and Yavanna Valdellon, and a short story by me! It's "All the Ghostlies," and it won 2nd place in the HHR literary contest! Hooray! The journal has no web presence that I can find, unfortunately, but you can pick up a copy at Hart House itself. If your location precludes this but you still want one, I can likely be talked into getting you one without much trouble.
Despite this wonderful news, I am actually no longer euphoric, as I am plunged back into marking and sundry other pressures. I am starting to realize that I have committed to a lot for this summer, and it pisses me off that it's going to be hard, because none of the projects are things I don't want to do. How sad is that? I'm not even sure who I'm mad at--the world for being so interesting and giving me so many wonderful opportunities? Myself, for needing so much sleep?
My point is that I was euphoric yesterday, and probably will be so again, as soon as I mark 6 more exams, reread the failing papers (2 so far--sadness) and put all the grades into a Word document. And fill out some forms. Oh, and pay the hydro bill and reschedule my dentist appointment and write a new short story...I'll sleep when I'm dead, I guess.
There was a hedge over which / I never could see
RR
Despite this wonderful news, I am actually no longer euphoric, as I am plunged back into marking and sundry other pressures. I am starting to realize that I have committed to a lot for this summer, and it pisses me off that it's going to be hard, because none of the projects are things I don't want to do. How sad is that? I'm not even sure who I'm mad at--the world for being so interesting and giving me so many wonderful opportunities? Myself, for needing so much sleep?
My point is that I was euphoric yesterday, and probably will be so again, as soon as I mark 6 more exams, reread the failing papers (2 so far--sadness) and put all the grades into a Word document. And fill out some forms. Oh, and pay the hydro bill and reschedule my dentist appointment and write a new short story...I'll sleep when I'm dead, I guess.
There was a hedge over which / I never could see
RR
Monday, April 23, 2007
Endeavourous
I swore I'd post yestereve, but we're running a little behind schedule here at Rose-coloured, due to the fact that marking proceeds nearly nonstop. It's affecting my mind: is there really any difference between loose and lose? Between regrets and regress? Is Lorna Crozier's poetry really about "random stuff" and how "everything is pointless"? Hmm...
Anyway, at 5.5 hours to the original deadline, I still have 15 exams left to mark, which means had I not gotten the delightful extension from the department that I was granted (until Thursday) I likely still could've somehow made it. It would've wrecked my weekend, however, to get all that done. I'm much happier having gone to Friday's party, slept a few hours, gone out for dinner with the Small Kitten and The Spiral of Life at Fresh last night. Good entertainment, that. We are all so professional and fascinating these days--librarians, doctors, lawyers, accountants, editors (post-birthday shout-out to Mega if she's reading). You really have to hand it to enforced dormitory living, it bonds you to a wide range of humans that you just won't meet in later life. Really, The Facts of Life was much more realistic than you'd think.
Statements like the above might give you a strong indication that I am in a state of lunatic euphoria these days (you know you are freaking out when stoned artists hit on you on the subway and you let them listen to your iPod). Life seems ridiculously good, which is of course terrifying. Other shoes, I feel, are always lurking!
Hey, Melanie just appeared! Hi, Mel!
Old men wanna be rich / Rich men wanna be king
RR
Anyway, at 5.5 hours to the original deadline, I still have 15 exams left to mark, which means had I not gotten the delightful extension from the department that I was granted (until Thursday) I likely still could've somehow made it. It would've wrecked my weekend, however, to get all that done. I'm much happier having gone to Friday's party, slept a few hours, gone out for dinner with the Small Kitten and The Spiral of Life at Fresh last night. Good entertainment, that. We are all so professional and fascinating these days--librarians, doctors, lawyers, accountants, editors (post-birthday shout-out to Mega if she's reading). You really have to hand it to enforced dormitory living, it bonds you to a wide range of humans that you just won't meet in later life. Really, The Facts of Life was much more realistic than you'd think.
Statements like the above might give you a strong indication that I am in a state of lunatic euphoria these days (you know you are freaking out when stoned artists hit on you on the subway and you let them listen to your iPod). Life seems ridiculously good, which is of course terrifying. Other shoes, I feel, are always lurking!
Hey, Melanie just appeared! Hi, Mel!
Old men wanna be rich / Rich men wanna be king
RR
Saturday, April 21, 2007
So sleepy
I went to bed 'round 3 last night, and woke up around 7 to do a bit more marking before heading out to teach the yutes some grammar--and then mark more. Now, when I'm down to 29.5 exams left to mark and could finally unguilt myself enough to sleep, I am consumed with the desire to tell you about the fun party I went to last night.
