People Gotta Know

I just went to Urgent Care friday night (2 hours) for an earache I've had for a few days. The diagnosis? Eustacian Tube disfunction. The cure? Chew some gum and hope it "pops." grrrrr. Also, take sinus allergy over-the-counter meds to help with the stuffiness.

The really weird part? I had to ask this doctor to look down my throat! She did, in passing, and said it looked fine. When she left, I took the instrument, stretched it's little cord thingy over to the mirror and looked myself:

I HAVE A HOLE INSIDE MY THROAT!

On the left side, the ear that is hurting, the eustacian tube is so swollen that I can see the opening! I didn't even know there was an actual opening in the back of the throat! My other hole remains nicely invisible. WTF? Couldn't she see the HOLE?! Or did she not want to admit that she forgot to look in my fricken throat?!

Meanwhile, I'm so drowsy on this anti-drowsy sinus/allergy medication--it's the d*mn chalk, I tell you--that I can barely grade.

Do you have a hole in the back of your throat? If so, is it exposed?
What to do?

What if hot coffee/tea goes up it?

What's to Tell?

I've had birthday cards
for both my mother and my brother
sitting on the desk for 3 weeks--
now they are late.
Hump. It's like paying bills, actually.

In my brother's card,
I finally apologized for pushing him
into that tree 21 years ago.

He brought the incident up at Christmas;
he laughed, told with nostalgia.
But for me, the incident has always
been another burden to bear.

[Harp music and gentle waves please.]

We walked home from school almost every day;
that fall, in the blazing sun,
our jackets from the cold morning tied
around our waists,
I was, once again responsible
for getting this little 2nd grader home.
He wore thick black glasses and would drop
his backpack about half way home (we walked about 3/4
of a mile) every day, tilt his head back
and cry that he couldn't go on.

That particular day, Tara and Tia,
the two most popular girls
in 8th grade, were walking back toward the school--
on my street.

What to do? I couldn't let them see me with him,
couldn't me associated with this baby . . .

I leaned down and growled into Brian's ear, "shut up"!
Picking up his pack, placing it onto his shoulders,
I gave him a hard push forward.
He stumbled, tripped over his own feet, and smacked
into a tree. That's how I remember it.

He says he broke his glasses, chipped a tooth.
I only remember the bloody nose.
Tara and Tia quickly approached, "Is he ok?"
They were more concerned than I.

Fridays and Fridays

Students tackling the "Role Analysis" paper
are beginning each first sentences with:
When a child is born . . ."

David fricken Copperfield all over again.
Only 4 pages instead of 563.

The branch in my home town
has asked me to stay and teach WS there;
they are beginning a new program, a BA, actually,
and I hope I can get in on the ground floor.
I'm now certified to teach upper levels.

There's more prep work for WS, but a heck of alot
less grading than ENG!
I feel as if I shall never get through all of these papers
this weekend. Groan. Groan. 33 left.

Otherwise, I am due at Habitat for the newsletter as well.
Ra Ra.
I hid the WalMart picture CD from Habitat
underneath some papers here at the office--LoL--
don't want to be burned at the stake. It's not mine . . .

Did I mention my partner volunteered to teach Sunday school
at his boss's church?
I've tried to go a couple times, but I don't quite feel right . . .

For example, J was preaching, using a powerpoint
presentation, on our bodies being 70% water and how we
need to not be stagnate. Fine. True. But the powerpoint
image behind him got stuck on some cartoon image of the devil!
So the entire time I'm trying to listen to him (he likes
to have my comments afterward), there's this image of the devil
rubbing his hands and
grinning behind him! Creepy.

Well. Just when I thought I couldn't bare the distraction, the bulb blows
in the projector--POP--and the image is gone.

I haven't been back since.

Paper #3

Collaborative Writing Project
ENG 151–Winter 2006
Paper Expectations

The prompt at the end of James Gibson’s “Paintball as Combat Sport” asks you to:
Identify something you think would lend itself to a cultural study
or critique. Observe and take notes. Briefly interview at least one
person who is involved or touched in some way by the cultural item
you’ve chosen. How does this artifact or phenomenon seem to work
or engage in society? (314)
Collaborative writing has its advantages as well as its disadvantages, as we have discussed in class. In order to make the most of this project, I have included some guidelines for your group to follow. Foremost, keep the model Gibson provides in mind: remember to be very descriptive in the account you give of the cultural artifact/phenomenon, be sure to use at least two outside “authorities” from your research, and try to provide as much reflexive oscillation between the details of your project and the broader implications you find for society as possible.

