The Night Birds

When I got up this morning and was looking at the "Pioneer Press" over breakfast, I was happy to see a picture of fellow MSU grad student Thomas Maltman along with a full article on his new book:I was even happier when I saw he was going to be doing a reading at Common Good Bookstore up in St. Paul's Crocus Hill neighborhood. I'm generally up in St. Paul on Sundays so I decided to go support Tom and get a copy of his book. I saw Rick Robbins there from the MSU English department and got to chat a bit with Tom before his reading began.

"The Night Birds" is an historical novel focused around the Dakota conflict of 1862 in Minnesota. But as Tom described today at his reading, it's really about family secrets and silence. I can't say more about it because I have only read the first 7 pages so far. As Tom read portions of the first two chapters, I found myself getting quickly drawn into the story and his way of telling it through the eyes of his protagonist, Asa. I felt a huge sense of anticipation and wanted the story to further unfold.

This made me think about something, and I'm not sure if I read it somewhere before, or if it's my own idea. I tend to think it's the former, because the way it played in my head, it sounded almost like some quoted advice: "One should write novels and stories like mysteries, and mystery novels like dramas." Now that I type it out, I think maybe I adapted it from Hitchcock's advice to shoot love scenes like murders and murders like love scenes. Anyway, what I thought of worked with Tom's novel. He built up suspense and anticipation in the way one would writing a detective novel. I'm excited to read it, but have a couple other books to read before I get to it, the first being Nicole Lea Helget's (also an MSU fellow student) "The Summer of Ordinary Ways" which Kristin kindly loaned me.

Almost done

Here are some pics from Graduation last Saturday:




This is what my hood looks like.

After graduation, I went to Dodge's for a fun afternoon - Jess offers a brilliant recap of the day's highlights.

Anyway, here's me wearing my Harry Potter frames, and being oh so happy to be done with school.


Yet I am a little sad knowing I won't be with all my Kato friends next year.

P.S. Thanks to SpSp (and SpSp's main squeeze) for coming down along with my sis and folks to watch me walk across the platform and recieve my diploma.

Pump and/or Munch

We had loads of fun in DeKalb, IL this weekend. So I'll give you a mini weekend in review with pictures:


Katy, Lori, and Nikki pose outside of the "Pump n' Munch" while we wait for our fearless leader to use the bathroom. I drove one van with Katy, Panko, Liz, Christy, Kristin, and Lori. Donna "drove" (see Chad for details) the other van carrying Portia, Amanda, Jenny, Nikki, and the Kuypster. We were led to believe that these would be big vans. This was a lie. The only good thing about being so crammed in was that when I hit the break hard with my left foot (imagining I was still driving a manual transmission), no one flew through the window. Chad told me that at one point when I passed their van, Donna looked over and said something like, "That bitch just passed me!"


Two of my lovely travelling companions at a not-so-lovely gas station.


Christy and I share a moment at a noisy club with a heating unit that baked those of us fortunate enough to be sitting in front of it.


Here are my hotel roommates for the trip. Yes, Kuyper and I roomed with Donna. Ask Chad what he said to Donna on our first night, right before bed.


Lori, Kristin, and Christy had booze in their room. This made the cramped rooms tolerable. Kristin, you rock.


Sween and I were the only dancers at the club. Apart that is from Chad and Panko (picture not included because I'm tired of photobucket right now - I'll show you later).


The morning after. (Pa)jammerific!


Back at the bar.



Okay. These deserve some explanation. Panko pulled a Panko and packed her husband's black dress pants for the trip instead of her own. We all suggested she try on Chad's pants as he was closest in shape and height. When she put them on, she thought them too manly, so we added Liz's shirt and my tie to give her an Annie Hall look. The obvious success can be seen above. Katy spoiled the magic by telling Panko she looked like a waitress, and the Pankster changed. She so would have won the best presenter award at the conference had she worn the above little number.

We also presented our papers, but my showing pictures of people presenting papers would be almost as boring as listening to me present my paper. Suffice it to say, the MSU gang rocked. I missed Amanda's and Christy's papers, but I understand they also were great (missed Liz's too, but we read ours to each other at Caribou the night before so we could cut and time them).

I will put up more pictures as soon as I get to a cafe and have a faster connection.

What does one do when one is done with one's thesis? One impulse shops.

That title, by the by, was for Chad's student.

So, here's a Hitchcockian "shot-reverse-shot" depiction of what it's like to complete your thesis (complete with commentary)


Camera shows aprehensive grad student looking at his thesis


Cut to close up on eye staring at thesis. I like this one cuz it looks like Marion Crane's eye in "Psycho."