Our department head threw it at her (gorgeous) house, as a mixer for all cohorts--past, present and future--of creative writing at our school and the other uni in town that offers it. So it was all ingenuous aspiring writers and the wise sucessful ones who mentor us--all writers, writing teachers, and one musician/producer. Of course, some of my favourite folks were there, but even all the strangers were charming. Maybe the secret is to always party with writers, who are professionally into being interesting and also usually really good food.
Maybe the secret is to always wear a bridesmaid's gown. I had thought I would wear it on Thursday to my defense, on the grounds that it is the nicest thing I own and the defense currently the most important thing going in my life. My mother, however, was so vocally dismayed at the prospect of even thinking of me entering an official academic context in said gown that I couldn't go through with it, despite having already made vague asserstions to Mister Mentor to the contrary. So I was pressed to wear it to the party, which I was ever so glad I did. Man, I love that dress--so swirly. That Laurk has impeccable taste. And I didn't even spill anything on it.
I was so enjoying myself that, when towards the end of the evening when the graduands were toasted, it was realized that I was the only one left. The toast was amended to, "To Rebecca!" In my state of delirious exhaustion, this sounded exactly right.
29.5 more exams. But Melanie is somewhere in the city, so I expect tomorrow won't be an entirely serious day.
there was a hedge back home in the suburbs
RR
PS--Consider a glass raised to *all* graduands, in writing, legal translation, med school, wherever your educational path is leading.
Our department head threw it at her (gorgeous) house, as a mixer for all cohorts--past, present and future--of creative writing at our school and the other uni in town that offers it. So it was all ingenuous aspiring writers and the wise sucessful ones who mentor us--all writers, writing teachers, and one musician/producer. Of course, some of my favourite folks were there, but even all the strangers were charming. Maybe the secret is to always party with writers, who are professionally into being interesting and also usually really good food.
Maybe the secret is to always wear a bridesmaid's gown. I had thought I would wear it on Thursday to my defense, on the grounds that it is the nicest thing I own and the defense currently the most important thing going in my life. My mother, however, was so vocally dismayed at the prospect of even thinking of me entering an official academic context in said gown that I couldn't go through with it, despite having already made vague asserstions to Mister Mentor to the contrary. So I was pressed to wear it to the party, which I was ever so glad I did. Man, I love that dress--so swirly. That Laurk has impeccable taste. And I didn't even spill anything on it.
I was so enjoying myself that, when towards the end of the evening when the graduands were toasted, it was realized that I was the only one left. The toast was amended to, "To Rebecca!" In my state of delirious exhaustion, this sounded exactly right.
29.5 more exams. But Melanie is somewhere in the city, so I expect tomorrow won't be an entirely serious day.
there was a hedge back home in the suburbs
RR
PS--Consider a glass raised to *all* graduands, in writing, legal translation, med school, wherever your educational path is leading.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Think about it
Ark and Arc (and Arch)
Glutinous and Gluttonous
Influenza and Influential
Oh, I love words (wouldn't it be horrid if I didn't; like an anorexic chef) but how would I ever explain those to my wee students?
Who am I kidding, they would never ask!
Time to put on my party dress!
Death or glory
RR
Glutinous and Gluttonous
Influenza and Influential
Oh, I love words (wouldn't it be horrid if I didn't; like an anorexic chef) but how would I ever explain those to my wee students?
Who am I kidding, they would never ask!
Time to put on my party dress!
Death or glory
RR
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Defensive tips
1) Do get batteries for your camera the night before, not on the way to, unless you enjoy darting sweaty and breathless into a room where people are waiting for you
2) Do not wear eyeliner for the first time in a year--it will not go well
3) Don't assume you can extemporize wittily. If you want to be witty, write it down.
4) Don't fear the chair, for she will never say anything but she *will* laugh at all your jokes
5) Do write down all the critiques you receive, as fear tends to impede memory
6) Do use the time where they send you out of the room while the committee discusses whether you deserve a degree or not to go to the bathroom
7) Don't feel that just because professional-type academic clothes don't show that much skin, you can't wear body glitter. You can work that stuff right through your nylons.
8) Do take pictures (see #5) like a gawky tourist, including one of the streetcar en route (not the one you take, as it turns out, because the photographed streetcar will blow right past you)
9) Do have something exciting for lunch afterwards--you deserve it
10) Don't worry--it'll be fine!!!
