Under the Wire--Again

I think I have a unique ability to post on the last day of the month. Since school, and my current life, do not usually require any other skills that I would be interested in developing (sleep, movies, music, quiet drives, and piles of interesting books) then I guess I should cultivate the skills that I already have--namely, getting posts in on the last day of the month. See, I succeeded in that. Yay.

Speaking of under the wire, I wish the summer hadn't finished when it did. I had 10 more episodes--one season--and summer decided to be done. How unfair is that?

I wrote a paper about justice and fairness. I was surprised by how it went and by how much I enjoyed it. I got a 99. I hate Turabian.

I just heard that ottobib.com is the single best way to have the computer generate your bibliography. It's friends with "Library Thing." I should have known it would be good. Apparently you type in the ISBN number of the book, and it formats it for you. You don't even type in information. Seriously, why didn't I hear of this before that paper?

I heard yesterday that Hathaway and Franco are hosting the Oscars. I don't know about you, but I think that's pretty cool. I like them both. Hathaway has indisputable charm, and I once listened to Franco read some of his poetry on NPR.

Last week, I listened to people birdwatch on NPR. It was so fascinating I couldn't turn it off.
"What are we coming up on Sue?"
"I don't know Greg, I think we've definitely got one at a little to your left, yes that's right."
"That looks like a beautiful bird. We need to get a bit closer before we can identify it though."
"Well Greg, I'm pretty sure . . . wait . . . it's definitely gray . . . with a white . . ."
"A white beak? You're right, Sue. That's a insert-quickly-forgettable-name-of-bird-here. Wow. I've never seen one in this part of Wisconsin before. I wonder if its migrating habits have been thrown off by the weather fluctuation"
"Greg, you know that this type of bird has a higher amount of . . . "
I had arrived at my destination and, subsequently, shut off the car. Do they sit in a studio and birdwatch? Or, are they out in the field observing wildlife with microphones next to their binoculars? It's questions like these that keep me fascinated.

Why would "pretentious" be the number one searched word on Merriam-Webster online dictionary? Don't you think that had you been called pretentious that you would probably actually already know what that word meant? I mean, I might be wrong, but acting in a pretentious manner is not something that is usually picked up overnight--it takes years of practice.

My brother, in the past week, had his years of practice in witticisms/irony/fun/etc. pay off. He wrote this fantastic stalker note--complete with letters cut out of magazines (Good Housekeeping was the main magazine used with National Geographic taking a close second)--to Heloise. This letter, lovingly glued on orange construction paper with the words carefully framing a picture of Heloise, is a masterpiece in all I could have ever hoped to teach him. The high moments are when he talks about his love for her sweaters, her love for her chubby hubby, and, of course, their combined efforts for world domination. I loved him even more. Seriously, I hope you all can see it someday.

Someday, and it's growing closer, I have to look for a job. I had a long conversation today about how impossible it is going to be to find a job; that conversation wasn't needed. I've had a hard time focusing tonight on the literal piles of homework due next Monday because resumes, portfolios, references, job applications, grad school applications, and apartment options keep swirling around. I know this isn't the time to worry about this, and I know I don't have to worry about this, but still round and round it goes and where it stops, nobody knows.

"Mr. James Joyce, now where would you put him?" "Would you mind repeating that question?" "I said where would you put James Joyce. In what category?" (Points to everyone who understood that last line in connection with the entire post.)  

Don't Look Now--There May be Excessive Love Coming Out of This Post

The past eight weeks of school have been hard.

I was in an awful online class. 

I was in a helpful, but huge time commitment for observation/working in my public high school.

I was teaching--complete with lesson plans and visual aids--at least once every week, and in most cases twice a week on top of all my other schoolwork.

And in the course of three days this last week, I finished all of it.

I was so relived. 

This weekend has been amazing and so desperately needed. I've spent the entire time unashamedly slacking off. I know that tomorrow I'll slip back into school-mode and be efficient with my time once again, but for these last few hours, enjoy with me some of the things I've enjoyed.

I, somehow, someway must attend TED. I know you have to apply to be able to attend, and they read your application and decide if you're smart enough or rich enough to be allowed to come, but I've got to do this. My chances for brains are not high, so I obviously need to come into some money. (If you're interested in donating to my cause, please remember that 2011 is already sold out--let's set our sights for the next year.)

I want to be near someone when their picture is taken by Sartorialist. Every time I look, I'm inspired. Then I return to my closet and am brought back to reality. If someone I know shows up on there, I would consider that an acceptable substitute. Friends, what are you waiting for?

I loved The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Seriously. I can't stand epic films, and I'm not that crazy about Westerns either, but this was a Spaghetti Western, and therefore, a great movie. I enjoyed all 2 hours and 40 minutes. I do not remember enjoying A Fistful of Dollars anywhere near this much. The dialogue was fun, the story line unnecessary, and the amount of deus ex machina's employed was at an all-time high (I could listen to an argument about how Gilbert and Sullivan plays might have this record, but then I would tell you to watch this movie.)