Camera cuts to a page of the thesis; "Goblin Market" is framed in the center.


Cut back to reaction shot of grad student (exhausted relief).

Um, yeah...I kinda bought a digital camera today.

A scare and a word of praise

So I just checked my e-mail and my third reader for my thesis (the one from outside the department) might have to back out. She has a job interview and can't make the thesis defense. She wanted to move it to a week earlier. My advisor went to bat for me in a major way. She sent this lengthy letter telling her how hard I'd been working and how I was aiming to graduate on time. The letter was super terse and direct. I was so happy she was being such a strong advocate on my behalf. Then she sent me a note telling me not to worry and just to keep working.

After yesterday's meeting with her, I was pretty discouraged about my writing until she sent an e-mail to me (after the one to the third reader). Here's a bit of it:

"I hope you weren't too dismayed after our meeting yesterday.  There was lots of purple [reference to her notations], but that wasn't necessarily a "bad" thing.  I think you're on the right track, and the content of your mytho-poetic chapter was good and appropriate for your purpose.  In case you haven't already figured it out (which you probably have), one of my goals is to help a very good writer become an extremely polished writer--and to help you write something which ten years from now you will be proud of."

I needed to hear those words. Now I've just got to finish the damned thing. Thanks to you all for your support as well!

Reasons NOT to teach composition online.

1. The fact (and I mean fact) that your students' IQs drop noticably.
2. The student who asks the question after you've given the answer.
3. The five students who still ask the same question AFTER the student from #2 has already asked the answered question.
4. The students (one in four) who are given direction, sent off to their sub-chatrooms to work, and the first thing they type is "So what are we supposed to do?"
5. The student who (every week) exactly one hour and fifteen minutes into class asks "Can we go now?"
6. The student who knows the technology better than you.
7. The student who is too easily offended and takes EVERY message typed by the instructor as a personal slam on her (yes, it's always a her).
8. The no shows.
9. The late-comers.
10. The student who doesn't know how to send - much less open - an attachment.
11. The Chatty-Cathy's.
12. D2L
13. UCompass
14. The students who refuse to follow protocol.
15. The fact that you can always predict the one student who will have some issue (technological or other) that will hold up the class.
16. The fact that the chatroom doesn't always refresh properly.
17. The student who reiterates the answer to your question and gets it completely wrong.
18. The student whose only contribution to the classroom chat is "LOL."
19. Emoticons.
20. The students who answer questions for you.
21. The nay-sayers.
22. The students who get frustrated with YOU for their inablility to follow instructions.
23. The students who continue to use Microsoft Works when you've told them over and over not to, and who look utterly bewildered when no one can open their essay draft.
24. The fact that students don't consider an absence from the online session as an absence.
25. The fact that cyberspace is a dumb venue in which to teach students how to write.

Half way there!

I met with my advisor yesterday regarding my thesis. I handed her my review of literature chapter (24 pages), my Mytho-Poetic chapter (14 pages), my works cited (4 pages), and an outline of my biographical framework. Only about twenty more pages to go, and then I'll be done. I'm actually enjoying my research, but it is still much more fun to talk about than to write about. I'm going to use the last two lines of the following poem in my title. I thought it appropriate as my thesis is about the ambiguity of "Goblin Market." Here's the poem (this is one of my favorite of her works):

Winter: My Secret
Christina Georgina Rossetti


I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
WHen drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.

Big Mouth Hungry! EAT SMURFS!

You are sitting in your office waiting for one of your students to come to her conference with you. She's the only no show so far - well, you could count the student who told you yesterday that conferences would not be conveneint for him as he was going to the cities and could you please log on to D2L so that you can meet with him online to discuss his paper that he'll probably send as a microsoftworks document, so you can't read it anyway, but wait, he never sent it to begin with, and he wasn't terribly disturbed by the low grade on his first paper, so you don't even consider him. You are glad she didn't show up because it means you can work on your thesis revision and that chapter you haven't finished on your thesis. You are still a little anxious after the meeting you had with your advisor yesterday - you know you are behind and it bothers you; you just don't want her to call that to your attention. You want to be done with the damned thing, but that bout of chronic fatigue syndrome hits you every time you sit down to your computer to work. You can talk forever about CGR. You love to talk forever about CGR. "Goblin Market" is probably the one poem you really get. But when you sit down to your thesis, all the interest and energy flows out of you. You forget how to write a paper. No. Forget about forgetting how to write a paper; you forget how to write. You are still scarred (you almost wrote scared, but either works) after your experience writing papers for American lit last semester. You can still string together words, but suddenly people tell you you are illogical, that you make no sense. You know what you mean, but that counts for shit.