Fine a job in a paper
RR
2) Do not wear eyeliner for the first time in a year--it will not go well
3) Don't assume you can extemporize wittily. If you want to be witty, write it down.
4) Don't fear the chair, for she will never say anything but she *will* laugh at all your jokes
5) Do write down all the critiques you receive, as fear tends to impede memory
6) Do use the time where they send you out of the room while the committee discusses whether you deserve a degree or not to go to the bathroom
7) Don't feel that just because professional-type academic clothes don't show that much skin, you can't wear body glitter. You can work that stuff right through your nylons.
8) Do take pictures (see #5) like a gawky tourist, including one of the streetcar en route (not the one you take, as it turns out, because the photographed streetcar will blow right past you)
9) Do have something exciting for lunch afterwards--you deserve it
10) Don't worry--it'll be fine!!!
Fine a job in a paper
RR
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Today's Post is Brought to you by the Letter P
Ever since I made the rash assertion that I am a rosy-natured person, I seeme to have unleashed the hounds of snark, complaining and gossiping and being generally being decidedly grey-coloured. In an attempt to end this streak, a post about positive things, heavily weighted towards the letter P for some reason.
--homemade pirogi (courtesy Stephanie)
--handwritten post
--long-lost friends reappearing on Facebook (hello, Afshan!)
--peach cake (courtesy G-ma's recipe)
--friendly people on the subway
--nice invigilating assistant on Monday saving me from destroying the exam
--running around the exam room in my stocking feet (I decided to do so because my clompy boots were disturbing the exmainees, but the effect was quite joyful for me, too)
--snarky books, that say mean things better than I ever could
--knowledge that Ross is running, possibly right now
--pest-control people not wrecking my place or covering stuff I need with poison (I'm reaching here, I know, I know)
And will I be mentioning a word about how my defense is tomorrow and I have *three* nasty bruises due to my own clumsiness and one of the undergrads spelled English Inglish and every timepiece I own is broken? No, because I am thinking positive today. Abso-freakin-loutly.
23 hours until D(efense)-Day!
She's like so whatever
RR
--homemade pirogi (courtesy Stephanie)
--handwritten post
--long-lost friends reappearing on Facebook (hello, Afshan!)
--peach cake (courtesy G-ma's recipe)
--friendly people on the subway
--nice invigilating assistant on Monday saving me from destroying the exam
--running around the exam room in my stocking feet (I decided to do so because my clompy boots were disturbing the exmainees, but the effect was quite joyful for me, too)
--snarky books, that say mean things better than I ever could
--knowledge that Ross is running, possibly right now
--pest-control people not wrecking my place or covering stuff I need with poison (I'm reaching here, I know, I know)
And will I be mentioning a word about how my defense is tomorrow and I have *three* nasty bruises due to my own clumsiness and one of the undergrads spelled English Inglish and every timepiece I own is broken? No, because I am thinking positive today. Abso-freakin-loutly.
23 hours until D(efense)-Day!
She's like so whatever
RR
Monday, April 16, 2007
At the platform's edge
I feel a bit as if I'm on the eve of my execution just now, for in 22 minutes I must depart for the far reaches of Scarborough, invigilate that pesky exam and then mark all 82 of them over 60 hours in the course of the next five business days. FIVE! Argh. So the party of post-thesis is effectively over in 22 minutes, at least for a while.
But, if I'm truly to be executed, then the Becky Eats even on Saturday night was a suitable last meal, delicious and convivial and about 5 hours long, as all the best meals are. Mmm, creme brulee (I don't know how to accent on this computer [or any computer]--sorry).
Yesterday's attempt to be free and frolicsome didn't exactly pan out, but I did manage my first ever post-surgery run. I concerned that the impact of feet on sidewalk would excessively jolt my healing jaw, but with my new ugly-but-well-cushioned sneakers (white with *shiny* blue patches on the sides--something a London gang-banger's girlfriend would wear in 1987, I think, but so comfortable) all was serene. And I felt happily healthy, although I spent the rest of the largely inert, reading and (pretending) writing.
Ten more minutes. There is scarcely anyone in the library. Why is no one freaking out except me?
For a year we caught his tears in a jar
RR
But, if I'm truly to be executed, then the Becky Eats even on Saturday night was a suitable last meal, delicious and convivial and about 5 hours long, as all the best meals are. Mmm, creme brulee (I don't know how to accent on this computer [or any computer]--sorry).
