In which we are done

We are, aren't we? With this whole damn year? It hasn't been bad, exactly, just eternal and exhausting. I feel like I should do a year-end wrap-up to properly situate my personal history, but I can't even remember last January. There's a vague sense of writing feverishly to make departmental fellowship deadlines, and then... nothing for a long, long time. And then writing feverishly to make job-related deadlines, and then... suck, lots of suck. The End.

So, anyway. More recent history has included a lovely trip to the sunny, balmy climes of the American Southwest. Oh, Tucson--I love you, I miss you, and you make me ineffably sad. I ate a lot. I got a trucker tan on my right arm (so, really, a passenger tan).

And then we came home for MLA. Went to the blogger meet-up (Hi! Hi! You all were awesome!), drank fancy hotel-bar drinks, chatted a bit, and scurried home. C. had an interview on Friday, and I went ahead and registered so I'm covered for next year. I popped into a session Prof. Persnickety was presenting in, and got a smile and wink from our department's Gloriana (been there forever, brilliant and ballsy, so kind and gracious to those she likes, so terrifying from the other side). I slipped out before the hobnobbing after, preferring to disapparate instead. Strolled the book exhibit, spent not so much but got so much (see below). I had intended to go to some panels on Saturday and Sunday, but the inertia of my couch proved too much for me.

The theme of the last week or so has been How Many Books Can I Buy, and Will They Make Me Feel Better? Answers: 36 and Kinda.

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In which I find an excuse to go to the archive

Here's my secret shame: I don't do archival stuff. It's not that I don't want to, it's more that the whole research portion of my graduate training has been... sad, to say the least. Non-existent is another apt term. My home library has, allegedly, a fantastic collection of stuff. My city has yet another fantastic private library with archives right up my alley. And yet, I've never delved into them.

But! I met with Don Music yesterday to discuss cabbages and kings and how on earth I can finally put at least one chapter to bed. After the last committee meeting, I came away with a new framing idea for the whole diss, and Don and I talked yesterday about how to pursue that idea and what kinds of critical and contemporary sources I need to bring into my argument. Which then led to him getting all excited about a tiny little genre of 16th-century how-to manuals in a tangential field. Of course, none of these manuals are of the kind of literary or historical importance to have been put out in modern editions. So it's off to the archive with me, because there's no way in hell that I can skim that ridiculous blackface type on a computer screen (not that EEBO isn't awesome).

UChaos's library doesn't have a copy of the one manual I most want to look at, but the private library does. As well as what looks like a few other related books. So, once we get back from our holiday trip to the balmy southwest, I'll be hieing myself downtown to get my official reader's card. Whee!

I do hope, though, that this new approach doesn't derail the work I've done so far. It looks like this material will fit neatly into what I already have written and give the chapters the critical grounding the committee thinks I need. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by my talk with Don, but also tentatively excited that I'm finally getting specific advice toward producing the work they want to see.

Also, I went a bit hippie-flaky earlier today and cleared out all the crap that was cluttered up in front of our household shrine (what, you don't have a household shrine? Made up of saint candles, Elvis memorabilia, milagros, conference nametags, and casino chips?) because I felt like the energy was totally trapped, man. Also, my bamboo plant was nearly dead.

Oh, and I celebrated turning in my grades by buying an awesome bag. It's big enough to fit file folders!

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In which I give myself enough rope

Hell with it, then. I just sent off the abstract, proposing a paper on our favorite mopey Dane. What are they going to do, kick me out of the Smart Kids' Club?

It is now my intention to sit down and play video games for several hours.

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In which the end is in sight

St. Happy's in the books. UChaos has just turned in final essays, and grading is set to commence. This term was rough, and I'm so glad that the end is finally here. I'm a bit disappointed in my own performance this term; I feel like I just let go about halfway through. St. Happy took the brunt of my flailing, but the overall grade distribution came out acceptable, so I didn't drive us off the rails or anything. I did, however, not receive five (5!) final essays from that class, which is just inexplicable. I'm more astonished as a student than as an instructor; when I gave up on a class as an undergrad, I gave up. Just stopped acknowledging its existence. I don't understand showing up and doing the work through the term and then just bailing on the thing at the end that's worth nearly half of the final grade. Who does that?

UChaos came along a bit better, mostly because it was an all-new prep for me, which forced me to pay better attention and adjust as I went along. I think I managed the connections I was trying to make across the materials, but the final essays will be the proof of that one way or the other. I had forgotten, though, what different creatures first-years are. They're fascinating in their weird array of knowledge and ignorance. They know such obscure and fantastic things, and then turn around and call every bit of published text between two covers a "novel." They've exposed a number of my own blind spots (like, how is everyone in the world not enamored of the humanistic approach to text?), and I'm sure they'll be exposing even more next term. I'm really happy that I have another term with this bunch to expand on the work we've done so far and to patch up some of the mistakes I made with them this term.

Ok, and as for my own work. Not good. Or, rather, not happening. The word-count has not budged, because I have not yet opened a document and named it "Most-Famous Play and Second-Most-Famous Play Chapter." I'm reading toward it, but I haven't yet put words to it. There was a meeting with 2/3 of my committee before Thanksgiving in which we figured out what was producing the disastrous miscommunication that led to the Bad Thing that happened in October. It was useful, but I'm still shaping my rage into the constructive engine I need it to be.

I also need to submit an abstract for a conference-thing. Today. I think I'll be presenting on Most-Famous Play, but I'm feeling a bit wary of submitting such a thing to a conference of Big Willie bigwigs. Is it absolute folly to do so? Or are we all so over that play that now we can actually start doing things with it again?