I shopped with the little man for clothes for his European excursion. We ate at Five Guys and discussed what self-love and self-promotion makes you look like to other people. (Seriously, have you ever been inside one of those places?) Also, Europeans and burgers. We shopped, and even though I tried for man capri's, we left with some well-woven pants and sweet shirts only (maybe next time.) 

And then, I burnt the midnight oil (which in my case, is the 10:00 oil) reading Edith Wharton. She's amazing. She is so blissfully amazing. I want to think like her.

It was a good weekend. I hope, if not this weekend then the next, that you will have a chance to enjoy yourself half as much as I did. You, however, will probably not be excited about my super-late reading of Wollstonecraft.

And no. I didn't tell you about that.

Some pleasures should remain private.

And it Was Good

I am simply reporting on that beautiful event which is the book sale.

We were third or fourth in line on Wednesday evening. I was pleased with our placement, but I was even more pleased when the man passed out to pins to those who were friends of the Watertown Public Library. I received a pin which I am sure I will treasure until my dying day. We were, however, first in the line for the bag sale. I was so excited.

The selection was quite decent this year. While I didn't feel they had as much volume, I thought some of the quality had gone up.

I came away with 103 books (this is including the bag sale), and two collections--I never count collections in my total count. One collection has 10 volumes and the other has 38 (supposed to have 50, but missing 12--I'm going to find them on eBay).

And I did it all for 37.50. How does that not make you smile?

The only thing I can possibly complain about is that I have no time to read any of my new delightful options. And I really want to read them.

Also, the room thing. I seriously have no room.

The Book Sale

So, you can understand what I'm feeling, I'm giving you an essay I wrote about the book sale a few years ago. Enjoy.


The Book Sale:

I look at the other people in line. All are holding bags, including me. We warily eye one another. If there’s a fight—I want them to know I’ll win.

There’s some sort of system in place, but it’s badly done. A man, obviously in some authoritative position, is walking around asking who was here first. Why is he asking? Doesn’t he know people lie? After they answer (to my relief—the lies are minimal), he hands them a piece of paper with a number. He checks their name on the list to make sure their dues are paid, and moves on. He reaches me. I speak honestly (even though it was hard). He hands me my number, 17, and checks my name off (my dues are always paid).

It’s almost time. I check my clock again. The old ladies are positioned carefully at their table. They pull out the cash drawer, and then look at the man. The man, almost finished with the line, doesn’t realize the ladies are waiting for his approval. But I realize it. Finally he turns and sees the ladies watching him. He asks, “Are you waiting for me?” “Idiot,” I think. The ladies smile and tell him to take his time. He redeems himself by saying, “No. Let them go in.” One lady moves from behind the table and opens the door. I think the first person gives her time to move out of the way before he rushes in. I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care.

I check the corners for boxes—that’s where they hide the series. Series are always my best buys. I don’t see any this year. I have no time for regret—I must move on.

I move to the fiction room. At first glance, all I see is books. No time for happiness, I store the image, and move on. My goal is to look at all the books in this room. I start systematically, looking at the books on the table and then moving to the ones under the table. I look this time for titles I recognize. There is no time for books I might like to read. I grab some hardcover Christie, Orwell, Fitzgerald, Wharton, Hemingway, and others—so far, so good.

After the fiction room, I head to the old book table. It’s shoved against the wall. I take more time with the old books. I look at the inscriptions, the publishing dates, enjoy the smell—and then move on. I take with me beautiful copies of Dante’s Inferno, Plato’s Republic, and Eliot’s Silas Marner.

The nonfiction, cooking, textbooks, religious, humor, biographies, computers, and travel tables all receive quick perusals. The books presented on these tables are overwhelming, but I follow the same system. I’m ready to move on. I’ve got C.S. Lewis, Mailer, and Betty Crocker.

Next, it’s the romance room. Mystery, western, science fiction, and the books on the strange middle table join Harlequin and Silhouette—it’s not a comfortable relationship.

The mystery table is a strange conglomeration. Agatha Christie and John Grisham are lying next to each other. V.C. Andrews threatens to overpower the table, and is that Nora Roberts? I pick through these carefully. I look at every Agatha Christie and if I know I own it or it’s in worse condition than the copy I already own—then I leave it alone. The overpowering V.C. Andrews constituency and I have an understanding—they leave me alone and I return the favor. I leave with Christie, Chekhov, Du Maurier, and King.

I look quickly at science fiction. Last time, I found Alistair MacLean there, and the time before that, Oscar Wilde. I give the westerns a passing glance. I once found Tarzan comic books there. Today, I find Thornton Wilder.

Then, I move to the strange middle table. The table bridges the gap between romance and all the other tables. Because of its unique positioning, it includes romance, mystery, self-help, and for some reason multiple copies of James Herriot. I grab How to Marry the Rich, a book of Tennessee Williams’s plays, Are You a Conservative or a Liberal, and Graham Greene.