Yesterday's attempt to be free and frolicsome didn't exactly pan out, but I did manage my first ever post-surgery run. I concerned that the impact of feet on sidewalk would excessively jolt my healing jaw, but with my new ugly-but-well-cushioned sneakers (white with *shiny* blue patches on the sides--something a London gang-banger's girlfriend would wear in 1987, I think, but so comfortable) all was serene. And I felt happily healthy, although I spent the rest of the largely inert, reading and (pretending) writing.
Ten more minutes. There is scarcely anyone in the library. Why is no one freaking out except me?
For a year we caught his tears in a jar
RR
Saturday, April 14, 2007
PS
In case you were on the edge of your seats about my bad morning yesterday, you should know that after gratuitous Mika-listening, things took a swing for the better. Just as I was leaving the house, I glanced for the 10000th time at the bookshelf and, bingo, there was the lost book. We here at Rose-coloured are choosing to interpret this as the dybbuk taking pity, and not as premature dementia. Thanks to all who were concerned. Jane and I are thrilled to be reunited
In celebration I went to the Bay in search of stockings to wear to my defense (because so many graduate degrees have gone awry due to inappropriate hosery choices). Post-purchased, I was offered a free facial. Are there people who say no to such things? Not around here--now I am glowing. Glowing! So lovely is beauty-capitalism that I was actually starting to think (as the nice lady massaged something gooey onto my cheekbones) that the reason department store cosmetics are so expensive is because they are *nicer* than drugstore things. I went so far as to enquire prices, only to find that the little tub of masque cost $85. Even I cannot delude myself into bankrupcy, so I made my apologies. Startlingly, the lady of cosmetics did not lose faith in me but gave me many tiny tubes of sample products, I think as bait to buy some, but which I will use *instead* of buying anything. Then I went upstairs to lingerie to find several dismaying advances in women's undergarments since last I shopped, which, since we are still pretending that this is a terribly professional blog, we will not discuss.
Then, gym, then being delivered to the friendly theatre folks at the Walmer centre, who put me to work carrying things and prying carpentry staples (my deadly enemy) out of the window ledges. The Biscuiteers are exchanging labour hours for rehearsal space, and cheerful bartery project, if I do say so. And then there was this strange Moroccan "feast" that I went to at a cafe, for no other reason than that it was free. The food was fairly par, but there was a *belly dancer,* something I'd never seen before. My companion had to split, so I was reading and tea sipping when the ambient music got louder and I looked up to find a sequined undulating hip next to my head. The lovely woman was really talented, flexible and confident, which as a good thing since she was not performing under ideal circumstances (almost no audience, people passing through performance space, bare-foot, -bellied, -armed, -etc *in front of a door*... It was a maginficient performance, under those or any circumstances.
I was sad I had to go before it was over, but since it was to the land of delightful foods in Little India, not too sad. And it was delightful, and so was yesterday, despite the inauspicious beginning.
Today involves work and later more feasting at the much vaunted "Becky Eats" celebration of orthodontic success ce soir. So, on with that then.
Hey hey / you you
RR
In celebration I went to the Bay in search of stockings to wear to my defense (because so many graduate degrees have gone awry due to inappropriate hosery choices). Post-purchased, I was offered a free facial. Are there people who say no to such things? Not around here--now I am glowing. Glowing! So lovely is beauty-capitalism that I was actually starting to think (as the nice lady massaged something gooey onto my cheekbones) that the reason department store cosmetics are so expensive is because they are *nicer* than drugstore things. I went so far as to enquire prices, only to find that the little tub of masque cost $85. Even I cannot delude myself into bankrupcy, so I made my apologies. Startlingly, the lady of cosmetics did not lose faith in me but gave me many tiny tubes of sample products, I think as bait to buy some, but which I will use *instead* of buying anything. Then I went upstairs to lingerie to find several dismaying advances in women's undergarments since last I shopped, which, since we are still pretending that this is a terribly professional blog, we will not discuss.
Then, gym, then being delivered to the friendly theatre folks at the Walmer centre, who put me to work carrying things and prying carpentry staples (my deadly enemy) out of the window ledges. The Biscuiteers are exchanging labour hours for rehearsal space, and cheerful bartery project, if I do say so. And then there was this strange Moroccan "feast" that I went to at a cafe, for no other reason than that it was free. The food was fairly par, but there was a *belly dancer,* something I'd never seen before. My companion had to split, so I was reading and tea sipping when the ambient music got louder and I looked up to find a sequined undulating hip next to my head. The lovely woman was really talented, flexible and confident, which as a good thing since she was not performing under ideal circumstances (almost no audience, people passing through performance space, bare-foot, -bellied, -armed, -etc *in front of a door*... It was a maginficient performance, under those or any circumstances.