You remember reading the first part of a biography on Leonard Bernstein (you never got past the first six chapters because you have trouble finishing things). You remember how he attended some latin school for brilliant children of brilliant parents. You remember the story of how he wrote a brilliant paper the night before it was due, and how his teachers gushed at how innovative he was and how he took such an unorthodox approach to the assignment, that he received high marks. You wish you could sit at the piano and play the way he was playing at 10.

You think of your friend in New York who seems to live some sort of charmed life. Who can live on three hours of sleep a night and accomplishes more in five hours than you do in two weeks. Who writes cookbooks and caters meals for Oprah, and had a lion and a peacock for a pet when he was a child.

You are always tired. You don't get any exercise. You don't always get your work done. You always have an excuse. You fall asleep at your computer. You get a sore throat (You make sure to cough and sniffle when you tell your advisor this to add verisimilitude to your story. The story IS true, but you still feel bad for using the excuse). You had much more fun writing your paper for world novel this week. You parodied Jamaica Kincaid's writing style, writing in second person. As you write in the same mode now, you feel like a counterfeit. You enjoy this mode more, because it feels lazy. When you read your paper in class two nights ago, one person applauded you for it. Another said "funny." You were proud. You felt deflated when the professor questioned your emotional response to the book you parodied. You felt suddenly like you got the answer wrong, that your sense of well-being hinged on getting the right response. But you've always felt that way. You get tired of that, and always resolve not to care so much, but you still do. You feel more that your thesis is being written for your advisor's benefit than for yours. You realize of course that this is a problem, because how can you write with conviction about something when its written under the pressure of needing to do it for someone else? You try and convince yourself that your knowledge of this will be the thing that pushes you through it, and it will eventually. But you're not buying it right now.

Then your 4:00 appointment arrives - the student from Macedonia - and as you read through his paper (which should be a drudge because you are marking grammatical errors every three words, but isn't because his communication is clearer than most of your other students' - heck, it's clearer than your thesis) you begin to get lost his story of his father teaching him how to repair a gold ring. You are caught up in his story and can see this student's father sitting with him at a work bench teaching him how to solder, file, and polish. This student represents something for you, but you don't completely know what it is. You are glad you didn't send him packing to 101 for non-natives. Maybe he represents your desire for independence as well as connection (but the minute you write that, you don't believe it). Maybe you just wish you had a cool accent and not the non-accent you tried so hard to have so that you didn't have a Minnesotan one.

You think about a record your parents had when you were a child that described the ministry of the apostle Paul from the book of Acts(you feel embarrassed that you just admitted to something so churchy, but then you don't really care either). You remember the actor speaking for Paul recounting a vision he had one night where he saw a man standing there saying: "Come over to Macedonia and help us." You remember the meaning of the vision, but for some reason it registers differently now. Every time you see your student, you think of this dream of Paul's.

You wish you were in Macedonia.

Satisfactorally Unsatisfactory

I had a conversation with Jess Lang (who is one of the most intelligent people in our department). She also did not complete a self-assessment. When I asked her about the unsatisfactory, she reminded me that in the last e-mail Randall sent out, neither of our names were included on the list of people needing to complete the assessment. It still sucks to have an unsatisfactory, and they should have included an n/a among the options, but I'm just glad not to have to write the damned thing.

In honor of not having to write the damned thing, I am going to include another picture of an SCTV character:

Lola Heatherton wants to bear your children.

Unsatisfactory - Not submitted

That is what appeared on my goldenrod performance review that I received today. I forgot to submit my self-assessment report.

It was due February first.

What is up with me this semester? I am having the hardest time remembering things, keeping deadlines, and maintaining an interest in academics. I feel like I'm slogging along, just barely keeping up. It's not like I don't have the time, but once I get back up to the cities, it gets hard to keep focused. I'm also working three days a week at Cafe Latte, which leaves me completely tired after every shift. So now I have to lick Randall's boots to get him to let me submit this stupid assessment late. Then I have to explain it in a letter that will go with the review to the dean. I wish I could get a job watching episodes of SCTV on dvd.


Meh...

The Beginnings of Things

The first words I heard out of anyone's mouth this morning were, "Peachy keen, Jelly Bean!" I put it in pink so you could get an idea of the way in which it was delivered. It was said by the Kwik Trip girl behind the counter. I was buying my breakfast burrito, a mini 2% milk, and a small egg nog (my seasonal indulgence). I asked this woman how she was doing, and that was her perky response. I just stared at her. Then I asked if I could have a bag. She looked at me and said "No." Then she giggled and said "Just Kidding!" Why do I talk to people? Anyway, this blog is dedicated to her, because Lord love anyone who can work a crap job like that and still manage a spring in their step and a song in their ever-loving heart.