Division of Tasks
___ Choose an Aspect of Culture to Study
___ Field Work/Gathering Interview Info
___ Article Researching
___ Compiling All the Info
___ Analyzing for Meaning
___ Brainstorming More Ideas
___ Synthesizing Ideas
___ Establishing a Thesis
___ Writing/Typing it Out
___ Revising for Meaning
___ Editing

Today’s Goals
#1 Understanding the Pros/Cons of Collaborative Writing

#2 Understanding Our Own
Strengths and Weaknesses

#3 Establish Groups
#4 Brainstorm Topics

#5 Portion Out Tasks
#6 Create a Specific Time Line
Time Line
F 02/24 [1 hour]
Weekend Assignments
T 02/27 [First hour]
[Second hour]
Th 03/02 [First hour]
[Second hour]
F 03/03 First Draft Due
Peer Critiques
M 03/06 Paper Due

Please note: After the paper is completed, each student will be asked privately to evaluate the performance of his/her colleagues at a +/- 5 point adjustment to the group average. If you have any questions about this paper, please don’t hesitate to ask.

SQ: Full Monty

Yesterday in my WS200 class,
as we discussed Toni Morrison's _Beloved_,
one woman toward the back of the class
kept staring at me.

And staring.

Like she was finally figuring me out. An odd
mosiac she had almost piece together:

"Can I ask you a personal question?"
She blurted into our discussion of Morrison's narrator.

"How do you feel about premarital sex?
I mean, didn't you get pregnant as a teen?"

My eyes bugged. "Let's see how we can tie
that question into the relationship between
Sethe and her mother in the book, shall we?"

I used those moments as prep time for addressing the class.
As "honestly" as I felt I could.
Suddenly, and quite smashingly, several
of my identities collided. The intersection
filled with a mix of panic and the hope of release.

*
I survived.
*

That day. Today? Chinese with a couple
of collegues; suddenly,I'm the one to blurt,
"You'll never
guess what a student asked me yesterday--"
and out with the whole story.
My secret identity of 4 years at this U--
exposed.
AGAIN.

Now? I can just puke. WTF?
How and why am I loosing control of my own story?
Is it self-mutilation or self-recovery?

I left immediately after my last class today,
didn't cancel office hours or say
a word to a single soul. I need a plane ticket.

Yeah, I know, this post will be my THIRD
revelation (if only partial in my feeble attempts
to be oh-so ambivalent).

Am I expecting different reactions???
Because, hello, only awkward silence follows.
I only hurt myself when I tell (no one really gives
a fly after the first hour,
but self-image sure does change).

Za-zing! Gasp! I think I just grabbed at something:
maybe I see my unusal tale (with its bizzare twists)
as a COMMODITY. I mean, I plan/hope to make art of it
someday--why tell all the secrets, now? to those who haven't
"paid" (either through friendship, love, etc.) so-to-speak?
Maybe the secrets are all I have to negotiate with?


Hey, maybe I don't want this to make much sense.

I'm Mad at My Blog

I think that's why I'm not speaking to it as much.

I'm angry that it has become so pointless.
No purpose.
I can't even speak my truths here.
No where.
So I hate this blog. Just another front.
Another front and another front--
until nothing is left.


Meanwhile, I must produce somthing for my secret writing group
[they must loathe my posts]:


Exhibit

The sign read: Café.
But he wasn’t so sure.

On one foot he stood
at the mahogany counter
poised with a flaming pink tie,
pruning, if you will.

He watched Ariel float by
with lacquered sea weed
for hair, spread thick on the canvas.
Her sea-shelled breast looked awkward.

Alligator shoes lounged
nearby under the table lamps.
Yawning. Laptops opened wide.
Numbers flying. Steam rolling.

He walks among them;
They look to the walls.

The Good New: I am no Longer Paralyzed with Inaction. The Bad News? My Sloppiness is to Surely Emerge. How Soon will I be Caught? And Consequences?

OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!

I imagine that we would certainly
be reading Lewis Carrol's _Alice in Wonderland_
at some point to those boys.
In fact, it would probably be my partner's idea.

Would I grow increasingly uneasy about our gender
role reversals? After all, we do live in American
culture . . . but I believe American
culture is invested in experimenting with gender
right now as it is. So we'd be safe.
Unless we lived in some rural, white bread area of the country . . .