I was sad I had to go before it was over, but since it was to the land of delightful foods in Little India, not too sad. And it was delightful, and so was yesterday, despite the inauspicious beginning.
Today involves work and later more feasting at the much vaunted "Becky Eats" celebration of orthodontic success ce soir. So, on with that then.
Hey hey / you you
RR
Friday, April 13, 2007
OOC!
I have never heard anyone use that abbreviation but Wanda on Doogie Howser, M.D., but it stands for out of control, as is apparently my literary life for the moment. The material that was to be this entry accidentally turned into a poem, and not a good one at that, so we are left with little to report. Except that the copy of Jane Eyre that I mentioned I planned to read a few posts ago has disappeared. Now, we here at Rose-coloured do *not* lose things, and we most certainly do not lose books. I had taken it down because I wished to see the picture of Jane on the cover, and then put it away somewhere because I had something else to read first and now *I do not know where*. Do you? I still have something else to read, so this is not an issue in that sense, and yet it has already ruined my morning (it's early yet, we could bounce back). I keep wandering from bookshelf to bookshel, in vain search. I know I will find it a week from now somewhere that does not make sense, like the freezer (but not actually the freezer, I already checked). If you see Jane, please tell her I'm looking for her.
This sense of dismay is not helped by the fact that it is pouring out and I am feeling ill. I can't attribute the illness to anything, so I like to make up causes, like the fact that I have been eating mainly sibilants lately (salad, cereal, soda, salmon). Which is clearly utter silliness, but cheers me on this most sad and difficult day of book-loss.
Why don't you like me / Without making me try?
RR
This sense of dismay is not helped by the fact that it is pouring out and I am feeling ill. I can't attribute the illness to anything, so I like to make up causes, like the fact that I have been eating mainly sibilants lately (salad, cereal, soda, salmon). Which is clearly utter silliness, but cheers me on this most sad and difficult day of book-loss.
Why don't you like me / Without making me try?
RR
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Scarberia
Yesterday started out well enough: a reasonable amount of dawn-time work, a trip to the gym, delicious lunch with Charming Kerry (guess who remembered how to do links?). Then, though, I attempted a dry run to UTSC in preparation for invigilating an exam there on Monday. I had never been via public transit, as my kindly supervisor always drove me last term, and this term all my hours have been saved for this behemoth exam (between that and my regular jobs, I will be working 80 hours next week, so there won't be much action here at Rose-coloured). Anyway, I figured the day of the exam was not the time to be experimenting with routes, so I set off to time transit, and things went straight to hell..
You know when you ruin your own day and don't even have anyone good to be mad at? Yeah, it was like that. It's totally not Scarborough's fault I got Kennedy station confused with Scarborough Centre (the concept of "end of the line" messed me up--two different lines, two different ends). Once at Kennedy, I fast realized that there was no 38 bus there, but at that point I didn't know how I'd gone wrong, so I just wandered around, looking for lines full of student-type people. I tried looking at route maps, but most had helpfully been taken down. Argh.
At TTC stations, there really is no central repository of help info for the lost and disoriented. Once you are on a bus, most drivers are decently helpful, but if you don't know *which* bus... The message seems to be, "Small incompetencies are ok, but if you really screw up, you're on your own." So I got on a couple random buses and asked who went to UTSC, and tried waiting for some red herring busses and eventually got a milk run 116 that took me, ever so slowly, to the campus. By this point, timing out the process had become moot, but if you are interested, it was now more than 1.5 hours since I'd boarded the train.
The 116 driver was gentle in pointing out (I went over to chat with him after almost everyone else had gotten off the bus, 20 minutes into the ride) that I was doing things the most inefficient way possible. He suggested various better ideas. I sighed, and realized I was going to have to do a non-stupid dry run and waste another afternoon. Then I took a little nap and then we got to campus.
I had brought my campus map but not the directions to where I was supposed to go (at this point, all four people who read this blog are saying to themselves, "I've got to stop reading this blog, this girl has the IQ of pudding.") But, points in my favour, I did find the building and then the English office just from fuzzy memories and intuition. I was so thrilled with that success that I wished to present myself at the office simply to say, "Dry run successful, seeya Monday!" but of course it was closed for the day.
