cyclics

Last day of class, tomorrow.  And my reward? A shitload of papers, followed by a shitload of finals, on Tuesday.  If I handle it right (i.e. punish/reward myself sufficiently), I should have it all cleared off my desk by this time next week, so I can abandon the paper I was working on today (*waves cheerily*) and turn to the one I haven't written (*waves warily*) before then turning back to the one I was working on, etc.  The turn around is brutal - a single week of spring break, and then the new quarter, and in that week the two talks and two classes to prepare.  Yes, of course it could be much much worse, and to the one of you who I know reads this with her 4-4 teaching load, yeah, poor little rich kid, etc., but hell, it's my blog and I'll whinge if I want to.  Last year I taught Fall and Winter, and had spring off - I went to England last April, to look at the books (and drink of the pints, if my increasingly saturated memory serves aright).  An email exchange with the friend who probably will never receive the letter, and a friendly reminder that her shit doesn't stink.  And a thought, unexpected, that if I stay here until they've decided they won't make me leave, I'm playing it safe.  Never been my strong suit, safe, even if it's been my weak point (if that makes any sense, and I think it does, if you know what I mean and I think you do).  Why not shove my head in the jaws of a hostile institution halfway through?  Although I should probably finish this book of mine, in that case, and get it out the door and perhaps a polite review or two.  Or, fuck it, burn the shit.  Admit that I have less control over my life as "successful" than I ever did whilst betwixt and between and in the cracks.  And reassert that control by redefining successful.  Or just admit that I'm annoyed I finished the Scotch.  "I'm out of Chivas," he said to a room full of construction workers, staggeringly slightly.  Not me, fools.  Him. To quote M., as N calls him, "Only to read childrens' books / only to love childish things, / throwing away adult things, / rising from saddest looks."

djhazzzz

May 28, 2007.  The last time I listened to Coltrane's Africa/Brass album.  199 times, I've listened to the opening track of Pat Metheny's "A Map of the World", morning music (yeah, still, Tone, and it's still your fault. I've eliminated the album from my "most played" playlists.) April 1, 2007, the last time I listened to Arvo Part's Berliner Messe.  I used to fall asleep with that album playing every night in the late spring and summer of 1994.  So much to read, so much to listen to, and I'm feeling burdened by the limitations of my work.  What should be intellectual freedom is instead the burden of a book unwritten, of promise yet to be fulfilled, the sword of Damocles dangling ominously, yet described in triplicate and its severance a process well documented and funded by the Great State of California.  I've somehow come to associate my not-listening-to-jazz (in favour of a wave of indie/shoegazing over the last few years) with not-being-done-with-my-book and not-being-more-productive.  I'm not sure why, as I've been stupidly productive, of late, despite the two unwritten talks in the next 5 1/2 weeks scaring the living fuck out of me.  The bigger audience, 1st week in April, likely the less important talk than the smaller-but-everyone-is-someone audience, 3rd week in April talk.  Sigh.  Back to Mrs. Mandlestam, having dabbled in some of Osip's poetry, this evening, and another fine glass of the fine invention of Glenmorangie  aged in Burgundy casks.  Delightful.  

I served the king of england

Well, not exactly, but it's a book well worth reading.  On the other hand, I just had dinner with the head of the Bibliothèque National, which was pretty fucking cool.

tis the fricking season

I hate the holidays.  I get surly and sulky and bitter.  Which, when mixed with authentic happiness, gets a bit confusing, really.  It was all fine and dandy to be 18, blasting NIN while wrapping a few presents, angry, heartbroken, and able to escape the familial through regular and judiciously timed smoke breaks.  It was all fine and dandy, too, to just skip family entirely, and spend it with The Ex and her family, if still fraught.  But the mountain has come to Mohammed, and yet rather than being impressed with the miracle I'm feeling alpine-ophobic.  (Damn. There's already a band named "Fear of Mountains.")  Anyway, a professional wobbly yesterday, courtesy Radical Colleague, whom I just don't particularly like, despite having known her for 20 odd years.  She seems to be on a slightly different track, a path of less resistance, perhaps because of a more obviously "sexy" field.  So the additional request I received sent me for a spin, which merely confirmed that I get sulky and surly and bitter around the holidays. I like it that way, I think.  Which is not to say I don't have 30 minutes to shower, shave, shit, shine, and shampoo in time to accompany a family member to purchase cases of wine for the benefit of my alcoholic family, arriving from up North all too soon.  Including my speed-dealing, meth-head, light-fingered cousin, who will be staying with us, along with his latest floozie.  We'll deposit YCT's jewelry at someone else's house, but what about silver candlesticks? Financial documents? I may just go on and on about how broke I am, and he'll not bother to steal my identity. If he's even smart enough to do so.  Then, shopping for pretty much fucking everyone.  Boo. fucking. Hoo.  Merry fucking holidays, all.  I'm slammed until the conference in Chicago, then when I come back I'm teaching (to which I actually look forward), but totally fucking slammed with work until April, at which point I should be able to breathe and get some work done.  

the hours roll on

If I'm not careful, my ass is gonna attach itself to my office chair. Whoever indicated the life of the junior faculty member was anything other than indentured servitude, well, they were full of shit. "Can't complain" my ass. Here last night until 8, a full 8-hour day today, and still I'm panicked about getting shit out the door in time for the talk on Wednesday, so shall be in again tomorrow, in between celebrating the 96th birthday of my 4'8" Jewish step-grandmother from the Lower East Side. Sigh. Although it just occurs to me these recommendation letters could go in late. In fact, fuck 'em. Sorry John of the keen and restless intellect and the methodical deliberation and analysis - it's gonna have to wait. Although no one will be looking at these files until the New Year, so it's not as if I'm single handedly going to ruin your future. And if I do, you'll never know. AnywayS, I gotta tend to my own future. 30 fricking colleagues showing up for what was supposed to be a roundtable discussion populated by 7-10 techies and geeks. My plan is to geek out so much that the colleagues don't know what I'm saying, but throw down enough period-specific detail that the geeks can't fault me for it being mostly tech show-and-tell-and-I-wish-things-would-improve. But "show and tell" means "slides" means "screen shots" means "fiddly ass shit you can't fake" means time, which, of course, is on the short side. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Shrug. Brother-in-law's birthday party, and Herself is visiting friends up north, so I'm off to drink and drive solo....

brullyant

A fab idea, slightly bastardized from the suggestion of a quasi-colleague, who came wandering into my office not long ago to share the tail-end of a bottle of champagne.  I do wish I knew her name...  Anyway, we were discussing a novel, and she enquired about my work before noticing the NYTimes displayed on the monitor, and she laughed.  She suggested the category of "productive non-work," i.e. developmentally useful readings not directly connected to one's work (including intriguing novels).  And it strikes me - my office is a place of binaries: I work, or I fail to work; I deal with university things, or utterly reject and avoid them.  So, I'm going to try and work the middle ground here, and give myself permission, nay, insist that if I'm not working, that I pursue productive non-work rather than exclusively non-productive non-work.  Hah.  Revelate!  Deviate!  Celebrate.  Tomorrow and tomorrow, etc.  The petty pace ain't over yet.

words

It makes me very, very happy that Thom Yorke uses "indefatigable" on Eraser, and that he pronounces it correctly. The mental geography of proximity - born in Oxford, that pretentious ginger twat was. He once spilled a full pint on me in the Bully Arms. Soaked in lager by greatness. Most exciting. Back to work. Geoffrey reminds me of all the reasons I don't like Gregory, but also all the reasons the Aeneid never really rocked my world. Although I should buy the new translation, regardless.