I'm packing!!! [Heart Heart]
We still don't know where we are headed,
but the packing is marvelous!!
Pulling the tape across the top of the box,
marking the contents in crisp, clean
magic marker, and stacking it all in the basement
is so cathartic.

I came across my thesis. People have been asking
why I'm not publishing it--I don't trust it.
Something's not right, not documented properly . . .
I have one box marked "undergraduate work" and two
more for my master's. Organization is so lovely.

Three more weeks of classes to go. The grading is horendeous.
Five classes. WS200 presentations were a FLOP.
Although, 3-4 were informative. My new office mate, B (who is
an incredible individual, honestly) received an
ENG200 Intro to Lit! I errupted! Ok, so I've never
requested it--still!

Forget the fridge and magnets--I'd by picture frames
and hang their art in the halls. There would be no wall space
by the end.

Women's multiplicity of language is comparable to
their erotic zones according to Irigrary:
men's language is focused, linear, just like the focus
of their eroticism--which is generally
centered solely on the penis. Women's language,
ideas, conversations,
however, are more difficult to pin down, keep track of,
trace, just as their entire bodies can be random
points of pleasure in any given context.

Sigh. I no longer feel like a pirate.
Like wolfman jack on the blogging airwaves--
instead, I feel too close to you cyber people--
you fictions in my mind. Damn. I really like you
and miss my old friends. Like my RL friends,
I sit around hoping all of you are doing well, but
not getting off my bum to really check.
Prayer is/was always such a fantastic way to meditate
on the concerns of others. xoxoxo

Pet Fricken Peeves

Never had them.
But am developing them quickly.

#1

"How are you?" walking down the hall, our secretary
address me.

"Good! And you?"

"Well. Thank you."

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

"How is everything at Habitat?" Just now, still
hanging on to the "editor's" position . . . "Everything good?"

"Everything is doing well, yes."

Grrrroaaaaar!

Ok, people, I know "well" is an adverb and "good"
is an adjective; you do not have to impress the
English teacher by correcting her. It's called colloquialism.
And you're pissing me off.


#2

In the middle of quite an energetic lecture,
I pause, hesitate, over the proper term:

" . . . machoism . . ." I announce. Now, I know
that isn't the proper adjective. But it's the term
I grew up hearing, and the ideas being expressed at the moment
feel so utterly vital that I wouldn't
want to introduce another "new" term at that moment.

One of my best students, a young man whom I've had
in an English class before and expresses adoration toward me,
comments:

" Yes, I think yadda yadda . . . machismo . . ."

Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Damnit Jim, quit correcting me!

The whole class casually chimes in with anecdotals
with "machismo" this
and "machismo" that--bunch of snots!

Happened a week ago and I'm still cringing.

Didn't want to look it up on Webster's online,
but finally, last night I did.
I was desperately hoping to find BOTH entries
just to save face--but I knew "machoism" wasn't a word.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Gr. Gr.
I hate being an "expert" in this field where
all of the cultural valorization is left over sentimentalism
from the fricken Victorian age! Rules rules rules.

No. I hate make shitty little stupid mistakes
and being called out on it.

Pppplth.

Let Me Know How This Will Turn Out

Email #1 from This-Acquaintance-I-Have:

[Avacado] and [SQ],
So [SQ] mentioned blogs in her 20 questions thing back in January. And I
thought since you two know each others blogs.......And since I've been
trying for quite a few months now to get [SQ] to tell me what her blog
identity is, I thought perhaps if I told you all where my blog is then
anyone feeling so moved could share where their blog is. (But only if they
feel so moved!)

[This-Acquaintance-I-Have]

Email #2 Four Days Later:

[SQ],
So I noticed that you've responded to many [writing group] things... but not to the
blog question... does that mean I still don't get to know? I tried
searching for blogs which mention of [something extremely personal], and English, and [the University where you teach], and
letterboxing ..... nothing. But then I figured maybe you do code names for
people like I do. So, I figured I'd ask again, but if it really is
something that you don't want to share, that's cool, but when we've talked
about it I haven't been able to to tell if it's a "fun, see if she can
figure it out" sort of secrecy or if it's a "I write about tutoring
kittens on my blog and don't want anyone else to know" sort of secrecy.
So, just figured I'd ask again about the secret blogging life of [SQ]. :)
Hope the quarter starts to slow soon,
[This-Acquaintance-I-Know]

Finally, my Email Back:

Hi [Acquaintance],
Terribly sorry for the mix-up! I misunderstood your request--I read it in
light jest, if you will, and thought we would respond with the address if we
wanted to share. I never meant to ignore a direct question seeking an
answer. :-)
I have decided to just keep it to myself. Last summer, I invited [Avacado] and a
couple of other close friends. [Avacado] was utterly cool (of course), but
another friend would get her feelings hurt if she had emailed me and I would
not respond quickly. She could tell that I had obviously been on my PC
because I made a blog entry that morning, but hadn't gotten back with her.
She's a wonderful person, but I don't think she understood my ritual--or
that I never meant to hurt her feelings. Is this making any sense at all? So
I "hid" my blog with a new address and haven't given it out to anyone. I
actually haven't even shared this info with [Avacado], even though she is the
most understand "whatever" friend you can find! So that's my blog story.
Sadly enough, I think I've only made 5 entries this quarter. I'm keeping up
on my work smashingly, but my blog and social lives have went to shit, so to
speak. :-)

[Secret Writing Group] Forever,
[SQ]

Do you see the ironies here my friend?

All rights reserved.

My estranged sister contacted me:

she's seperated from her now estranged boyfriend.
She has 3 little girls: Maddy, age 5; Hailey, age 2,
and Kristen, age 6 mos.

She's living with her (my?) parents--
which makes my contact with her incredibly awkward.

She's been in this situation before, obviously.
The girls each have different fathers;
my sister is only 26. I tell this to no one.

Last week, I taught on domestic, now termed "partner,"
abuse.

***

Perhaps I'll write a novel about two women
who meet in grad school.
One woman comes from a prestigious family in the mid-west;
the other, from not such.
Mid-way through the novel, the doctor's daughter
discloses that she is, in fact, adopted.
The other woman never discloses the origins
of her own family history (althought the gentle
reader will be able to piece it all together).

Ironically, such a plot sounds so contrived.

Two Posts Back-to-Back?!?

Invisible Lizzard thinks
a dective style memoir
would be great.

That may be all the motivation I need.

Meanwhile, I am preparing a party
for 60+ people
at the place of my embarrassment
23 years ago.

For tomorrow.

Updates

So, I've just made my begging rounds.
And I feel creepy.

I mean, I've taught 9 classes in 2 quarters.
I'm such a greedy pig.
But it's the only way to make any money at this job.

Now I'm only set up for one ity-bity class
next quarter and I'm paniced.
I've sent out feelers to all the branches.

And I feel like such a beggar.

Tim's words help me along:
Can't wait to see what happens in the spring.

I miss blogging.

I'm ready to write that novel.
But I cannot pin down a subject.

I don't think I will ever--
until I get this "memoir" out of the way.

Yuk.
What a sell out.
I mean, I could possibly "make it"
if I told this life's story--
especially from a certain lens . . .

but then, could I face the people I know?

and memoirs are so done.
fried.
exhausted.

But not how I'd write this one . . .

detective style--fiction--rewriting the self--

but I don't want to expose me.

It'll hurt. Seriously.
Forever. And ever.

Yet, nothing else is going to come
if I don't get this out first . . .

aiya.

can I prosper on other people's pain?

I may have an ANOUNCEMENT on Tuesday.

Social Services

Right before I crossed the tracks,
railroad tracks that is,
I saw a woman
wrapped in an old quilt
clutching a cigrette
and dancing little hops in a circle under
a bare tree in front of a dirty, beatup house.

Her gobs of blonde hair were a mess,
it might have been drizzling,
I don't know how old or young she was,
but I had just been thinking about crack.

Happy February First

I checked an incoming SPAM
about breast cancer
and ended up in an older post
from May 2005
where I was worried about my transmission--

the freaky part?
I almost forgot to check my transmission fluid today.
Someone takes care of me.

My students this quarter!
So many stories to tell:

x] One student lost a cousin on 9/11 in one of the towers. He wrote a paper on his anger at the middle east & his own cultural blindness. He got a 75% on the paper because it was actually pretty crappy writing and I told him to take it to the writing center. He did not. Of course he missed an entire week of class becase his grandmother died . . . I'd like to cut him a break, but he doesn't seem interested . . .

x] Another student, older, "non-traditional," is also battling grief this quarter. Just last October her sister was brutally murdered in a domestic dispute. The local authorities don't want to do anything about it because her sister had crack in her system. She "fell down some stairs" so hard that the blunt force to the back of her head pushed her brain off its stem and knocked her eyes out of their sockets . . .

I gotta go--will try to be back today with more shorts--