So I went back to the food court and got a root beer from the A&W concession. How come UTSC gets a real, mall-style food court and we get Aramak? Theirs is so much better. I think somewhere in that sentence lies the moral of this tale: It's not Scarborough's fault. It's not their fault that they are far away and confusing. It sure seems popular enough a burgh, judging from all those many bus routes it has. And the root beer was delicious, and the girl I asked for directions was very nice. I lifted the title above from a friend who has lived and loved in Scarborough, but I strongly suspect that I, a disorganized interloper, is not allowed to use such a pejorative. It's like how I can make fun of my little brother, but no one else can. What do outsiders know?
And when I found a 38 bus for the return trip, it was very efficient, and allowed me the delight of the RT from Scarborough Centre to Kennedy. Delight is a slightly qualified term, of course--it's just as well I was alone, as that thing makes a sound like God gargling, precluding all conversation. But still, it's an elevated, the only one in the GTA (I think). It's so great just to be able to look out, even if it is over fields of parked garbage trucks and scrap yards, and some of the most amazing breakfast-cereal-inspired graffiti ever seen.
And so, sadder but wiser, I made my way home, to appraise the post, make salmon and asparagus for supper and plot never again to leave the core-city, or perhaps my apartment, ever again.
I could be your favourite girl
RR
You know when you ruin your own day and don't even have anyone good to be mad at? Yeah, it was like that. It's totally not Scarborough's fault I got Kennedy station confused with Scarborough Centre (the concept of "end of the line" messed me up--two different lines, two different ends). Once at Kennedy, I fast realized that there was no 38 bus there, but at that point I didn't know how I'd gone wrong, so I just wandered around, looking for lines full of student-type people. I tried looking at route maps, but most had helpfully been taken down. Argh.
At TTC stations, there really is no central repository of help info for the lost and disoriented. Once you are on a bus, most drivers are decently helpful, but if you don't know *which* bus... The message seems to be, "Small incompetencies are ok, but if you really screw up, you're on your own." So I got on a couple random buses and asked who went to UTSC, and tried waiting for some red herring busses and eventually got a milk run 116 that took me, ever so slowly, to the campus. By this point, timing out the process had become moot, but if you are interested, it was now more than 1.5 hours since I'd boarded the train.
The 116 driver was gentle in pointing out (I went over to chat with him after almost everyone else had gotten off the bus, 20 minutes into the ride) that I was doing things the most inefficient way possible. He suggested various better ideas. I sighed, and realized I was going to have to do a non-stupid dry run and waste another afternoon. Then I took a little nap and then we got to campus.
I had brought my campus map but not the directions to where I was supposed to go (at this point, all four people who read this blog are saying to themselves, "I've got to stop reading this blog, this girl has the IQ of pudding.") But, points in my favour, I did find the building and then the English office just from fuzzy memories and intuition. I was so thrilled with that success that I wished to present myself at the office simply to say, "Dry run successful, seeya Monday!" but of course it was closed for the day.
So I went back to the food court and got a root beer from the A&W concession. How come UTSC gets a real, mall-style food court and we get Aramak? Theirs is so much better. I think somewhere in that sentence lies the moral of this tale: It's not Scarborough's fault. It's not their fault that they are far away and confusing. It sure seems popular enough a burgh, judging from all those many bus routes it has. And the root beer was delicious, and the girl I asked for directions was very nice. I lifted the title above from a friend who has lived and loved in Scarborough, but I strongly suspect that I, a disorganized interloper, is not allowed to use such a pejorative. It's like how I can make fun of my little brother, but no one else can. What do outsiders know?
And when I found a 38 bus for the return trip, it was very efficient, and allowed me the delight of the RT from Scarborough Centre to Kennedy. Delight is a slightly qualified term, of course--it's just as well I was alone, as that thing makes a sound like God gargling, precluding all conversation. But still, it's an elevated, the only one in the GTA (I think). It's so great just to be able to look out, even if it is over fields of parked garbage trucks and scrap yards, and some of the most amazing breakfast-cereal-inspired graffiti ever seen.
And so, sadder but wiser, I made my way home, to appraise the post, make salmon and asparagus for supper and plot never again to leave the core-city, or perhaps my apartment, ever again.
I could be your favourite girl
RR
Monday, April 9, 2007
Long weekend
Kicked off the long weekend with a stellar meeting of the Free Biscuit-reers, which would be the theatre group I'm helping out with. They're a group of actors committed to innovation, inclusion and ingestion of biscuits, and they graciously allow me to play along and help with scripts and stuff. Ever fun. They' got a blog, and to kill two birds with one stone, you could surf on over and find not only what the group is like but read a film review I wrote of "Reign Over Me" at Free Biscuit Theatre. If you haven't the time, the short version is that Free Biscuit is awesome and so is Adam Sandler.