(It also occurs to me that this wariness is a product of the Bad Thing. One of the greatest compliments I've ever received came indirectly from Persnickety Prof., who told Mr. Eph that I was "fearless." Which, although it may have meant "too obtuse to know better," I held as a badge of honor. And now... now I fear I may be fearful. God damn it.)

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In which irony swings by a for a visit

Those three little applications I sent off, back when I was hopeful and ambitious about this year's market, before the world ended? Remember those?

One has requested more materials.

On the one hand, I feel vindicated. On the other, I suspect it's the UChaos name that did the trick.

But, still. Now do I respectfully retract my application, ignore the request, or forward the message on to my committee with a smug and disingenuous request for advice?

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In which we engage in a rite of passage

For the first time ever, in the history of time, I cried in front of a professor. Two, in fact, during a three-hour meeting with two-thirds of my committee. Goddamn it.

In my defense, it was more minor leakage rather than a full-on jag, and it was prompted by Persnickety jabbing at a very sore spot. He suggested that what my chapters are lacking is a certain level of "professionalism." Ahem. This "professionalism," to judge by my training in this program, appears out of nowhere, or perhaps descends upon one, like grace or manna or bird droppings. It is not, so far as I can tell, an aspect that is taught as part of the curriculum for doctoral students. It is also not something that could have been mentioned at point earlier in the three years I've spent on the dissertation so far.

So, yeah. It was crying in lieu of stabbing someone with a pen.

Other than that, it was a useful meeting. I have a strategy now for establishing my argument in a way that satisfies Persnickety and is interesting enough to keep the newest member of my committee (we'll call him Don Music) engaged. I still need to run it by Cheerleader, but I'm sure she'll be on board.

There was also some weirdness around the question of my engagement with the critical and contemporary background for my primary texts that, the more I think about it, sounds like Persnickety may have been suggesting that I haven't done my research. Which, combined with my feeling that this whole denial-of-letters has the effect of accusing me of being a fraud, just ups my rage yet again. Because in the past half-dozen years I have felt anxious, doubtful, unsure, confused, and absolutely at sea at times, but I have never felt like a fraud. I know what I know, and these suggestions that I don't seem to be about the most counter-productive advising techniques I can think of.

Hm. It appears that I'm still angry. I wonder if that will go away at some point.

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In which we revert

Since I can't manage to make Google searches ignore me, I'm switching naming conventions back to this older style. Annoying, because I liked using the song titles, but what ya gonna do. So, I've added odd characters in the middle of some of the older post titles to head off those looking for lyrics. But if anyone has further suggestions for cloaking myself in secrecy (wrapped in an enigma, smothered in secret sauce), they'd be appreciated.

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"Do You Realize?" The Flaming Lips

Dude, the universe is whispering at me. A local newscaster just quoted a line from Bacon that a good chunk of my first chapter hinges on. And last night's Boston Legal featured a closing argument that weirdly paralleled the last chapter I was working on. Something's in the air.

But, seriously, what local tv reporter quotes Bacon, for Francis's sake?

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"Wish I Were the Moon," Neko Case

Somehow that little counter/bar thingy over yonder hasn't budged. Hm. Perhaps because I have yet to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) in pursuit of the Major Plays chapter. I know I'm a slow started, but this is a little silly.

I did, however, finally talk to Cheerleader Advisor last night, and she was just as gung-ho on my project as ever. She also gave me some good strategies for my meeting with Persnickety Advisor, where I hope to convince him once and for all about the feasibility and importance of the topic. It's just so frustrating to be two years into the writing portion and I still have to convince him anew with every meeting. The current attempt to fix this involves outlining an introduction that covers all the critical background I'm not directly addressing in order to free up space in the chapters for what I do care about. Persnickety is an excellent editor and thinker (which is why he's on my committee), but I'm just so tired of defending my work every single time I meet with him.

I was also able to let Cheerleader know how this decision on their part affects my personal life, reminding her that I'm part of a two-career partnership. She suggested I set a writing schedule that (best-case scenario) makes me hire-able come spring if things go well with C.'s search. Which, again, was my original schedule, so I'm even more committed to sticking to it now.

So that's that. In teaching, I'm in the middle of what should be an awesome week: we're doing two of my favorite texts (forgive the 133t-speak, but I can't figure out how to make Google ignore me), The W@ste L@nd and The W1nter's T@le. And I feel like today's classes were good--the first-years really got the fun and utility of close-reading, and the Shx class liked the play more than I had expected after the pain and suffering last week's Tr0ilus and Cress1d@ caused. But I'm so, so worn out and unmotivated. It's an effort to turn it on at the beginning of class, and I'm more wiped-out than usual afterward. I'm entirely ready for the Quarter of Crap to be over and done with.

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Poetry Friday

No progress on the chapter just yet (Thursdays absolutely destroy me), but how's about a little Ovid? This is a little bit from the section on Arachne (Book VI), and for some reason, this translation from the Oxford cheapy edition absolutely slays me:

Only Arachne had no fear. Yet she
Blushed all the same; a sudden color tinged
Her cheeks against her will, then disappeared;
So when Aurora rises in the dawn,
The eastern sky is red and, as the sun
Climbs, in a little while is pale again.

She stood by her resolve, setting her heart,
Her stupid heart, on victory, and rushed
To meet her fate.

(Translation by A.D. Melville.)

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