I'm finished with everything for the semester, but now the heavy stuff is starting. You may be quoting me in pink in your blogs as I immerse myself in a sea of poetry by Christina Rossetti next semester. Katy has already expressed her opinion to me when she said: "When ever you mention Christina Rossetti, your eyes light up, and you talk on and on forever and it's really boring....But it's cute."

I love Katy.

At any rate, these are the two Christinas in my life this year:
and
(Notice the obvious similarity between the two).

Christmas Break (Sorry, Donna - I'm not very PC) assignment for Christina (Rossetti) Olson:

I want you to look at a copy of "Goblin Market" and write a parody of this epic poem.

Happy Christmas, Harry!

Exhausting weekend in which I got nothing done. So somehow between now and Wed. I have to finish portfolios, write an eight page paper and revise a 14 page one for Donna. Of course what I did this weekend instead of all that work was far more interesting. Christina and I led Jean, Jenny, Chad, and Liz through the Snow White display. I've explained it before, and now I'm glad Xtina's putting pictures up on her site to prove how queer it all was. This second trip allowed Christina and I to dig deeper into the story and discover the subtle nuances in each tableau - Nugent's 5 O'clock shadow, his be-jewelled belly, Snow White's father laughing maniacally. The best part of the whole event was the company I was keeping. This was really the first time I'd gottten to hang out with Jenny, and Jean's a fairly new friend as well. After unsuccessfully trying to find a place to eat in the downtown Mpls. area, we ventured to Cossetta's in St. Paul, wore the silly paper crowns from our crackers from Brits, ate some excellent Pizza, and then headed out.

The Rise of the Uber Nerd

Hey, my third post of the day - ain't I the limit? I'm sitting in a Starbucks on a street in Burnsville that shares my father's name. I'm supposed to be studying for an exam I am told is nearly impossible to study for. The only possible way I could do well on this would be to have a photographic memory (like Becky Ewert), and have read almost every piece of literature in the canon (again, like Becky Ewert). What? You'd like to try your hand at a question? Okay, chew on this one for a bit and then you can feel as stupid as I do at the moment:

194. Which refers to Telemachus?
195. Which refers to George Etherege?
196. Which refers to Alexander?
197. Which refers to Orpheus?

*The underscore (_____________) denotes the omission of a proper name.

(A) Let gentle _________ in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;

(B) Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
by Philip's warlike son

(C)________could lead the savage race;
and trees uprooted left their place
Sequacious of the lyre

(D) And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know,
Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self secure,
Didst tread on earth unguessed at - better so!

(E) This is my sone, mine own_________,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle
Well-loved of me.


Yeah, I don't know either. If someone does, will they please take my ID and go to St. Thomas Saturday and take this damnable test for me?

Well, operation speed bird never got off the ground because Olson couldn't get her ever-loving ass out of bed. I even bought a new outfit for the occasion - a flecked grey v-neck cable knit sweater from Old Navy. I looked so good, I could be one of the Old Navy carolers in New York this Christmas:

Okay, that took up some visual space. Now, what's happening in my life? Well, the semester's almost over. I have one more eight page paper to do and some serious revisions on another paper. Then I have a growing stack of portfolios to get through. But all should go well. This Friday Corliss and I are going to hit Orchestra Hall and hear the ninth symphony of:

Man, if I had hair ("Donde esta mi pelo, senorita Olson?") I'd be all over the Beethoven look. And man, do I have a scowl to go with it. At any rate the concert should be good as the MN Chorale will be there and this is the symphony with "Ode to Joy" in it. There's also going to be a piece by some lesser known composer - Wolfgang something or other. I'm sure it will be real cute. I'm going to join a gym this weekend so I don't get fat(ter) this Christmas like I usually do. I get so lazy here at school. If I start a rigorous plan of exercise, I too may have a chance to be Mount Rose's next Miss Teen Princess American, just like Becky Leeman.

I'm back, baby!

Okay, after composing a series of lame and overly academic blogs for my stupid comprehensive exams, I'm ready to start getting back to the day to day entries. I'm sitting next to the scabby elbowed Christina, who is my bestest, new friend. Her skin feels a might clammy - I just checked it. She's singing "In the Garage" to an unknown person on the phone. Last night, she Chad, Jean, and I hangeded out at Pub 500 last night. These guys had me in stitches. Their rendition of the clapping lesbian was brilliant. Jean, you rock! I have really nothing of import to express, except for the fact that I really dislike Emily Dickinson, and don't want to discuss her at the pub tonight.