Anyway, that film plus a peck of writing is what I did Friday, and then more work of the teaching variety plus a delightful trip to see my family on Saturday. Over cocktails I flew into an inexplicable rage (not really, but I was snarky) because my father told a delightful story about a horse he encountered as a child that I had never heard before. I somehow felt, having known my dad for nigh on thirty years, I would only be hearing breaking news and I was alarmed to know that he was sitting on such good material. As a result of my snark, over the course of the weekend got two more brand new stories, also delightful. I am on the verge of demanding my parents and everyone else I know get a blog (that will never happen). Really, you might think this blog is very boring, but this is exactly the sort of information I want to know about you. Yes, you. Go on, tell me what *you* did Thursday night, or the last time you were on a horse. If you don't, I'll accuse you of holding out on me.
Hard rock radio
RR
Anyway, that film plus a peck of writing is what I did Friday, and then more work of the teaching variety plus a delightful trip to see my family on Saturday. Over cocktails I flew into an inexplicable rage (not really, but I was snarky) because my father told a delightful story about a horse he encountered as a child that I had never heard before. I somehow felt, having known my dad for nigh on thirty years, I would only be hearing breaking news and I was alarmed to know that he was sitting on such good material. As a result of my snark, over the course of the weekend got two more brand new stories, also delightful. I am on the verge of demanding my parents and everyone else I know get a blog (that will never happen). Really, you might think this blog is very boring, but this is exactly the sort of information I want to know about you. Yes, you. Go on, tell me what *you* did Thursday night, or the last time you were on a horse. If you don't, I'll accuse you of holding out on me.
Hard rock radio
RR
Saturday, April 7, 2007
The Reading Year
So April 6, 2006, was the rather arbitrary date that I started keeping a reading journal. I actually think the reason was that the semester ended at the same time it did last year and it took me a week-ish to read the first "pleasure" book of the year. I'm uncertain because I have a terrible memory, which was the reason I started keeping the journal in the first place. That, and estimable friends like Scott and Kerry (damn, I forget how to do links--you know who they are) had such logs, and look how estimable they are. The journal wound up including not only pleasure reading but school books from my summer class, non-fiction on useful topics, and serious journals I read entirely—but not the 30+ "novels" I read for "work" nor my ongoing obsession with reading every word of The New Yorker (that's another post).
So the grand total came in at 61, which means about a book a week, which is about what I imagined. Though I was sort of scared I'd get to the end and it'd be 3 books and I'd realize that I am functionally illiterate. Wait, wait, that's a bad stereotype that I have to stop indulging in. Some smart people don't read, I heard a rumour. Anyway, this reading year ended not with a bang but a whimper, Bill Bryson's Mother Tongue. I love Bryson's travel writing, and I love the English language, what's not to like, I thought? The lack of narrative arc or pacing made it difficult, though each individual chapter was interesting. Interesting seemed to be the highest goal present though--lists were not exhaustive, and what was explained and what wasn't seemed a bit hit and miss. Canadian English got maybe three or four mentions, mostly in relation to its past persecutions in Quebec, and there were some glaring political incorrectnesses (ie. Native American languages referred to as "foreign" tongues in America). And the book was poorly proofread, which makes me bats, especially given the subject.
Nevertheless, I learned a lot, not least that any Bradfordian, not just Ross, could spot a Leeds man or woman a mile out. Good to know. And now, onward.
On the horizon: I'll be reading Frank Wah's Diamond Grill next, because it's on the exam I'll be marking and I don't really remember it from 5 years ago. Just knowing I liked it is probably not enough for the undergrads. And then, hmm...not sure, but likely another reread, Jane Eyre for a project I'm working on. I love that book, but I've only read it once, and then only because I was assigned Wide Sargasso Sea for a seminar and realized I was unlikely to understand without Jane. That is kinda a weird, angry way to experience the favourite book of so many childhoods. And now I need it for a story, so I need to really know it cold, which with my sieve-like brain, requires a reread. So, onward.
I hope y'all had a good Good Friday, Passover Sedar, whatever you're into. I'm off on a mini-jaunt to my folks' place. Shall we reconvene here next week?