Next, I go to the children’s room. I look carefully in here. All the books look worn, but in the past, I have found treasures. I take my time. I leave with three hardcover Dr. Seuss’s and a hardcover Stuart Little.

Then, it’s the last round. I walk through everything again. I add more books. On my way to the old ladies with the cash register, I cast a look at the two remaining tables. These two tables sit outside the entrance, and their piles are too confusing for any name. Their unknown lineage, however, doesn’t stop them from being incredible. I grab The Book of Virtues, Ordinary People, All the King’s Men, Danny Dunn on a Desert Island, and Their Eyes Were Watching God.

The ladies can barely count and they forget what the stated prices are for the books—I helpfully remind them. They make an obligatory comment on the number of my books—I make an obligatory smile. They want to know if I have room for all of the books—I assure them I do.

I don’t.

The Second Reason I love Fall

First, football started last Thursday. It was amazing (38-24, anyone?) I felt as if I was alive once again.

And now, not even a week away, the next greatest thing about the earth happens.

Tomorrow is the beginning of the book sale.

So much happiness at one time is probably not good for the soul--good thing I have the rest of my educational life to counteract that happiness.

I'll let you know what treasures I bring home.

Here's to Football

It's seemed like a longer off-season than necessary, so I'm intensely glad football's back.

I'm going to enjoy the season--as varied and as interesting as it might be. And I'm going to start doing that enjoying in about five minutes.

Go New England Patriots.

But even greater then the Patriots, Go football--you have no idea how happy I am to see you again.

Joyce's Portrait

My summer is over--classes start today. It was a good summer even though I had to say goodbye to my sister, my friend moved away, and I worked in retail. Going to Argentina was a great experience, but that's all I have to say about that--let's talk about books.

I read this summer, and some of them were seriously amazing books. James Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" was one of those seriously amazing reads.

Joyce's novel starts with him as a young boy listening to his father and friends of his father fight about politics.  Joyce is, of course, from Ireland; he begins to become disillusioned about the state of his country and his parents religion. He attends a Catholic boy's school. He begins to listen to the sermons. Almost 40 pages of the book was devoted to one sermon. Joyce is convicted of his unworthiness and sin, and he repents. He decides to become a Catholic priest until he is bothered by a comment one priest makes which convinces Joyce the priest is ungodly. He then breaks free from all bonds--in a rather intense scene--and sacrifices himself to art knowing that no calling is as worthy as that of an artist. That's not the bitter end, but you should read that for yourself.

I think I was expecting more of an essay than the well-crafted novel I received. The beginning felt so much like a story that I momentarily forgot that this was, in essence, a manifesto. I was surprised by the length and the in-depth nature of the sermon; Joyce clearly knew his religion.The book has five chapters only, but still is around 250 pages. Joyce relies on paragraph markings to change the subject more often than a chapter. Joyce is known for his well-written prose, so that was no surprise. Even though I knew that, I was still caught several times, by how enjoyable his prose was; his words flowed smoothly together and he used marvelous metaphors.

Joyce asks the questions that we are still struggling to answer: what is art, what is beauty, is beauty subjective, what is the difference between sublime and beautiful, what holds back art, what questions should artists be answering, should artists depict the world the way they see it or the way they wish to see it, is one more valid than another? I'm interested in the answers to these questions, or at least, what Joyce thought the answers were.

By the time Joyce finished writing this novel, he was an expatriate, an atheist, and a stranger to most of his family. He succeeded in casting off what he perceived was holding him back (country, religion, and family). According to himself, he succeeded in devoting himself solely to art and not allowing anyone or anything to distract him.

Interesting quotes:

Joyce answering a friend's question of subjective beauty:
"Though the same object may not seem beautiful to all people, all people who admire a beautiful object find in it certain relations which satisfy and coincide with the stages themselves of all esthetic apprehension.These relations of the sensible, visible to you through one form and to me through another, must be therefore the necessary qualities of beauty."

Joyce deciding to follow art:
"His heart trembled; his breath came faster and a wild spirit passed over his limbs as though he were soaring sunward. His heart trembled in an ecstasy of fear and his soul was in flight. His soul was soaring in an air beyond the world and the body he knew was purified in a breath and delivered of incertitude and made radiant and comingled with the element of the spirit. . . This was the call of life to his soul not the dull gross voice of the world of duties and despair, not the inhuman voice that had called him to the pale service of the altar. An instant of wild flight had delivered him and the cry of triumph which his lips withheld cleft his brain."

Joyce explaining the birth of an artist's soul:
"The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight.You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets."
 
Joyce summing things up:
"We are right, and the others are wrong. To speak of these things and to try to understand their nature and, having understood it, to try slowly and humbly and constantly to express, to press out again, from the gross earth or what it brings forth, from sound and shape and colour which are the prison gates of our soul, an image of the beauty we have come to understand--that is art"