I'm gonna stand guard / like a postcard / of a Golden Retriever
RR
So the grand total came in at 61, which means about a book a week, which is about what I imagined. Though I was sort of scared I'd get to the end and it'd be 3 books and I'd realize that I am functionally illiterate. Wait, wait, that's a bad stereotype that I have to stop indulging in. Some smart people don't read, I heard a rumour. Anyway, this reading year ended not with a bang but a whimper, Bill Bryson's Mother Tongue. I love Bryson's travel writing, and I love the English language, what's not to like, I thought? The lack of narrative arc or pacing made it difficult, though each individual chapter was interesting. Interesting seemed to be the highest goal present though--lists were not exhaustive, and what was explained and what wasn't seemed a bit hit and miss. Canadian English got maybe three or four mentions, mostly in relation to its past persecutions in Quebec, and there were some glaring political incorrectnesses (ie. Native American languages referred to as "foreign" tongues in America). And the book was poorly proofread, which makes me bats, especially given the subject.
Nevertheless, I learned a lot, not least that any Bradfordian, not just Ross, could spot a Leeds man or woman a mile out. Good to know. And now, onward.
On the horizon: I'll be reading Frank Wah's Diamond Grill next, because it's on the exam I'll be marking and I don't really remember it from 5 years ago. Just knowing I liked it is probably not enough for the undergrads. And then, hmm...not sure, but likely another reread, Jane Eyre for a project I'm working on. I love that book, but I've only read it once, and then only because I was assigned Wide Sargasso Sea for a seminar and realized I was unlikely to understand without Jane. That is kinda a weird, angry way to experience the favourite book of so many childhoods. And now I need it for a story, so I need to really know it cold, which with my sieve-like brain, requires a reread. So, onward.
I hope y'all had a good Good Friday, Passover Sedar, whatever you're into. I'm off on a mini-jaunt to my folks' place. Shall we reconvene here next week?
I'm gonna stand guard / like a postcard / of a Golden Retriever
RR
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Linkages
Hmm, so I've put up some links. So far the links are only to people I know and journals I've been published in. Is it just me who uses the internet primarily as an interactive medium? Really, except for friends' sites, email, Google and Facebook, I read the occasional journal and that's it. Ok, and sometimes Television Without Pity (yes, I read tv because I can't watch it--sad sad sad). I know people who keep totally up on current events, film, music, whatever, but unless I know someone involved personally, I'm not likely to find out anything. How do people get so cyber-connected, and how do they find time? Hmmm...maybe this blog with somehow connect me to the secret internet universe of useful knowledge... I doubt it. Good thing my friends are so interesting.
And it's not 9:07 am. I've really got to fix that.
It's just the bullets
RR
And it's not 9:07 am. I've really got to fix that.
It's just the bullets
RR
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
The adventure begins!
Ok, I think that's it for the preliminary intro/blog set-up stuff, so we're good to go (until someone grants me permission to put them on my links list--ahem!) I'm going with the optimistic word here, "adventure" as opposed to "abyss" or something along those lines. Really by "adventure", I mean this mad after-graduation, rest-of-my-life thing that I'm embarking upon. Also the blog, of course, but I don't think by any stretch of the imagination I'm going to be able to make this thing fascinating enough to constitute an adventure. Maybe a promenade.
BUT, I'm gonna make a promise here, because I'm trying to prevent everyone (including myself) from losing interest in this little excercise in, like, week. The promise is that I'll try to be at least funny or interesting or weird or something in every entry. No recitations of arguments I had with the guy at the phone company or long pontifications on the nature of subjectivity. I promise. Well, I promise to try.
I kinda think this attempt at being interesting may eventually result in me just, well, making things up. But, then, Lillian Hellman pretty much died bitter and penniless because she changed her autobiography to make it more interesting and Mary McCarthy made it her mission to destroy her. So maybe it's a bad idea. Well, you can *let me know*, cause you can comment on these entries. If you, you know, wanna.
Wow, it's so not 4:55 am. I wonder why my blog clock says that. So many mysteries!!
I'll dig a tunnel / From my window to yours
RR
BUT, I'm gonna make a promise here, because I'm trying to prevent everyone (including myself) from losing interest in this little excercise in, like, week. The promise is that I'll try to be at least funny or interesting or weird or something in every entry. No recitations of arguments I had with the guy at the phone company or long pontifications on the nature of subjectivity. I promise. Well, I promise to try.
I kinda think this attempt at being interesting may eventually result in me just, well, making things up. But, then, Lillian Hellman pretty much died bitter and penniless because she changed her autobiography to make it more interesting and Mary McCarthy made it her mission to destroy her. So maybe it's a bad idea. Well, you can *let me know*, cause you can comment on these entries. If you, you know, wanna.
Wow, it's so not 4:55 am. I wonder why my blog clock says that. So many mysteries!!
I'll dig a tunnel / From my window to yours
RR
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